Page 1 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

M y knuckles are white on the steering wheel as my GPS recalculates for the third time in twenty minutes.

“Seriously?”

This piece-of-shit car wasn't made for these back roads, but then again, neither was I.

The gravel pings against the undercarriage like tiny accusations— you don't belong here, city girl, turn back —but I can't. Six months sober, no job prospects in Chicago, and enough debt to drown in.

Walker Ranch isn't just my last chance; it's my only one.

I check my watch—fifteen minutes late already. Perfect first impression, Hailey . Real professional.

The car rattles over another pothole. I swear under my breath just as my AA chip slides across the dashboard, and I snatch it before it falls into the abyss between the seats. It’s warm against my palm, the weight of it both comfort and accusation.

Just as I tuck it back into my pocket where it belongs, the ranch appears around the bend, sprawling and weathered beneath a sky so blue it hurts my eyes.

Nothing like the concrete and glass I'm used to.

The main house stands tall and proud. Behind it, I can make out what must be guest cabins, a barn, horse corrals—all nestled against the backdrop of Montana mountains that seem to go on forever.

My chest tightens. This place is too big, too open. Nowhere to hide.

The gravel drive curves sharply, and I ease off the gas, squinting through dust kicked up by my own tires. That's when I spot a blur of motion from the right, too fast, and way, way too close.

"Shit."

I slam on the brakes and the car fishtails on loose gravel. My body jerks forward against the seatbelt, then back. Something moves directly in front of my car, and my heart rockets into my throat.

A horse. A massive chestnut beast, rearing up on its hind legs, front hooves pawing at air inches from my hood.

The horse is not alone. There’s a man on its back. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face shadowed beneath the brim of a cowboy hat. One hand grips the reins tight, the other steadies the animal with practiced ease. Even as the horse dances sideways, he stays centered and unmoved.

For one suspended moment, we lock eyes through my dusty windshield. His are dark, narrowed, and cold, sending a shiver of…something down my spine.

With trembling hands, I throw the car into park and shove the door open, half-falling out into the cloud of dust I've created.

"Shit," I gasp again, adrenaline making my voice higher than I'd like. "I didn't see you—"

"Do you always drive like you've got a death wish?" His voice cuts through the air, deep and sharp. Up close, I can see him clearly—sun-bronzed skin, stubbled jaw clenched tight, shoulders that fill out his worn flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.

Heat rises up my neck. Embarrassment or anger, I'm not sure which. But I've spent too many years in Chicago boardrooms to back down from a glare, no matter how intimidating.

"Maybe you shouldn't gallop across blind turns like you're in a damn western," I fire back, brushing dust from my jeans. "There's a reason people don't ride horses across highways anymore. It's called common sense."

His jaw tightens further, the muscle ticking furiously while he looks down at me like I'm something he found stuck to his boot.

“If you can't handle a gravel road, maybe you should turn around and head back to whatever city spat you out, " he grumbles.

My fingernails dig into my palms. "Afraid, I can’t do that. I work here."

Or at least I hope I still do.

Something flickers across his face. "You're Monroe?"

"Hailey," I correct, straightening my shoulders. "The new financial consultant. The one who was supposed to be met at the turn-off twenty minutes ago."

His dark eyes sweep over me once, assessing and dismissing in the same breath. "Thought you'd be—"

"What? Older? Male?" I cross my arms. "Sorry to disappoint on both counts."

The air between us practically crackles. I can feel sweat trickling down my back, but I refuse to be the first to look away. Something about this man—this arrogant, infuriating cowboy—makes me want to both retreat and stand my ground harder.

"Bradley Walker." A woman's voice cuts through our standoff. "What in heaven's name are you doing working that horse near the front drive?"

We both turn to see a small, sturdy woman marching toward us, dish towel in hand like a weapon. Her auburn-gray hair is pulled back in a bun, and despite her size, she moves with the authority of a general.

Ruthie, I think the name, but he mutters it.

"Don't you 'Ruthie' me,” she scolds, flapping her dishtowel at him. “You know better than to run Max across the entrance. And you—" She turns to me, her expression softening. "You're late."

"GPS," I explain weakly, suddenly feeling like I'm twelve years old. "And... this."

"And this," she echoes, looking between Bradley and me with knowing eyes. "Well, it seems you two have introduced yourselves in the most dramatic way possible. Bradley, get that horse back to the stable and cool him down proper. Hailey, come here and let me hug you."

Bradley dismounts in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. His eyes find mine again over the horse's withers.

"Welcome to Walker Ranch," he says, voice flat. "Try not to break anything else while you're here."

"Charming," I mutter as he leads the horse away.

"Don't mind him," Ruthie says, looping her arm through mine and steering me toward the house. "He's got more walls than the ranch has fences. Always has."

I glance back over my shoulder, unable to help myself. Bradley has paused at the corner of the barn, the reins loose in his hand. He's looking back at me, his expression unreadable in the distance. Yet again, something unfamiliar rolls down my spine.

I force myself to look away first. I didn't come here for complications. I came here to do a job, to rebuild what I'd broken in Chicago. And no brooding cowboy with trust issues is going to get in my way.

No matter how good he looks on a horse.

Still holding onto Ruthie, I follow her into the house.

The instant the screen door creaks shut behind us, the world changes.

After the harsh sunlight and dust outside, the dimness of the ranch house wraps around me like cool water.

I breathe in delicious scents—baked apples, cinnamon, vanilla—that yank me back to my childhood before everything fell apart.

Before I fell apart. My throat tightens, and I swallow hard against the sudden pressure of memories I'd locked away.

"Come in, come in," Ruthie urges, her small hand warm against my back. "Don't hover in the doorway like a tax collector."

The entryway opens to a living room that feels impossibly vast after months in my cramped Chicago apartment.

