Page 3 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

M y clothes barely fill a quarter of the dresser drawers.

Six months sober, and this is what I've managed to hold onto—three pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, two sweaters, and enough underwear to avoid daily laundry.

The rest I sold or lost during that spiraling year after my parents died.

I smooth my fingers over a gray cashmere sweater, one of the few expensive things I kept.

My mother bought it for me the Christmas before the accident. Before everything.

I place the sweater in the drawer with deliberate care, as if it might disintegrate under rough handling.

My hands aren't steady, haven't been since I pulled onto the property.

Meeting Bradley Walker—correction, nearly running him over—wasn't the welcome I'd hoped for.

The cold assessment in his dark eyes made it clear what he thinks of me: city girl, outsider, intruder.

I reach into my pocket for the most important thing I own.

The dark blue AA chip feels heavier than its actual weight, six months of sobriety compressed into a small metal circle.

I run my thumb over the engraved serenity prayer, a ritual that's become as necessary as breathing.

The edges are smooth from countless similar touches, countless moments when I've wanted nothing more than to find the nearest bar and drink until I can't remember my own name.

I open the bedside table drawer and place the chip inside, next to the journal my last sponsor gave me. Not hidden, just... private. I don't need Bradley or anyone else questioning me before I've even started the job.

"Settling in alright?"

Startling, I nearly slam the drawer on my fingers. Ruthie stands in the doorway, arms laden with fluffy white towels. Her eyes miss nothing, including my flustered movement.

"Sorry, honey. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." She enters without waiting for an invitation, setting the towels on the edge of the bed. "Thought you might need these. Bathroom's stocked, but everyone likes extra towels."

"Thanks." My voice sounds thin, even to my own ears. I close the drawer carefully, feeling like I've been caught hiding something worse than a sobriety chip.

Ruthie studies my face with the unnerving intensity of someone who's known me since birth, though we've only met a handful of times over the years.

"You look like hell," she says frankly, but there's tenderness in her bluntness.

A surprised laugh escapes me. "Thanks. It's been a long drive."

"And a long road before that." She pats the bed beside her. "Sit."

I obey without thinking, the old spring mattress dipping beneath our combined weight. The room suddenly feels smaller with her in it, but not in a suffocating way.

Ruthie takes my hands in hers. "This is exactly what you need, honey. I feel it in my bones."

I want to believe her. Heaven knows, I want to believe that this place—this nowhere ranch in the middle of Montana—is where I'll finally find solid ground. Where I'll prove I'm not the disaster that Chicago saw.

"I don't know, Ruthie." The words catch in my throat. "I'm not sure I belong here."

"Belong?" She squeezes my fingers tightly. "Honey, no one belongs anywhere until they decide to. You think I was born knowing how to birth calves or mend fences? I was a schoolteacher when I met Bradford. Didn't know a bridle from a saddle. But I chose this place. And it chose me back."

Before I can respond, raised voices filter through the ceiling.

Deep, angry male voices, though the words are indistinct.

I tense, my shoulders going rigid, a pavlovian response to conflict.

In Chicago, raised voices usually preceded the crash of bottles, the slam of doors, the kind of nights I couldn't remember in the morning.

"They're at it again," Ruthie sighs, shaking her head. "Bradford and Bradley have been butting heads since that boy could talk. Both too stubborn for their own good." She rises from the bed, smoothing her apron with practiced hands. "Don't you worry about them. Their bark is worse than their bite."

I'm not convinced. The harshness in Bradley's eyes when he looked at me suggested his bite might be exactly as bad as advertised.

"Come on downstairs," Ruthie continues, already moving toward the door. "Clearly Bradford’s back from town, and he's been looking forward to meeting you."

I hesitate, glancing at my half-unpacked suitcase. "I should finish—"

"Later," she says firmly. "First impressions matter, and Bradford's the one signing your checks."

She has a point. I stand, running nervous hands through my hair, wishing I'd had time to shower off the travel grime. "Do I look okay?"

Ruthie gives me an appraising look. "You'll do. Besides, Bradford can barely see past his nose these days."

As I follow her out of the room—my room now, I suppose—I take one last glance at the bedside table. The drawer is closed, my chip safely tucked away. Six months of fighting, of clawing my way back from the edge.

