Page 14 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

T he western saddle weighs heavy in my hands as I lift it for the Miller kids to see.

Max stands patient and solid beside me, his chestnut coat gleaming from the brushing I gave him earlier.

Horses, leather, the sweet smell of hay, and me showing the next generation the proper way of things should be enough to hold my full attention.

It always has been before. But today, my eyes keep drifting to the road beyond the stable yard, searching for a truck that isn't there yet.

“This here is what we call the pommel and this is the horn," I explain to the Miller twins who stare up at me with identical expressions of wonder. They're maybe eight or nine, all gangly limbs and freckles. "And this part here is the cantle."

"It's heavy," the boy says—Tommy or Timmy, I'm not sure.

"Has to be," I reply, setting the saddle on the wooden rack beside Max. "Horse weighs over a thousand pounds. Saddle needs to be sturdy."

My gaze slides past the children to the empty drive beyond.

The sun hangs low enough now that it'll be casting long shadows across the town's main street.

I wonder if Beckett's already taken her to get those boots she needs.

The thought of him helping her try them on, his hands near her feet, her ankles—

"Mr. Walker?" The girl—Sarah, I think—tugs at my sleeve. "How come Max doesn't run away when you put the saddle on him?"

I drag my attention back where it belongs.

"Because he's trained. And because we have trust built between us.

" I run a hand down Max's neck, feeling the warm, solid muscle beneath his coat.

The steadiness of him anchors me, as it always has.

"Horse has to know you're not going to hurt him.

Has to believe you know what you're doing. "

Unlike people, horses don't judge based on your past mistakes. They judge on how you treat them in the moment. They forgive, but they don't forget. They're simple that way. Unlike city girls with secrets in their eyes and berry-scented shampoo that lingers in the bathroom long after they've gone.

I clear my throat, forcing those thoughts away. "Alright, watch this." I lift the saddle again, demonstrating the correct angle and placement. "You see this pad underneath? Makes it more comfortable for the horse. Like the difference between sitting on a wooden chair or a cushioned one."

The boy nods seriously. "Dad says we have to take care of things that take care of us."

"Your dad's right." My hands move automatically, positioning the saddle pad on Max's back, smoothing it out with practiced motions. Max shifts his weight slightly, familiar with the routine. "Stand back so you can see."

They take a step back, and I lift the saddle, setting it gently onto Max's back.

This, at least, is something I know how to do without thinking.

My body knows the movements, has performed them thousands of times.

My hands know exactly how much pressure to apply, where to adjust, how to make horse and tack work together in perfect harmony.

I wish people were as easy to figure out.

My eyes flick toward the road again, scanning the empty drive before I can stop myself. They should be back by now. Town's not that far, and Beckett knows we need that feed before evening.

"What’s this?" Sarah asks, distracting me as she points to the cinch hanging from the saddle.

"That's the cinch, or girth," I explain, taking it in hand. "

Holds the saddle on, like a belt. Too loose and you slide off; too tight and it hurts him.”

"How do you know what's right?" Tommy/Timmy asks, his small face serious beneath the brim of his too-big cowboy hat.

"Practice," I say simply. "You learn to feel it."

I demonstrate, reaching under Max's belly to grab the strap from the other side.

Max is used to this, doesn't even flinch as my arms work beneath him.

For a moment, I lose myself in the simple task, the world narrowing to just this: leather, metal, horse.

No complications, no city girls with sharp tongues and sharper eyes, no jealousy burning in my gut.

My momentary peace is disrupted when a distant engine breaks through my concentration. My head snaps up before I can stop myself, eyes seeking the source. Beckett's truck is only just visible as it turns onto our long drive, kicking up a cloud of dust.

My hands falter on the strap, fingers suddenly clumsy. I fumble the buckle, cursing silently as I have to redo it.

"Sorry, boy," I murmur, forcing my hands to steady. Taking a deep breath, then another, I will my heart to slow its sudden gallop. Why the hell am I reacting like this? It's just Beckett and the city girl coming back from town. Nothing to get worked up about.

The truck is closer now, the afternoon sun glinting off its windshield, making it impossible to see who's inside. But I know. Beckett driving, one arm probably resting casually on the open window. And her beside him, maybe laughing at something he's said.

