Page 13 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Tessa beams. "Secret family recipe. Well, not really. I found it in an old church cookbook at a yard sale, but I like to pretend my great-grandmother handed it down through generations of strong, independent women."

Her candor startles a laugh out of me, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. When was the last time I genuinely laughed? The realization sobers me slightly.

"So, besides Bradley being Bradley, how's the ranch?" Tessa asks, sipping from her own mug.

"It's... overwhelming." I stare out the window at the quiet street. "Beautiful, though. The mountains, the space. It feels like you can breathe out there."

"That's Montana for you. Equal parts terror and wonder." She tilts her head, studying me. "You'll adjust. Might even fall in love with it."

The way she says it—not as a platitude but as a simple truth—settles something in me. The constant anxiety that's been my companion since arriving at Walker Ranch eases slightly.

"One thing I definitely need are boots," I say, changing the subject. "These aren't exactly ranch-appropriate." I gesture to my ankle boots, already scuffed and dusty from just one day on the property.

Tessa practically levitates from her chair, eyes widening with sudden excitement. "Oh honey, I thought you'd never ask."

She's up and moving before I can process her reaction, untying her apron and tossing it behind the counter. "Lily." she calls to a young woman arranging pastries in the display case. "I'm taking thirty. Can you handle the fort?"

The girl nods, clearly used to Tessa's whirlwind energy.

"Come on," she says, linking her arm through mine and pulling me to my feet. "Callahan's has the best selection. And Marcus owes me a favor after I catered his daughter's wedding for practically nothing."

I barely have time to grab my purse before she's dragging me out onto the sidewalk.

"My son Dylan outgrows his boots every three months," she chatters as we walk, her arm still linked through mine like we've been friends for years instead of barely a day.

"Twelve years old and suddenly he's shooting up like a weed.

And don't get me started on his appetite.

I swear, I bake all day and still can't keep enough food in the house to satisfy him. "

She navigates us down the sidewalk with easy familiarity, nodding to people we pass. "Single motherhood is not for the faint of heart, let me tell you. Especially in a town like this where everyone knows your business and has an opinion on how you should raise your kid."

There's no bitterness in her voice, just matter-of-fact acceptance. I’m drawn to her openness, to her lack of pretense. In Chicago, everyone wore masks—social masks, professional masks, the careful facades we constructed to hide our messiness. Tessa seems to have no interest in such concealments.

"Dylan's on the baseball team now," she continues, steering us around an older couple walking hand-in-hand. "Which means I spend every Saturday screaming my head off at games and trying not to murder the umpire when he makes a bad call. I'm pretty sure I'm going to get banned one of these days."

I laugh again, surprised by how easily it comes with her. "Sounds like you're a good mom."

She shoots me a sideways glance, something vulnerable briefly flickering in her eyes. "I'm trying. Some days are better than others." She squeezes my arm. "That's all any of us can do, right? Try our best and hope it's enough."

The simple wisdom of her words hits me harder than I expect. Isn't that all I'm doing too? Trying my best to stay sober, to rebuild what I've broken, to prove—to myself more than anyone—that I'm worth a second chance?

"Right," I agree softly. "That's all we can do."

Rich, earthy scents hit me the moment Tessa pulls open the heavy wooden door to Callahan's Western Outfitters.

The store is twice the size of the bakery but somehow feels more crowded.

Cowboy boots line one entire wall in neat rows, organized by size and style.

Hats hang from ceiling hooks, Stetsons and work hats in varying shades of black, brown, and tan.

Glass cases display belt buckles that could double as weapons, gleaming under the lights.

"Marcus." Tessa calls out, waving to a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard, arranging gloves on a display. "Got a ranch girl in desperate need of proper footwear."

The man, Marcus, I presume, looks up and chuckles. "Another city slicker trying to go country?"

"Be nice," Tessa scolds. "Hailey's working at Walker Ranch. She needs something that can handle mud, manure, and Bradley Walker's attitude."

I feel my cheeks flush at the mention of Bradley, but Marcus just laughs. "Tough order. Boot wall's all yours, ladies. Holler if you need sizes."

Tessa grabs my hand and pulls me toward the impressive display of boots.

"Ignore him. He acts gruff, but he once drove two hours to deliver a special order when my car broke down.

" She scans the wall with the focus of a general planning battle strategy.

"Now, what are we thinking? Classic, practical, or do you want something with a little flair? "

"Practical," I say immediately. "I need something that won't make me look more out of place than I already do."

"Smart girl." She pulls several boxes from the shelves, seemingly at random. "Dylan went through a phase last year where he refused to wear anything but moccasins. Moccasins. In Montana winter. I had to bribe him with video game time just to get him into snow boots."

The mental image makes me smile as I sit on a nearby bench. Tessa kneels in front of me, opening the first box with a flourish.

She hands me a pair of dark brown boots with simple stitching. It's stiffer than I'm used to, the leather unyielding against my ankle. "These feel a bit tight."

