Page 2 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

I slam the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, satisfaction burning through me at the sound.

My boots hit each floorboard like I'm trying to break through them, heel-toe, heel-toe, the rhythm punctuated by the dull ache in my right leg.

The pain sharpens with each step, feeding the anger coursing through my veins.

She's been here less than an hour, and already this city girl thinks she can waltz in and fix what isn't broken.

The hallway stretches before me, lined with photographs I barely see anymore—Mom holding me as a baby, me and Sebastian on our first horses, Dad standing proud in front of the original barn.

This house, this ranch, it's in my blood, woven into every muscle and bone.

And now she's here, with her city clothes and sharp eyes, looking at everything like it's a puzzle to solve.

My limp grows more pronounced with each furious step. The old rodeo injury—a bull named Lucifer who had something to prove—always flares when I'm angry or tired. Right now, I'm both.

I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I nearly collide with Dad as I round the corner into the living room. He's just setting down grocery bags, his hands moving with the slow deliberation of age.

"Whoa there," he says, straightening up, his voice gravel from years of smoking before Ruthie finally made him quit. His eyes—the same dark brown as mine—narrow slightly. "What's got a fire lit under you?"

The sight of him, standing there like he hasn't just upended everything, snaps the last thread of my restraint.

"You hired her without even talking to me." The words tear out of me. "Some city girl with a fancy degree who probably thinks a cow is just something on a menu? She nearly ran me and Max down on the drive not ten minutes after arriving."

Dad crosses his arms over his chest, a stance I've seen a thousand times—immovable as the mountains behind our property. His silence only fuels me further.

"We don't need some outsider telling us how to run our ranch," I continue, gesturing sharply toward the stairs.

"I've managed fine for fifteen years. The seasonal bookings are down, sure, but everyone's hurting.

It's not a crisis that requires bringing in a consultant who probably thinks a lasso is some kind of Italian coffee. "

The corner of Dad's mouth twitches, just slightly, which only pisses me off more. He thinks this is funny?

"If there are financial problems, I should know about them. I should handle them. Not some stranger who—"

"Who what?" Dad cuts in, voice soft but sharp enough to slice through my tirade. "Who has an MBA from Northwestern? And not just that, she’s Ruthie’s family.” Dad shifts his weight. "When she mentioned Hailey needed a fresh start, and I knew we needed help, it seemed like fate to me."

I snort, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Since when do you believe in fate?"

"Since your mother walked into that county fair in seventy-eight wearing a blue sundress and changed my life." His voice softens for just a moment before hardening again. "Point is, Hailey Monroe is qualified. More qualified than either of us to tackle the numbers side of things."

"And what exactly are these numbers you're so worried about?" I step closer. "You've been hiding something. The books looked fine last quarter."

Dad's jaw works, the stubborn set to his chin so familiar it aches. We share the same face, thirty-five years apart. Same eyes, same stubborn mouth, same ability to lock everything down tight.

"The bank called," he finally says. "The last two loans came due faster than expected. Between that and the repairs to the east cabins, the medical bills from my hip replacement—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Something cold drops through my stomach. "I'm the one running this place day-to-day. I should know if we're in trouble."

"We're not in trouble," he says quickly, too quickly. "We just need a different perspective. Fresh ideas."

"Fresh ideas," I repeat, the words bitter on my tongue. "Like what? Turning the ranch into some Social media-friendly glamping resort? Adding fake Western experiences for tourists who want to play cowboy for a weekend?"

"If that's what brings in money, what's wrong with it?"

"It's not who we are." The words explode out of me, echoing against the high ceiling. "This place has history. Integrity. We're not some theme park."

Dad's eyes flash with something dangerous. "You think I don't know that? I built this place. Me and your mother. While you were still learning to walk, I was up before dawn breaking in horses and fixing fences and wondering how to make payroll."

I step back, stung by the sudden heat in his voice.

"You want to talk about integrity?" he continues. "Integrity is doing what needs to be done to keep this place alive. For the family. For the people who work here. For the legacy."

We stand there, the silence between us charged and heavy, both of us breathing harder than we should be. Outside, a horse whinnies from the pasture. Inside, the old grandfather clock in the corner ticks steadily, marking time in a rhythm that hasn't changed since I was a boy.

I open my mouth to argue further, but Dad cuts me off with five simple words:

"You might run this place," he says, each syllable distinct and final, "but I still own it."

I flinch. The truth in them strips away everything else. In the end, it doesn't matter what I think. It doesn't matter that I stayed when Sebastian left for med school, that I gave up my own dreams, that I've poured every drop of sweat and blood I have into this land.

Dad turns away, picking up the grocery bags again. His shoulders look smaller than they used to, bent slightly with age and the weight of responsibilities I still don't fully understand. The conversation is clearly over.

I stand there, frozen, as he walks toward the kitchen. My fists clench and unclench at my sides.

He's right. Of course he's right. This was never really mine, not completely. I just forgot that for a while, wrapped up in the daily rhythms of the place, making decisions, feeling like the one in charge.

The truth settles over me, heavy and unavoidable: I'm still just the son who stayed.

I turn on my heel, heading for the door. I need air. Need space. Need to be anywhere but trapped in this house with her upstairs and Dad's words echoing in my head.

The stable door creaks open under my hand, familiar and welcoming in a way the main house no longer feels.

