Page 15 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Forcing the thought away, I continue with the lesson, but my eyes keep drifting to that office door, wondering what's happening inside. Wondering if Bandit is getting the same gentle touches the kids are giving Max.

Wondering why, despite my best efforts, I can't stop wondering about her at all.

Later when I watch the Miller kids scamper off toward the ranch restaurant, I blow out a sigh of relief. Lessons had never been this damn hard.

With Max untacked and brushed down, I should head to the house. Should check in with Dad about tomorrow's schedule or see what Ruthie's making for dinner. Should do anything except what I'm considering.

Yet here I am, closing the stable door behind me and finding myself on the gravel path that leads not to the main house, but to the small cabin office where Hailey has set up shop.

What am I even going to say when I get there? That I've come to retrieve my dog? That I need to check if she found everything she needs for her work?

None of the excuses forming in my mind sound convincing, even to me.

Suddenly uncertain, I slow my approach. I can't see inside from this angle, but knowing she's in there makes something twist inside my gut.

What the hell am I doing?

I should turn around. Go back to the stables or the house or anywhere that isn't here. But instead, I move closer until I'm standing at the side of the cabin, just out of sight of the window.

I'm not spying. I'm just... checking on my dog. Making sure he's not bothering her work. That's all.

"... such a sweet boy," Hailey's voice drifts through the gap. "So much nicer than some people around here."

There's a soft thump—Bandit's tail against the wooden floor, I'd bet—followed by a gentle laugh that catches me off guard. It's nothing like the sharp, defensive sound I've heard from her when she's responding to my barbs. This laugh is warm and unguarded. It’s fucking real.

"You're a good boy, aren't you?" she continues, her voice dropping lower. "Not like your stubborn owner."

I should be offended. Should storm in there and tell her exactly what I think of her assessment. Instead, I stand frozen and inexplicably desperate to hear more of this unfiltered version of Hailey.

Another thump of Bandit's tail. Another soft laugh.

"At least someone around here doesn't look at me like I'm about to burn the place down."

The vulnerability feels like a punch to the gut. There's a weariness beneath her words, a resignation that feels too familiar. Like she's used to being viewed with suspicion. Used to having to prove herself worthy of basic trust.

Something sharp and unexpected twists in my chest—not anger or resentment, but a pang of recognition. How many times have I felt that same weight? That need to prove myself, to show I'm worthy of the legacy my parents left? The constant fear of failure, of letting down the people who depend on me?

I take an instinctive step backward, needing distance from this sudden, unwanted empathy. My boot catches on a loose stone, sending it skittering across the path with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet evening.

"Hello?" Hailey calls, her voice immediately shifting back to that guarded tone I'm more familiar with. "Is someone there?"

I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped animal. The last thing I want is for her to find me lurking outside her door like some creep. But my feet seem rooted to the spot, unable to carry me away quickly enough.

Bandit's nails click against the wooden floor, coming closer to the door. Any second now, he'll push it open further, see me standing here, and give me away with his excited greeting.

I force myself to move, backing away as quietly as possible, then turning to quickly stride toward the stables.

Each step feels like a retreat, but from what, I'm not entirely sure.

From her? From the feelings her words stirred up?

From the uncomfortable recognition that perhaps we're not as different as I want to believe?

My pace increases until I'm nearly jogging, putting distance between myself and that cabin, and the confusion churning in my gut. I reach the stable door and yank it open, slipping inside where the familiar smells of hay and horse immediately envelop me.

Leaning back against the closed door, I draw in a deep breath, then another, trying to steady the strange rhythm of my heart. What the hell was that? Why am I reacting like this to a few overheard words? To the sound of vulnerability in a voice that's been nothing but sharp around me?

The memory of her soft laugh plays again in my mind, followed by the weariness in her admission about how people look at her. How I look at her.

Do I really look at her like she's about to burn the place down?

The question sits uncomfortable in my chest as I push off from the door and move deeper into the stable.

Of course I do. She's an outsider. A city girl who knows nothing about ranch life, about what we've built here, about what we've sacrificed to keep it alive.

She represents change, and change has brought nothing but loss in my experience.

So why do I suddenly feel like I'm the one who's been unfair? Like I've been judging a book not just by its cover, but by where it was published, without bothering to read a single page?

I grab a pitchfork from the wall, attacking the nearest stall that needs cleaning with more force than necessary. Physical labor has always been my refuge when thoughts become too complicated, when feelings threaten to spill beyond the carefully constructed dams I've built around them.

Each thrust of the pitchfork into the soiled bedding pushes away the echo of Hailey's words, the memory of her unguarded laugh, the startling realization that there might be more to her than I've allowed myself to see.

By the time I finish cleaning the stall, sweat dampens my shirt and sticks it to my back. My breathing has steadied, but the confusion hasn't entirely subsided. It sits there, stubborn as a stain, refusing to be scrubbed away by physical exertion.

Through the stable window, I can see the cabin. The light still glows from within, a warm beacon in the deepening dusk. Bandit hasn't returned, clearly having found company he prefers to mine tonight.

I should be annoyed by that. Should be irritated by my dog's betrayal, by the woman who's captured his loyalty so quickly.

Instead, I wonder what other surprises Hailey Monroe might be hiding behind those defensive walls. What other sides of her I haven't allowed myself to see because I've been too busy protecting myself from what she represents.

And for the first time since she arrived, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I've been looking at her all wrong from the start.