Page 22 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

T he hammer strikes the fence post with enough force to send vibrations up my arm.

I welcome the jarring sensation, the way it momentarily drowns out Hailey's words still echoing in my head.

Scared little boy. The next blow lands harder, driving the post deeper into Montana soil that's as unyielding as my own stubbornness.

Afraid of change . Another strike has my muscles burning with the effort.

My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my molars grinding together over the metallic ring of steel against wood.

"Fuck, Bradley," Sawyer calls from the next post over. "You trying to drive that thing to China?"

I grunt in response, not trusting myself to form actual words.

The leather of my work gloves creaks as I adjust my grip on the hammer.

Sweat trickles down my spine, soaking into my already damp shirt.

The morning sun beats mercilessly on my back, but the heat from outside is nothing compared to the burn smoldering in my chest since my confrontation with Hailey.

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

Fuck.

I swing again, harder this time. The post barely moves, already driven too deep into the hard-packed earth. Doesn't stop me from hitting it again anyway.

Bandit trots up with a stick in his mouth, tail wagging expectantly. When I don't immediately acknowledge him, he drops it at my feet and nudges my leg with his nose. The simple, uncomplicated affection in the gesture momentarily breaks through the red haze of my thoughts.

"Not now, boy," I mutter, reaching down to scratch behind his ears, and for a moment, I envy his simple existence. No financial worries. No stubborn pride. No city women with hazel eyes calling him on his bullshit.

Bandit looks disappointed but picks up his stick and moves on to Sawyer, who tosses it with an easy laugh before returning to stretching wire between the posts we've spent the morning setting.

"Looks like rain coming in from the west." Sawyer squints at the horizon where dark clouds are gathering. "Probably hit us by evening."

I grunt again, moving to the next post. My shoulders ache from the repeated motion, a welcome distraction from the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

You're nothing but a scared little boy afraid that someone might actually have a good idea that isn't yours.

My hand slips slightly on the next swing, the hammer flying off the post at an angle. I manage to keep hold of it, but the sudden shift in momentum sends a jolt of pain through my wrist.

"You okay there, boss?" Sawyer asks, pausing in his work. "Seems like your mind's somewhere else today."

"I'm fine," I snap.

Sawyer raises his eyebrows but doesn't push.

He returns to the wire, carefully unspooling it along the line of posts we've set.

His movements are practiced and efficient, his expression easy beneath the brim of his hat.

I've known Sawyer since we were kids, shared beers and bruises and everything in between. He can read me like a fucking book.

Which is why I'm not surprised when he finally breaks the silence that's been stretching between us for the past hour.

"So," he drawls. "Hailey seemed pretty adamant about not joining us at the Spur tonight."

My hammer pauses mid-swing. "And?"

"And nothing." Sawyer shrugs, but there's a glint in his eye that says otherwise. "Just thought it was interesting, that's all. Girl's been here a week and hasn't set foot in the only decent bar in town."

I resume hammering, focusing all my attention on the post. "Maybe she's not the drinking type."

"Everyone's the drinking type at least once in a while." Sawyer wipes sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "Unless they've got a reason not to be."

Something in his tone makes me look up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He grins, that shit-eating smile that usually precedes him saying something that makes me want to punch him. "Could be she's avoiding you specifically. Can't say I blame her with how you've been riding her ass since she got here."

Heat rises to my face that has nothing to do with the sun. "I haven't been riding her ass."

"No?" Sawyer laughs. "Could've fooled me. And her, from the looks of it."

I turn back to the post, swinging with renewed vigor. The impact travels up my arms, but I barely feel it through the storm of confusion and irritation brewing inside me.

"Though," Sawyer continues, his voice taking on that teasing lilt that means trouble, "can't say I blame you for wanting to ride that particular—"

"Finish that sentence," I growl, pointing the hammer at him, "and you'll be eating through a straw for a month."

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his grin doesn't falter. "All I'm saying is, maybe there's a reason you two butt heads so much. Chemistry, and all that."

"Chemistry," I repeat flatly. "Between me and the woman who just this morning called me a scared little boy?"

