Page 45 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

E verything inside me turns to cement—muscles, blood, even my fucking lungs. Twenty years of silence, of birthdays and Christmases where his name became a ghost word we all carefully avoided, and here he is, casual as Sunday morning, standing in our dining room like he never left.

Like he didn't walk out that door without so much as a backward glance, leaving me with a ranch too big for one son and a father who pretended not to break a little more each year.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I ask again, each word scraping my throat raw.

Sebastian's perfect, clean-shaven face tightens the slightest bit. "I thought it was time to come home," he says, voice too even, too controlled.

Home. This hasn't been his home since the day he chose to leave it.

Ruthie moves toward Sawyer and Beckett, her eyes wide with alarm. "Boys," she murmurs, "why don't you help me check on those fence posts out by the east pasture?"

Neither of them argues. One of them has lived on this ranch long enough to recognize a family storm brewing.

Sawyer throws me a look—half sympathy, half warning—before following Ruthie out.

Hailey's fingers tighten around mine, a quick squeeze that says everything her voice doesn't. Then she slips her hand from my grasp.

"I should go too," she whispers.

"Stay," I growl, not taking my eyes off Sebastian.

"Bradley." Her voice is soft but firm. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

Then she's gone, and I feel naked without her anchor beside me. It's just us now—me, Sebastian, and Dad, who stands at the head of the table like a referee knowing he's about to lose control of the match.

"Time to come home," I repeat, my laugh short and bitter. "After twenty years of radio silence, you just decided today was the day? What happened, Sebastian? Run out of rich patients to bill? Or did you finally remember you had family out here in the sticks?"

My brother exhales slowly, hands sliding into his pockets. Always so fucking composed. "I deserve that."

"You deserve a lot more than that."

"Look, Brad—"

"Don't call me that." The childhood nickname ignites something ugly inside my chest. "You lost the right to call me that when you left without saying goodbye."

Dad shifts his weight, leaning heavily on his cane. "Son, maybe we should all sit down and—"

"No." The word cuts through the air between us. "I want to know why he's here. After years of Christmas cards and five-minute phone calls. After missing your surgeries. After leaving me to handle everything while he played doctor in the city."

Sebastian's jaw tightens, a flash of genuine emotion crossing his perfect fucking face. "You think I don't know what I missed? You think I don't carry that every day?"

"I think you never looked back," I spit. "Not once. Too busy becoming Dr. Sebastian Walker, big-shot diagnostician. Too important for the dirt and shit and sweat of this place."

"That's not fair, and you know it," Sebastian says, taking a step toward me. "This place was never for me. You knew that. Dad knew that. Hell, everyone knew."

Dad makes a pained sound. "Boys, please. This isn't helping anyone."

But we're too far gone now, two decades of unspoken hurt finally finding a voice.

"You abandoned us," I yell. "Dad was sick. The ranch was struggling. And you just packed your shit and disappeared before dawn, leaving nothing but a fucking note."

His composure finally cracks. "Because I couldn't face you. Because I knew if I tried to say goodbye to your face, you'd make me feel like I was betraying everything. Like I was some kind of traitor for wanting something different."

"You were a coward."

"I was eighteen." Sebastian's voice rises for the first time.

"Eighteen and suffocating. Every day on this ranch felt like slowly dying.

And you—" He jabs a finger at me. "You were so perfectly at home here, so naturally good at everything I struggled with.

You think it was easy being the one who never fit? "

"So you ran."

"I did what I had to do to become who I am." His eyes flash dark fire, so like mine and yet not. "And I stayed away because every time I thought about coming back, all I could imagine was exactly this. You, judging me for choices I made two decades ago."

Dad takes an unsteady step towards us. "That's enough, both of you."

But it's nowhere near enough. Twenty years of resentment won't be purged in five minutes of shouting.

"You could have called," I say, my voice dropping dangerously low. "Could have visited. Could have done anything other than send a fucking Christmas card with a picture of your perfect city life while Dad and I were busting our asses to keep this place running."

"I offered to help financially. Dad always said no."

I laugh, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "Of course he said no. We're Walkers. We don't take handouts, especially not from sons who couldn't be bothered to show up when it mattered."

"When it mattered?" Sebastian's voice rises again. "Like when Dad had his gallbladder out? I flew in. You were the one who told me not to bother coming to the hospital, that you had it handled."

"Because you were three hours late. Because you had some important meeting you couldn't miss."

"I was in surgery," Sebastian shouts. "Saving someone's life, actually. But sure, I should have just walked out mid-procedure to sit in a waiting room where I wasn't wanted anyway."

"Boys." Dad's voice cracks between us like a whip. "That is enough."

We both turn to look at him, and what I see makes my blood run cold. Dad's face has gone ashen, a gray pallor spreading across his features. He clutches at his chest, fingers digging into his flannel shirt like he's trying to reach inside and squeeze his own heart.

"Dad?" Sebastian's voice changes instantly. "Dad, what's wrong?"

Dad opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a strangled gasp as his eyes go wide with panic. Reaching out, he takes one stumbling step forward.

Then his knees buckle, and he falls.

Sebastian lunges forward, catching him before he hits the floor. I'm frozen for one horrifying second, watching my father collapse into my brother's arms, his face contorted in pain.