High ceilings crossed with exposed beams. A stone fireplace dominating one wall, large enough to stand in.

Worn leather furniture arranged in a semicircle, each piece bearing the imprint of years and bodies.

The space makes me feel small. Exposed. There's nowhere to hide in a room this open, this honest.

"Let me look at you," Ruthie says, turning me to face her. She grips my shoulders, eyes scanning my face with the intensity of an X-ray. "You've gotten too thin."

Before I can protest, she pulls me into a hug. Her arms are stronger than they look, wrapping around me with the fierceness of someone who's known me since before I had teeth. I stiffen, then slowly relax, allowing myself one moment of surrender.

It's been three years since I've seen her. Since my parents’ funeral, when Ruthie held me while I sobbed in the bathroom of the funeral home, mascara streaking down my face like war paint.

"I'm so glad you're here," she says, finally releasing me but keeping one hand on my arm, as if she’s afraid I might bolt. "Your mother would be so proud of you for taking this step."

The mention of my mother is a fist around my heart. I manage a nod, not trusting my voice.

"You must be starving. I've got apple pie just out of the oven, and there's beef stew simmering for dinner. Bradford's in town getting supplies, he’ll be here later. He's looking forward to meeting you." Ruthie smiles sweetly. “Now, would you like coffee? Tea? Water?"

My head throbs with the beginning of a headache, the adrenaline from the near-accident fading into exhaustion.

"Water would be great," I manage, following her to a kitchen that's all warm wood and gleaming copper pots.

"Sit, sit," she insists, pulling out a stool at an island that could seat twelve. "You look dead on your feet. The drive can be murder if you're not used to it."

I sink into the chair, my body suddenly remembering the nineteen hours on the road. My hands feel empty without the wheel to grip. I flex my fingers, trying to work out the stiffness.

"Here you go, honey." She sets a glass of ice water in front of me, condensation already beading on the outside. "Drink up. Our well water's the best you'll ever taste. None of that city chemical nonsense."

I take a grateful sip. She's right, it tastes clean, cold, and almost sweet.

"I'm not hungry," I say when she starts moving toward the oven. "Just tired. And…"

I stop at the sound of boots on the porch, then the bang of the screen door. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees in an instant.

Bradley walks in like he owns the place—which, I suppose, he does.

His hat is gone now, revealing dark hair damp with sweat and sticking up in places where his fingers must’ve run through it.

His flannel shirt clings to broad shoulders, dirt smudging one sleeve.

A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his neck.

His eyes find mine immediately, like there's some invisible tether between us that neither of us asked for. The silence stretches and thickens, until I can feel it pressing against my skin like humidity before a storm.

"Well," Ruthie says, breaking the tension. "Bradley, go on and show Hailey to her room. And help her with her bags, won't you?"

For a moment, no one moves. Bradley's jaw works like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say. There’s a protest on my tongue, but I press my lips together, refusing to be the first one to give in.

Then Bradley turns on his heel without a word and walks straight back toward the door.

"The bags," Ruthie reminds him, her voice carrying a warning that even I can hear.

He stops, shoulders tensing beneath his shirt. "Fine," he says, the single word clipped and cold. He doesn't look at me again as he strides out, screen door slapping shut behind him.

"That boy," Ruthie mutters, shaking her head. "Stubborn as his father and twice as prideful."

"It's okay," I say, standing. "I can get my own bags."

"Nonsense. You'll let him do his job as host, even if it kills him.

" There’s a finality in her voice that tolerates no argument.

"Your room's upstairs, third door on the right.

Bathroom's shared, I'm afraid, but it's just you and Bradley up there since Sebastian's gone and Bradford's moved to the first floor. "

My stomach drops. "Bradley and I are the only ones upstairs?"

Ruthie's eyes twinkle with something that looks dangerously close to amusement. "The walls are thick, honey. You won't hear a thing."

That's not what I'm worried about.

Before I can formulate a response, the screen door bangs again, and Bradley reappears with my suitcase in one hand and laptop bag in the other. His expression could freeze hell.

"Follow me," he says, not waiting to see if I comply before starting up a wide wooden staircase to the right of the kitchen.

I hurry after him, irritation prickling under my skin. The stairs creak beneath our feet, marking our ascent with sounds like old men groaning. The upstairs hallway is long and dim with faded photographs lining the walls.

Tension walks beside us like a third person, invisible but undeniable. His shoulders are rigid, his steps measured despite the slight hitch in his gait. I keep my distance, watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he moves.

He stops at a door, turning the glass knob and pushes it open without a word. Then he steps back, waiting for me to enter first.

I brush past him, close enough to catch that scent—horses and leather and man. Something inside me coils tight, unwelcome and so inconvenient.

The room is simple but beautiful. A quilt-covered bed beneath a window overlooking the mountains. Dresser, nightstand, reading chair.

Bradley sets my bags down just inside the door. He doesn't cross the threshold, as if the room is somehow my territory now and he won't invade it.

"Bathroom's across the hall," he says, voice flat. "Dinner's at six."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak without snapping at him.

He turns to go, then stops, one hand on the doorframe. "Look, we don't need some big city girl trying to fix problems where there aren't none. My father might think we need saving, but we've been running this place just fine for well over thirty years."

The words hit like tiny slaps, each one precise and aimed to sting. I feel heat rise to my face, but I refuse to let him see he's rattled me.

"I don't care what you think you need." My tone is sharp. "I was hired to do a job, and I'm going to do it."

His eyes narrow, something flashing in their dark depths. For a moment, I think he might argue. Instead, he gives a curt nod, slams my door and leaves.

Suddenly exhausted, I sit on the edge of the bed. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I press a hand to my chest, willing it to calm.

This is going to be so much harder than I thought.