"Hey, some guys are into that." Sawyer winks, ducking when I toss a glove in his direction. "Seriously though, you've got it bad, man. Never seen you this worked up over someone you supposedly can't stand."

I turn away, unwilling to let him see whatever might be written across my face.

Because the truth is, I don't know what the fuck is happening to me.

Don't understand why her words cut so deep, why her absence this morning left me scanning the house and yard like some lovesick teenager, why the memory of her in that wet t-shirt still makes my blood run hot.

"It's not like that," I mutter, retrieving my glove.

"Sure it's not." Sawyer turns back to the fence, still grinning. "Just like I'm not the best-looking ranch hand in Montana."

I shake my head, returning to the post. But now that he's mentioned it, I can't stop thinking about Hailey's reaction to the bar invitation.

The way the color had drained from her face.

The slight tremor in her hand as it closed around her coffee mug.

The raw fear that had flashed in her eyes before she'd masked it with that cool professionalism she wears like armor.

That wasn't about me. That was something else entirely.

My next swing goes wide, the hammer barely grazing the post. I curse, readjusting my stance.

"You know," Sawyer says, his voice suddenly more serious, "I ran into Tessa from the bakery yesterday. She mentioned Hailey's been coming by a lot."

My head snaps. "So?"

"So nothing." He shrugs. "Just thought it was interesting. Guess they've become pretty tight. Tessa doesn't usually take to newcomers that fast."

I try to picture it—Hailey and the quirky baker becoming friends. It doesn't fit with the image I've built of Hailey in my head, the stuck-up city girl too good for small-town life. But then again, nothing about her seems to fit the neat box I tried to put her in from the start.

"What else did Tessa say?" I ask, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

Sawyer's eyes narrow slightly, picking up on something in my tone.

"Not much. Just that Hailey seems like 'good people.

' Her words, not mine." He pauses, then adds, "Also said something about her being exactly what this place needs, but I think she was talking about the ranch, not you specifically. "

I scowl at him, but my heart isn't in it. My mind is too busy trying to piece together the puzzle that is Hailey Monroe. The woman who stands her ground against me without backing down. The woman whose eyes hold shadows deeper than she wants anyone to see.

"Earth to Bradley." Sawyer waves a hand in front of my face. "You planning on finishing this fence today, or should I come back next week?"

I blink, realizing I've been standing motionless, hammer hanging useless at my side. "Yeah, sorry. Just... thinking."

"Dangerous pastime for you," he quips, but his expression softens slightly. "Look, whatever's going on between you two, maybe try talking to her like a normal human being instead of growling at her every time she opens her mouth. Novel concept, I know."

I roll my eyes, but there's truth in his words that I can't quite dismiss. "Let's just finish this fence."

We work in silence for a while, but my mind is far from quiet. It keeps circling back to Hailey, to the look on her face when Sawyer mentioned the bar, to the small object she clutches when distressed, to the walls I've been determined to maintain between us since the moment she arrived.

Walls that might be keeping out exactly what I need most.

Bandit returns, dropping his stick at my feet once more. This time, I pause in my work, pick it up and toss it across the pasture. He takes off after it, a blur of black and white against the green grass, uncomplicated joy in every movement.

I do that a few more times before turning my attention back to the task at hand.

But as the hours tick by, I can’t get Hailey out of my mind.

And when I pound the last staple into the fence, my shoulders ache from hours of the repetitive motion.

But the physical pain is a welcome distraction from the mental turmoil that's been my constant companion since this morning.

Sawyer's already loading tools into his truck, whistling some country tune that's been overplayed on every station for the past month.

The western sky has darkened further, those rain clouds he mentioned earlier now rolling in faster than expected, mirroring the storm still brewing inside my chest.

"You heading back now?" Sawyer calls, slamming the tailgate shut.

"Yeah." I peel off my work gloves, flexing fingers stiff from gripping tools all day. A thin line of blood trickles down my forearm where I caught it on a wire. I hadn't even noticed until now. "You go on ahead. I want to check the north pasture gate before the rain hits."