I can handle a cranky cowboy and his father. I've survived worse.

Following Ruthie down the creaking staircase, my fingers trail along the smooth wooden banister.

Generations of Walkers stare back at me from the frames on the wall, their eyes seeming to ask what right I have to be here.

My stomach tightens as we reach the bottom of the stairs.

First impressions matter, Ruthie said. I've already blown mine with Bradley.

I can't afford to do the same with his father.

The living room opens up before us, and my attention locks on the man rising slowly from an armchair by the fireplace.

Bradford Walker pushes himself up with the help of a wooden cane, his movements deliberate but not frail.

He's tall—not as tall as his son but imposing in his own way—with broad shoulders that have only just begun to stoop with age.

The resemblance to Bradley is startling.

Same strong jawline, same dark eyes, same stubborn set to his mouth but where Bradley's features are hardened by hostility, Bradford's crease into a genuine smile that transforms his face.

"So you're the Hailey that Ruthie can't stop gushing over," he says with a gentle voice as he extends a hand to me. "Welcome to Walker Ranch."

I take his hand, surprised by the strength in his grip. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Walker. I appreciate the opportunity."

"Bradford," he corrects, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Mr. Walker was my father, and he's been long gone now."

Ruthie moves past us toward the kitchen. "I'll put on some coffee. You two get acquainted."

Left alone with Bradford, I fight the urge to fidget under his appraising gaze. Unlike his son's cold assessment, Bradford's eyes hold genuine curiosity.

"Sit, sit," he gestures to the sofa across from his chair. "You must be tired after that drive. Ruthie tells me you came all the way from Chicago."

I sink into the sofa, the leather cool even through the thick material of my jeans. "Yes, sir. Nineteen hours, give or take."

"Hell of a drive to make alone." He lowers himself back into his chair with a soft grunt of effort. Up close, I can see the deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth, not just age, but years of sun and wind and worry. "What made you take a job so far away?"

The question hangs between us, deceptively simple. What can I say? That I burned every bridge in Chicago? That Ruthie is trying to save me from myself?

"I needed a change," I finally say, the understatement of the century. "And Ruthie mentioned you were looking for someone with my background."

Bradford nods, his eyes never leaving my face. "MBA from Northwestern, isn't it? Pretty impressive. Most financial folks with your credentials don't end up on cattle ranches in the middle of nowhere."

"I'm not most financial folks," I counter, then immediately wonder if I've been too sharp. But Bradford's smile only widens.

"No, don't suppose you are."

"Stop interrogating the girl, Bradford," Ruthie scolds gently, setting the tray on the coffee table. "She's here to help with the books, not answer for her entire life history."

Bradford chuckles, accepting the mug she hands him. "Just getting acquainted, Ruthie. No harm in that."

I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic mug, grateful for something to do with my hands. The coffee is strong and black, no cream or sugar offered. Ranch coffee, I suppose.

"How are things with the east cabins?" Bradford asks Ruthie, shifting topics. "Did Miguel finish the roof repairs?"

"All done yesterday," Ruthie confirms. "Just in time for the Henderson party coming in next week."

They slip into a comfortable back-and-forth about ranch operations, and I listen silently, trying to absorb as much information as possible.

Bradford mentions seasonal bookings, repair costs, a recent dip in trail ride reservations—all things I'll need to account for in my assessment of the ranch's finances.

The conversation flows around me, neither of them expecting me to contribute yet.

It's a reprieve I'm grateful for. I sip my coffee and let my eyes wander over the family photos on the mantle—Bradley and another young man in front of a barn, Bradford and a woman who I presume to be his late wife on horseback, a Christmas gathering with Ruthie center stage, brandishing what looks like a massive turkey.

"You know," Ruthie suddenly says, turning to me. "You should see the place before it gets dark. Bradford, I'm going to give Hailey the grand tour."

Bradford nods his approval. "Good idea. Dinner at six?"

"On the dot," Ruthie confirms, setting her empty mug on the tray. "Come on, honey."

I stand, placing my half-empty mug beside hers. "Thank you for the coffee, Bradford. And for having me here."

"Thank me by fixing our books," he says with a wink. "And don't let my son's grumbling scare you off. His bark's worse than his bite."