"They're supposed to at first. Leather needs to break in, to mold to your foot." She taps the toe. "Walk around a bit. Make sure your toes aren't squished."

I stand and take a few experimental steps, feeling the weight of the boots, the way they support my ankle. "Not bad."

"Try these too," she says, opening another box.

I try on three more pairs while Tessa continues sharing snippets of her life—Dylan's recent science project disaster involving baking soda and food coloring that left stains on her kitchen ceiling, her struggles finding time to date in a town where everyone knows your business, her dreams of expanding the bakery someday.

Her openness is refreshing after the guarded interactions at Walker Ranch. There, every conversation feels like navigating a minefield, especially with Bradley. With Tessa, there are no hidden agendas, no careful measuring of words. She simply is.

"These," I say decisively, standing in a pair of medium-brown leather boots with short heels and subtle stitching. "They're comfortable, and they don't look too... cowboy."

Tessa circles me, inspecting the boots with exaggerated seriousness. "Hmm. Sturdy. Practical. But still cute enough that your legs look good in jeans." She nods approvingly. "Perfect. Cute enough for a girl but tough enough for Walker Ranch."

The boots aren't cheap, but they're an investment in my new life here.

As Marcus rings up my purchase, Tessa leans against the counter, telling him about Dylan's latest baseball game where he hit his first home run.

She mimes swinging a bat, nearly knocking over a display of work gloves.

"Sorry, sorry," she adds, catching them before they fall.

Marcus shakes his head, fondness clear in his expression. "That boy's going to be something special."

"He already is," Tessa says, with such fierce maternal pride that I feel a sudden, unexpected ache in my chest. My own mother had looked at me that way too up until the day I lost her, lost them.

I push the thought away as I hand over my credit card. No dwelling on the past today. Today is about new boots, new friends, and new beginnings.

Outside, the afternoon sun has warmed the sidewalk. I carry my old boots in a paper bag, already breaking in the new ones as we walk back toward the bakery. My feet protest slightly at the stiff leather, but Tessa assures me they'll feel like a second skin within a week.

As we round the corner to the bakery, I spot a familiar figure leaning against the counter inside. Beckett's profile is visible through the large front window, his head bent slightly as he talks to the young woman who was arranging pastries earlier.

We push through the door, the bell announcing our entrance. Beckett turns, and I watch his reaction carefully, remembering his strange response when I'd mentioned Tessa earlier.

Something flits across his face when he sees her. It's subtle but unmistakable, the kind of involuntary response you can't fake or hide.

"Ladies," he says, his voice carefully casual. "Successful shopping trip?"

I lift one foot, showing off my new boots. "Ranch-approved footwear, apparently."

"Good choice," he nods, but his eyes drift back to Tessa, who's moved behind the counter and is adjusting her apron with more attention than the task requires.

"The usual?" she asks without looking up, her fingers working the apron ties with practiced efficiency.

"Please." Beckett shifts his weight, reaching into his pocket. "Oh, and I found something for Dylan."

He pulls out a small package wrapped in tissue paper and places it on the counter. "That baseball card he's been looking for. Guy at the feed store was willing to part with it."

Tessa looks up then, surprise briefly overtaking whatever careful distance she's maintaining. "You remembered that? He's been searching for months."

"Hard to forget when he talks about nothing else." Beckett's smile is genuine but cautious, like he's not sure how it will be received. "Figured it might help with his collection."

"That's... really thoughtful." Tessa takes the package, her fingers brushing against Beckett's for the briefest moment. She pulls back quickly, tucking the package into her apron pocket. "He'll be thrilled. Thank you."

She turns away to prepare Beckett's order—some kind of pastry wrapped in wax paper, a coffee in a to-go cup. Her movements are efficient but somehow stiffer than before, the easy flow of her body replaced by something more controlled.

"Feed's all loaded up," Beckett says to me. "Ready when you are."

Tessa hands him his order, a smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "On the house. For Dylan's card."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Another loaded silence, another exchange of looks I can't decipher. Then Beckett nods, accepting both the coffee and pastry.

"I'll wait outside," he tells me, then with a final nod to Tessa, he's gone.

She watches him go before she turns to me with a brightness that seems slightly forced. "Well, that's your chauffeur sorted."

I hesitate, tempted to ask about whatever just happened, but something tells me it's too soon, the friendship too new for such probing.

Instead, I say, "Thank you for everything today. The coffee, the boots..."

She waves away my thanks, her natural warmth reasserting itself. "That's what friends are for." She reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. "Don't be a stranger. My door's always open for coffee, pastries, or just to talk."

The offer settles warm in my chest, a tether in this new place where I've felt adrift since arriving. "I'll be back soon," I promise.

As I turn to leave, Tessa calls after me, "And Hailey? Don't let Bradley get under your skin. Unless, of course, that's exactly where you want him."

Her knowing wink sends heat rushing to my face as I hurry out the door, nearly tripping over my new boots in my haste to escape her too-accurate observation.