I step inside, letting the shadows swallow me whole.

The scent hits me immediately—hay and leather, horse sweat and sweet feed—smells that should quiet the storm in my chest. Today, they barely make a dent.

I drag in a breath anyway, forcing my lungs to expand against the tightness there.

I head deeper into the cool darkness, past empty stalls waiting for the trail horses to return from the afternoon ride.

This place has always been my sanctuary.

When Claire left, I spent three straight days here, sleeping on a hay bale, speaking only to the horses.

The stables know more of my secrets than any living soul.

A soft whine announces Bandit's presence before I see him. The border collie materializes from between two stalls, his black and white coat gleaming even in the dim light.

"Hey, boy," I murmur, the first gentle words I've spoken today.

He approaches cautiously, head lowered, tail giving a tentative wag. He can read my moods better than anyone, knows when to keep his distance and when to press close. Today, he pauses a foot away, waiting for permission.

I crouch, ignoring the protest from my bad leg, and hold out my hand. "C'mere."

He closes the distance immediately, pressing his muzzle into my palm, then leaning his whole body against my leg. I run my hand over his silky ears, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders at the simple contact.

"At least you're still on my side," I tell him, and he responds with another whine, softer this time.

Rising, I move toward the tack room, Bandit trotting at my heels.

Inside, I grab a curry comb and dandy brush from their hooks, the wooden handles worn smooth from years of use.

Some of these tools are older than I am, passed down from Dad, who got them from his father before him.

Three generations of Walker men have held these same brushes, cared for horses with the same steady hands.

Now it's all at risk because Dad thinks we need saving.

Max's ears prick forward as I approach his stall.

The chestnut quarter horse moves to the gate, stretching his neck over the top to greet me.

He's a good horse—steady and dependable, with enough spirit to keep things interesting.

I've had him for eight years, raised him from a gangly two-year-old to the powerful animal he is now.

"Hey, big guy," I say, running a hand down his neck. "Sorry about earlier. Didn't mean to put you in a bad spot."

I slip inside the stall, latching the door behind me.

Max shifts his weight, moving to give me space but staying close enough for contact.

I start with the curry comb, working in firm, circular motions across his shoulder.

The brush makes a soft scratching sound against his summer coat, dislodging dirt and loose hair.

My movements are too aggressive, driven by the anger still simmering under my skin. Max tosses his head, taking a step sideways, ears flicking back in protest.

"Sorry," I mutter, forcing myself to ease up. I take a deep breath, then another, trying to match my rhythm to the horse's breathing. "Sorry about that."

Max settles as my touch softens, leaning slightly into the pressure. At my feet, Bandit curls up in the clean straw, head on paws, watching us with those knowing eyes.

"Dad's brought in some city girl to fix the ranch," I tell Max, keeping my voice low and even as I work my way along his back. "Hailey Monroe."

Max flicks an ear back, listening.

"We don't need fixing," I continue, moving the brush in long, steady strokes. "Sure, bookings are down from last year. Everyone's had a rough couple of years. Doesn't mean we need to change everything."

The repetitive motion soothes me, the familiar contours of the horse’s body under my hands grounding me in the present. I've done this thousands of times—could do it blindfolded, half-asleep, in the middle of a blizzard. There's comfort in the routine, in knowing exactly what comes next.

"I know what Dad's thinking.”

I pause, brush hovering over Max's flank. The image of Hailey rises unbidden—her wide, startled eyes as she tumbled out of that car. The way she stood her ground despite clearly being shaken. The defiance in her voice when she told me she was here to do a job.

"Reminds me of Claire," I admit quietly, the name still painful to say out loud even after five years.

Claire, with her big dreams and bigger cities. Claire, who loved me but loved the idea of escape more. "This place is swallowing you whole," she'd said, her bags already packed by the door. "There's a whole world out there, Bradley. We could see it together."

But I couldn't leave. Not with Dad's health declining, not with Sebastian already gone, not with the ranch needing someone to keep it alive. So she left without me, her taillights disappearing down the same gravel drive where Hailey appeared today.

I've made my peace with it. Mostly. But seeing another city woman arrive, looking at everything with those assessing eyes, picking apart the only home I've ever known tears open something I thought had healed.

"It's not just the ranch," I tell Max, moving to brush his other side. "Dad's hiding something. The bank loans, he said. Medical bills. But I check the books monthly. Things are tight, but we're making it."

Max shifts his weight, leaning into the brush.

"Unless he's been keeping separate books. Unless things are worse than I thought." The possibility sits cold and heavy in my gut. "Maybe I've been missing something. Maybe I'm not doing enough."

And there it is—the fear lurking beneath the anger. That I'm failing. That this place my parents built, this legacy they entrusted to me, is slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I hold on.

Bandit whines softly from his spot on the floor, sensing the shift in my mood. I look down at him, then at Max, whose warm brown eye watches me with what I choose to interpret as understanding.

"We'll figure it out," I promise them both, running a hand down Max's neck one more time. "We don't need someone from the outside telling us how to save ourselves."

Max lowers his head, bumping his muzzle gently against my chest in a rare display of affection.

I rest my forehead against his neck for a moment, breathing in his warm, familiar scent.

In this quiet moment, with my animals close and the rest of the world held at bay by wooden walls, I almost believe it might be true.

Almost.