Page 26 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

T he curry comb moves in rhythmic strokes across Max's chestnut coat, my hands following a pattern established through years of repetition.

The horse shifts beneath my touch, muscles rippling beneath his glossy hide as he turns his head to watch me with one liquid brown eye.

He knows something's off. Animals sense these things, the distraction in my movements, the way my mind keeps replaying that hallway encounter for the hundredth time since it happened.

"Easy," I murmur, my voice low and steady despite the restless energy humming beneath my skin. Max huffs, clearly unimpressed with my wandering focus.

I've groomed this horse thousands of times.

My hands know every contour of his body, every place he likes to be scratched, every spot that makes him stamp with impatience.

The work requires focus, attention to detail.

But today, my mind refuses to cooperate, instead conjuring the way Hailey's shoulder felt brushing against my chest, the scent of her shampoo, the flush that spread across her cheeks.

"Dammit," I mutter as the brush slips from my fingers, clattering against the packed earth. Max snorts and tosses his head as if sharing my frustration.

I retrieve the brush, wiping it clean before resuming my task with renewed determination. This is ridiculous. I'm acting like some lovesick teenager, not a grown man with responsibilities. A ranch to run. A legacy to protect.

A woman I can't stop thinking about.

"Well, well. Look who's actually working instead of hiding in the barn." Sawyer's voice cuts through my thoughts, the familiar drawl carrying an undercurrent of amusement that immediately sets my teeth on edge.

I don't look up from Max's coat, not trusting my expression to hide whatever's going on inside me. "Some of us can't spend all day polishing our belt buckles."

Sawyer laughs, the sound easy and unbothered, as he leans against the fence post with that languid grace that always looks like he's posing for a damn catalog. "Touchy today, aren't we? Wonder why that might be."

I can feel his eyes on me, studying and assessing. The fucker misses nothing, especially when it comes to the shift in dynamics between people. It's what makes him so good with the more difficult horses and so damn annoying when it comes to my personal life.

"Did you need something?" I ask, setting aside the curry comb to reach for the soft brush. "Or did you just come to provide unwanted commentary?"

"Actually," he says, pushing off the fence to approach. "Was heading into town for lunch. Thought you might want to join. That new place on Main has burgers that might actually be worth the drive."

Any other day, I might have accepted. Might have welcomed the break from ranch work, the chance to get off the property and clear my head. Today, the idea of leaving feels wrong, like there's an invisible tether keeping me anchored to this place. To her.

"Thanks, but I've got too much to do here." The excuse sounds hollow even to my own ears.

Sawyer's eyebrow lifts, the movement so exaggerated it would be comical if it weren't so knowing. "Uh-huh. And would that too much happen to include a certain financial consultant?"

Heat crawls up the back of my neck, the betraying flush thankfully hidden by the shadow of my hat. I focus on brushing Max's flank with more concentration than the task requires, refusing to give Sawyer the satisfaction of seeing how close to the mark he's hit.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" I mutter, stepping around to Max's other side, putting the horse between us like a shield.

"Look at that," Sawyer says, ignoring my dismissal completely. "Bradley Walker, blushing like a schoolboy. Never thought I'd see the day."

"I'm not—" I start to protest, but the words die in my throat. Denying it would only confirm his suspicions. I settle for a glare instead, which only makes his grin widen.

"Going, going." He backs away, hands raised in mock surrender, but his smile remains. "Enjoy your...work, Bradley. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That leaves a lot of options open," I call after him, earning another laugh as he saunters toward his truck.

Am I really that transparent? Has everyone noticed the shift in how I look at her, think about her?

I finish grooming Max with methodical thoroughness, the physical task helping to steady my thoughts. By the time I lead him back to his stall, the sun has climbed higher, marking noon's approach. My stomach growls, reminding me that morning coffee is long gone and I've been working for hours.

The main house beckons, the promise of Ruthie's cooking enough to pull me away from the stables.

But as I cross the yard, my eyes drift toward the small cabin where Hailey has set up her office.

Is she working? Has she eaten? The questions form before I can stop them, an instinctive concern I'm not ready to examine too closely.

