Page 1 of Playing Dirty
Chapter One
Still in the Game
Rhett
The fire in the corner cracked like it had something to say.
Not loud. Just steady. A kind of low murmur that settled into your bones and reminded you it was fall in Montana and fall in Montana didn’t mess around. It was the kind of cold that showed up early and hung around late, scraping across the plains, easing us into winter.
Outside, the wind pressed against the walls of Ropers, our favorite watering hole, like it was looking for a way in. Inside, cigar smoke drifted lazy circles beneath the chandelier made of antlers, curling through the air like it belonged here more than we did.
I took a slow sip of whiskey, let the burn chase the chill from my chest.
No one said much yet. Just the shuffle of cards, the clink of glass against wood, the soft groan of Sawyer’s boot as he propped it on the edge of an old milk crate someone decided counted as a chair.
This wasn’t a regular thing. Not some every-Thursday tradition. More like a weather pattern—something that rolled in when one of us got restless, or lonely, or bored enough to throw a text out and see who bit. Tonight was all three.
The back room at Ropers had seen better days, but it still held heat better than any barn. Still smelled like dust and leather and spilled beer. Still had that way of holding onto secrets and smoke without trying too hard.
We’d been doing this long before money changed hands—before Lucky Ranch became ours.
Back when Colt, Sawyer, Easton and I were just four broke cowboys, stumbling our way into manhood with not enough land and not nearly enough sense.
The Powerball had hit like a bolt from the blue—one ticket, one night, and just like that, we were flush. Bought the biggest stretch of land we could find and split it four ways. Called it Lucky Ranch like we were daring the world to come mess with us.
Now we each had our own spread, our own routines, our own things we didn’t talk about.
But here—in this room—we were still the same stubborn bastards, pretending the rest of it didn’t matter.
And for a little while, maybe it didn’t.
Sawyer tossed a few chips into the pot like they offended him.
“Hell, Rhett, you win one more hand tonight, I’m gonna demand you get strip-searched for mirrors or marked cards.”
I smirked, slow and unbothered. “Some folks are just born lucky.”
Colt scoffed. “You were born mean. The luck came later.”
That got a few chuckles, but not from me. I just leaned back, let the chair creak beneath me, and watched the flames throw shadows against the far wall.
“Speaking of luck,” Colt said, reaching for his drink, “Wyatt smiled this morning. Big ol’ gummy grin. Damned near made me late just standing there like an idiot grinning back.”
Sawyer groaned. “Here we go again.”
“You say that like he doesn’t bring it up every time we’re together,” Easton added, his voice as dry as the Wyoming border.
Colt grinned, not the least bit sorry. “Can’t help it. Kid’s got my eyes.”
“Poor bastard,” I muttered.
The table broke with low laughter. Even Colt grinned wider, not a trace of offense in it. He had that look again—that quiet, settled thing he wore like a second skin these days. A man who used to ride a wild bull, hard and fast… now content to sit still and call it heaven.
It caught me off guard sometimes. The way he used to carry a broken heart like it was strapped across his chest. Now he carried something else. Something softer. He’d done the one thing the rest of us hadn’t figured out.
He’d claimed his second chance with Tessa and was now the proud father of twins Wyatt and Charlotte, better known as “Charlie.”
“What about you, Sawyer?” Colt asked. “You still talkin’ about that shooting range?”
