Page 20 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

M y fist closes tighter around the chip, its edges digging into my palm as I whirl to face him.

Of course he's here. Of course Bradley Walker wouldn't leave well enough alone, wouldn't grant me even this small moment of privacy to pull myself together.

His presence on the porch feels like an invasion, one more boundary crossed in a morning already full of them.

The fury I've been swallowing for days rushes up my throat, bitter and burning, demanding release.

"What?" I snap. "Come to throw more insults my way?"

His eyes drop to my closed fist, then back to my face.

Something flickers across his expression—curiosity, maybe, or concern.

I don't care which. I shove the chip deep into my pocket, away from his prying eyes.

It's mine. My anchor. My reminder. It's the most valuable thing I own, and I'll be damned if I'll explain its significance to him.

"I came to apologize," he says, voice low and gruff.

A harsh and humorless laugh escapes me. "Right. Because someone told you to?"

His jaw tightens, confirming my suspicion. The apology isn't real. It's obligatory, forced from him by his father or Ruthie or whoever else at that table decided I deserved better than his scorn.

"I shouldn't have said what I did," he continues, each word sounding painful to extract. "About the bar. It was... uncalled for."

"Uncalled for," I repeat. "That's what we're calling it? One more dig at the city girl who doesn't belong? One more reminder that I'm an outsider?"

I take a step toward him, something breaking loose inside me. The careful walls I've built, the professional distance I've maintained, the endless patience in the face of his dismissal, all of it crumbles under the weight of this morning's humiliation.

"You know what, Bradley? I'm done. I'm done tiptoeing around your ego. I'm done having every suggestion I make shot down before I can even finish a sentence. I'm done being treated like I'm some kind of threat to your precious ranch."

His eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his face. Good. Let him be surprised. Let him see that the polite, professional mask he's been sneering at has limits.

"I came here to help," I continue, my voice rising despite my efforts to control it.

"Your father hired me because this place is in trouble, whether you want to admit it or not.

But you—" I jab a finger toward his chest, not quite touching him but close enough to make him blink.

"You're so wrapped up in your own stubbornness that you'd rather watch this place sink than accept a single idea that isn't yours. "

The morning sun catches in his dark eyes, turning them almost amber as they widen at my outburst. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. I'm not finished. Not even close.

"You think I don't understand this place?

You think I don't see what makes it special?

I do. I see it every morning when the sun rises over those mountains.

I see it in the way your father talks about this land.

I hear it in Ruthie's stories." My voice cracks slightly, but I push through.

"But I also see the empty cabins and the outdated systems and the bills piling up. "

I step closer still, close enough to catch the scent of his soap, to see the tiny flecks of gold in his irises. My cheeks burn hot, but I don't care.

"You're so afraid of change that you can't see it's the only thing that will save what you love.

" The words pour out of me now. "Heaven forbid we update the website.

Heaven forbid we renovate cabins that haven't been touched since the nineties.

Heaven forbid we make this place accessible to a new generation who might actually keep it alive. "

My hands are trembling now, fingers digging into my palms hard enough to hurt. The pain grounds me, keeps me from floating away on this tide of anger.

"You're nothing but a scared little boy afraid that someone might actually have a good idea that isn't yours," I spit. "You hide behind tradition and authenticity, but it's just fear. Fear that if something changes, even a little bit, you might lose control. And control is all you have, isn't it?"

I expect him to fight back. To match my anger with his own. To tell me I don't know what I'm talking about, that I don't belong here, that I should pack my bags and head back to the city I came from.

But he doesn't.

He just stands there, taking every word like he's been expecting them. His face remains impassive, almost stoic, save for a muscle that jumps in his jaw. His hands hang loose at his sides, not clenched like mine. His breathing remains steady while mine comes in short, ragged bursts.

His silence is worse than any argument.

"Say something," I demand, my voice rising to a pitch that might carry to the main house. I don't care. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I don't understand. Tell me anything."