The kitchen smells of fresh bread and something savory that makes my empty stomach clench with anticipation.

Ruthie stands at the counter, her small frame bustling with the efficient energy that's kept this household running since before I could walk.

She glances up as I enter, a knowing smile immediately spreading across her face.

"There you are," she says, turning back to the sandwiches she's assembling. "Was beginning to think you'd work straight through lunch again."

I move to the sink, washing dust and horse hair from my hands. "Just finishing up with Max." The words come out casual, betraying none of the thoughts circling in my head.

"Mmhmm." She slides a knife through a sandwich with surgical precision. "Roast beef today. Your favorite."

"Looks good." I dry my hands on a towel, then lean against the counter, aiming for nonchalance. "Has Hailey been in for lunch yet?"

Ruthie's hands pause, just for a fraction of a second, before resuming their work. But that brief hesitation speaks volumes. "Not yet. Been in that office of hers all morning, working away."

I nod, as if this information is merely passing curiosity rather than something that's been nagging at me. "Probably lost track of time."

"Probably." Ruthie's voice carries that tone she uses when she's humoring me, the one that says she sees right through whatever pretense I'm attempting. She's known me too long, knows my tells better than I do myself.

I shift my weight, suddenly feeling like that twelve-year-old boy caught sneaking cookies before dinner. "I could take her something. If you're worried about her skipping meals."

Ruthie turns to face me fully, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes, sharp despite the wrinkles that frame them, seem to see straight through to the core of me. "Could you, now?"

"Just being polite," I mutter.

She studies me for a moment longer, then nods once. "Well, then. Being so polite, you won't mind taking a proper lunch basket. I won't have either of you working on empty stomachs."

Before I can respond, she's in motion, gathering containers with the efficiency of a woman who's packed countless meals for ranch hands and family alike.

Two thermoses of coffee appear, followed by the sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, apples polished to a shine, and fresh cookies from this morning's baking.

"There's extra napkins in there," she says, packing everything into a wicker basket. "And don't rush her. That girl needs a proper break, not just food shoveled in while she works."

I take the basket, its weight substantial in my hands. "I'm sure she's busy. I’ll just leave this—"

"Bradley James Walker." Ruthie's use of my full name stops me mid-sentence. "You sit with her. Have a conversation. Like civilized people who aren't growling at each other across the breakfast table."

Heat rises to my face again. "Yes, ma'am."

Her expression softens, a maternal warmth replacing the stern command. "That's better." She pats my cheek, the gesture both comforting and dismissive. "Now go on. Food's getting cold."

As I turn to leave, basket in hand, I catch her smile, not the knowing one from before, but something gentler, almost hopeful. It follows me out the door and across the yard, adding another layer to the strange, unsettled feeling in my chest.

Bandit trots ahead of me down the path to Hailey's office, his tail held high like a flag announcing our approach. The dog's enthusiasm is almost embarrassing. He's supposed to be my loyal companion, not racing toward her door like she's the one who's fed him every day of his life.

When we reach the cabin, Bandit doesn't wait for me. He scratches at the door, whining with an impatience that mirrors the strange, restless energy coursing through my own veins. Before I can call him off, the door swings open, and there she is.

Standing in the doorway, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail with a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's changed since this morning, now wearing jeans and a soft green button-down with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. The sight of her steals the breath straight from my lungs.

Bandit lunges forward, nearly knocking her over in his enthusiasm.

His whole body wiggles with joy as he presses against her legs.

Her laugh, bright and genuine, fills the space between us before she drops to her knees, and finds the spots behind his ears that make his back leg thump against the wooden porch.

"Well, looks like someone's happy to see you," I say.

She glances up, still scratching Bandit's fur, her smile softer but no less real when it turns on me. "At least one Walker appreciates my company." The teasing lilt in her voice takes any sting from the words, transforming them into something almost flirtatious.

"He's easily bribed," I counter, lifting the basket slightly. "Ruthie sent lunch. Thought you might be hungry."

Something flickers across her face. Surprise, followed by a warmth that makes her eyes brighten. "You brought me lunch?"