My jaw clenches so hard I feel it in my temples. The next buckle I fasten snaps too loudly, making Max shift his weight with uncertainty.

"Sorry," I mutter again, placing a steadying hand on his neck. It's not his fault I'm suddenly wound tight enough to snap.

The truck pulls up near the stables, engine cutting off with a low rumble that seems to echo in my chest. I keep my hands moving on the saddle straps, explaining the importance of proper tension to the Miller kids, but every cell in my body is tuned to the passenger door.

It swings open, and Hailey steps out. The sight of her causes my breath to catch in my throat.

"Mr. Walker, you stopped talking," Sarah points out, tugging at my sleeve again.

"Right," I mutter, forcing my attention back to the saddle.

The rest of my words come out mechanically. From the corner of my eye, I track Hailey as she reaches back into the truck for something. She's wearing the same jeans as this morning, but they look different now, tucked into those new boots. More purposeful. More like she belongs here.

The thought sits wrong in my chest, sharp-edged and so fucking uncomfortable.

Beckett circles around from the driver's side, saying something that makes her smile as she takes a folder from him and clutches it to her chest.

"Is the saddle supposed to make that noise?" Tommy/Timmy asks, pointing to where the leather creaks under my too-tight grip.

I ease off, silently cursing my lack of focus. "Leather always talks," I explain, gentling my touch.

Adjusting the strap of her purse, Hailey nods at Beckett. Her hair is different—still in that braid, but with loose strands framing her face like she's been riding with the windows down. She looks... settled. Like the stiffness I've seen in her shoulders since she arrived has eased somewhat.

My jaw clenches against the sudden, unwelcome curiosity about her day in town. What she saw. Who she met. Whether she liked it.

She turns away from Beckett, heading toward her office.

Her walk has changed too, more confident in those new boots, less like she's afraid the ground might crack beneath her feet.

I should be glad. A confident financial consultant will do her job better, fix whatever issues Dad thinks we have, and leave all the sooner.

I should be glad.

So why does my chest feel tight, like I can't get quite enough air?

A flash of black and white movement catches my eye. Bandit, who's been lying in the shade near the stable door, suddenly perks up. His ears stand at attention, head swiveling toward Hailey. Before I can blink, he's on his feet, shooting across the yard like he's spotted a rabbit.

"Bandit," I call, the command sharper than intended. "Get back here."

The traitor ignores me completely, racing straight for Hailey with his tail wagging so hard his entire back-end sways. He skids to a stop at her feet, looking up at her with blatant adoration.

Something hot and unpleasant coils in my gut as I watch Hailey's face light up at the sight of my dog. My dog , who's been my shadow since he was a pup. Who sleeps at the foot of my bed and follows me through every day's work without fail. Until now.

Crouching down, she scratches behind his ears. I can't hear what she's saying to him, but I can see the gentle way her fingers track through his fur and the smile that transforms her face into something too beautiful to look at directly.

Like seeing the sun without sunglasses. You know it'll hurt if you stare too long.

A muscle jumps in my jaw, ticking like a metronome counting beats I can't follow.

"Who's that lady, Mr. Walker?" Sarah asks, following my gaze with innocent curiosity.

The question catches me off guard, forcing me to acknowledge where my attention has wandered. Again.

"Nobody important," I say, the lie burning my tongue. "Just someone helping with paperwork for a while."

The words sound hollow even to my own ears.

If she's nobody important, why can't I tear my eyes away?

Why does the sight of her hands on my dog's fur make something possessive and primal rear up inside me?

Why am I standing here mentally cataloging every detail of her appearance like I'm afraid I might forget it?

"She looks nice," Tommy/Timmy observes. "Your dog sure likes her."

"Bandit likes everyone," I mutter, though it's not entirely true. He's never taken to strangers this quickly. Never abandoned me to go greet someone else.

I force my attention back to the saddle, to the kids, to anything but the woman now walking toward her office with my dog prancing happily at her heels.

When she reaches her office door, she pushes it open with one hip and disappears inside. Bandit follows without hesitation, without so much as a backward glance in my direction.

I should be glad she's out of sight. Should be relieved I can focus on my lesson without distraction.

So why do I feel like I'm the one who's been abandoned?