Still nothing. Just those dark eyes, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Is he waiting for me to finish? Is he dismissing every word before it even leaves my mouth? Or is he simply not bothered enough to engage?

The thought sends a fresh wave of fury through me. I step even closer, our bodies now separated by mere inches.

"You know what? Don't say anything. It's what you do best, isn't it? Stand there with that look on your stupid face like you're the only one who gets it. Like the rest of us are just passing through your world, not worth the effort of actual conversation."

My voice breaks on the last word, betraying more emotion than I want to.

I hate it. Hate the way my eyes suddenly burn with tears I refuse to shed.

Hate the way my heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Most of all, I hate the way he's looking at me, the way something shifts in his expression that I can't—won't—decipher.

"I'm trying to save your family's legacy," I whisper, the fight suddenly draining from me. "But you can't see past your own stubborn pride to let me."

The silence stretches between us, thick with words unspoken.

For a moment, just a brief, disorienting moment, I think I see something vulnerable flash across his face.

Something raw and exposed that mirrors what I'm feeling.

But then it's gone, shuttered behind that impenetrable mask he wears so well.

"Forget it," I mutter, stepping back, needing distance between us. "Just... forget it."

I turn on my heel, not waiting for a response that won't come anyway. My boots strike the wooden porch with sharp, angry sounds as I stride away from him. Away from the frustration and the hurt and the inexplicable pull I feel toward a man who seems determined to hate me.

The morning air burns my lungs with each breath, but I don't slow down.

My hand finds my pocket, fingers closing around the sobriety chip hidden there.

One day at a time. That's all I need to focus on.

Not Bradley Walker and his impossible stubbornness.

Not the way his silence cut deeper than any words could have.

I slam the office door behind me, the sound ricocheting through the small space.

My breath comes in shallow gasps, lungs unable to pull in enough air.

What have I done? I just unleashed seven days of bottled rage on the son of the man who hired me, the man whose approval I need to keep this job.

My legs suddenly feel boneless, and I sink into my desk chair, hands pressed flat against the cool wood surface to ground myself.

Papers lie scattered across the desk—financial projections, marketing plans, ideas that Bradley dismissed without a second glance. The sight of them sends another wave of frustration through me.

I need to talk to someone. Need a voice that doesn't carry judgment or disappointment.

My fingers tremble as I pull my phone from my pocket.

The chip comes with it, tumbling onto the desk with a soft click that somehow cuts through the chaos in my head.

I stare at it for a moment, at the worn surface that's carried me through my darkest moments.

Then I reach for it again, clutching it in my left hand while my right scrolls through contacts.

Tessa answers on the second ring, her voice bright and warm through the speaker. "Hey there, ranch girl. Tell me you're calling with good news about Bradley finally getting his head out of his—"

"I just yelled at him." The words tumble out. "I completely lost it, Tessa. In front of the house, where anyone could have heard. I called him a scared little boy. I told him his pride was going to destroy everything."

There's a brief silence on the other end, then Tessa's voice returns, all traces of teasing gone. "Are you okay?"

"No," I admit, rising from the chair to pace the small confines of the office. "No, I'm not. I was trying to calm down after that disaster at breakfast, and then he was just there, and everything I've been holding back came pouring out and—"

"Breathe, honey," Tessa interrupts gently. "Just breathe for me, okay?"

I obey, drawing in a shaky breath, then another. My hand tightens around the chip until the edges painfully dig into my palm.

"That's it," she says. "Now listen to me. You come straight to the bakery. Right now. I'll have coffee waiting and a quiet corner where you can properly fall apart."

Relief washes through me, so powerful it makes my eyes sting. One week in this town, and somehow this chaotic, wonderful woman has become my lifeline.

"I don't know if I should leave," I say, although every cell in my body wants to flee this ranch, to escape the suffocating weight of Bradley's silence and my own outburst. "I have work to do, and after what just happened—"

"Work will wait. Your sanity won't. I'm not asking, Hailey. I'm telling. Get in your car and come here."

A small, watery laugh escapes me. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'll see you in twenty minutes."

I'm just sliding the phone back into my pocket when a soft knock sounds at the door. My heart leaps into my throat. If it's Bradley, I don't think I can face him again. Not so soon after everything I said.

"Hailey?" Ruthie's voice, not Bradley's, calls through the wood. "May I come in?"

I quickly swipe at my eyes, though I'm not sure if any tears have actually fallen. "Of course."

The door opens, and Ruthie stands in the doorway, her petite frame somehow filling the space with her presence.

"Oh, sweetie," she says, and there's so much understanding in those two simple words that something cracks inside my chest.

She steps into the office, closing the door behind her. "I came to apologize for Bradley's behavior at breakfast. That boy's got more pride than sense sometimes, and the way he spoke to you—"

She stops abruptly, shaking her head. Whatever she sees on my face seems to change her mind about what's needed. Instead of continuing, she crosses the room in a few quick steps and does something that steals my breath entirely.

She pulls me into a hug.

It's not a polite, distant embrace. It's a full-bodied, all-encompassing hug that wraps around me like a blanket fresh from the dryer.

She pulls me close against her, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head the way a mother would comfort a child.

The gesture is so unexpected, so achingly familiar and yet foreign, that for a moment I stand frozen, unable to respond.

Then something gives way inside me, some wall I've kept carefully maintained since the night I lost my parents. Since the night I lost everything.

My arms come up to return the embrace, and I hold on as if she might vanish if I let go.

The scent of vanilla and something herbal surrounds me, so different from my mother's perfume and yet hitting the same chord of comfort in my heart.

It's been so long since anyone has held me like this.

So long since I've allowed myself to be held.

"It's alright," Ruthie murmurs, her hand making small, soothing circles on my back. "Whatever happened, it's alright."

But it's not alright. Nothing has been alright for so long that I've forgotten what alright feels like. The realization burns in my throat, threatens to spill over in tears I refuse to shed.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm apologizing for. For yelling at her surrogate son? For being an intrusion in their lives? For falling apart in her arms?

Ruthie pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands coming up to frame my face.

The gesture is so maternal that it steals my breath all over again, conjuring memories of my own mother wiping away tears after a scraped knee or a broken heart.

The echo of loss rings through me, a bell struck years ago that never stops vibrating.

"Don't you apologize," she says firmly. "Not for having feelings. Not in this house."

I nod, not trusting my voice. My fingers still clutch the sobriety chip, pressing it into my palm hard enough to leave an impression. Ruthie's eyes drop to my closed fist, then back to my face, understanding dawning in her expression.

"I need to go into town for a bit," I manage, my voice cracking slightly. "Just... just to clear my head."

She nods immediately. "Of course you do. Take all the time you need. The ranch will still be here when you get back."

The simple acceptance in her voice threatens to unravel me all over again. She squeezes my hand, her small fingers warm and firm around mine.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Ruthie smiles, the lines around her eyes deepening with genuine warmth. "That's what family does, sweetie."

Family. The word echoes in the space between us, filling the office with its weight and possibility. I don't know how to respond, so I simply nod again, gently extracting myself from her presence to gather my keys and purse.

She watches me for a moment, then slips out the door with a final, understanding nod. Her footsteps fade down the wooden steps, leaving me alone with the aftermath of too much emotion.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself before following her out. I unlock my car with trembling fingers, sliding behind the wheel without allowing myself to look toward the main house, toward the porch where Bradley might still be standing.

The engine turns over with a comforting rumble, and I pull away from the ranch, gravel crunching beneath my tires.

In my rearview mirror, the buildings grow smaller, but the weight in my chest doesn't diminish with distance.

If anything, it seems to grow heavier with each mile I put between myself and Walker Ranch.

Between myself and him.