"Dad!" I finally find my voice, dropping to my knees beside them as Sebastian gently lowers Dad to the floor. "What's happening? What's wrong with him?"

Sebastian's already in motion, fingers pressed to Dad's neck, eyes locked on his watch. "Possible cardiac event," he says, his voice suddenly clinical. "Call an ambulance. Now, Bradley."

But I can't move, can't breathe, can't do anything but stare at my father's gray face and listen to the roaring in my ears.

This can't be happening. Not again. Not like this.

"Bradley!" Sebastian's sharp command cuts through my panic. "Ambulance. Now."

My fingers fumble with my phone, suddenly too big for my hands.

Everything moves in slow motion—unlocking the screen, dialing nine-one-one, my voice sounding distant and hollow as I spit out our address to the dispatcher.

Through it all, Sebastian kneels beside our father, his movements precise and practiced as he loosens Dad's collar, checks his pulse, places him in what I vaguely recognize as the recovery position.

I hate how much I need his expertise right now, hate that when Dad's life hangs in the balance, it's my brother—the one who abandoned us—who knows exactly what to do.

"Ambulance is eight minutes out," I report, the words catching in my throat as I drop to my knees on Dad's other side.

With his fingers pressed to Dad’s wrist, Sebastian doesn't look up. "His pulse is irregular but strong. Has he been taking his heart medication?"

"Of course he has." The defensive answer comes automatically, though I honestly don't know. That's Ruthie's department. She makes sure Dad takes his pills with breakfast each morning.

"He's conscious but disoriented," Sebastian continues. "Dad, can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand?"

Dad's eyes are unfocused, his breathing labored, but his fingers tighten slightly around Sebastian's.

"Good, that's good." My brother’s voice is calm and controlled. Nothing like the man who was shouting at me moments ago. "Dad, I need you to stay with us, okay? Help is coming."

I hover uselessly, watching my brother work. The room spins slightly, the floor unsteady beneath my knees. This is a nightmare. Has to be.

I’m still thinking that when footsteps thunder into the room. Hailey is first through the door, her face pale with shock as she takes in the scene. Ruthie and the boys are right behind her.

"Bradford," Ruthie gasps, rushing forward.

Sebastian holds up one hand, stopping her. "Don't crowd him. He needs space and air."

The authority in his voice halts everyone in their tracks. Everyone except Hailey, who moves directly to my side, and places her hand on my shoulder. The weight of it anchors me and stops the room from spinning.

"What happened?" she asks.

I can't answer. Can't form words around the terror squeezing my chest.

"Possible heart attack," Sebastian answers for me, still focused on our father. "I'd need an ECG to confirm."

Ruthie sinks into a chair, one hand pressed to her mouth. Sawyer and Beckett hover in the doorway, faces grim and uncertain.

Dad's eyes find mine, cloudy with pain but unmistakably aware. His lips move, trying to form words.

"Don't try to talk," I manage, finding my voice at last. "Just stay still. Ambulance is coming."

With a shaky hand, he reaches for me. I take it, surprised by how fragile his fingers feel. Those hands that taught me to rope cattle, fix fences, birth calves, reduced to trembling twigs.

Sebastian is still in motion, checking Dad's pupils, monitoring his breathing. "Has he had chest pain before this? Shortness of breath? Dizziness?"

"No," I snap, then reconsider. "I don't know. Maybe. He's been tired lately."

"And you didn't think that was worth mentioning to his doctor?"

Something hot and ugly rears up inside me. "This is your fault," I hiss, low enough that Dad can't hear. "He was fine until you showed up."

Sebastian's head jerks up, his eyes meeting mine with genuine shock. "How the fuck is this my fault?"

"Everything was fine until you walked back in here," I continue, voice shaking with rage. "Twenty years of nothing, then you appear and five minutes later he's on the floor."

"Are you serious right now?" Sebastian's voice rises slightly. "You think I caused this?"

"I think you showing up unannounced and then picking a fight—"

"You picked the fight, not me."

"Both of you shut it." Ruthie's voice cracks like thunder. "Bradford is lying there fighting for his life, and you two are still at each other's throats? What is wrong with you?"

Shame floods through me, hot and nauseating. She's right. Dad is what matters right now, not our ancient grievances.

Sebastian returns his attention to Dad, his face shuttered again behind professional detachment.

"He'll be okay," Hailey whispers, her fingers threading through mine. "He's strong."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The weight of her against my side is the only thing keeping me from completely coming apart.

If something happens to him... if he doesn't make it... The thought is too terrible to complete. Dad has always been the heartbeat of Walker Ranch, the gravitational center around which we all orbit. Losing him would be like losing the sun.

And if he dies because I couldn't control my temper around Sebastian, I'll never forgive myself. Or my brother.

The distant wail of a siren cuts through the terrible silence. Sebastian glances up at the sound.

"They're here," he says. "I'll go flag them down."

As he stands, our eyes meet. For one split second, we're not enemies or strangers, just two terrified sons watching their father struggle to breathe. Then the moment passes, and Sebastian strides toward the door.

"I need you to move back," he tells Ruthie and the ranch hands. "Give them room to work when they come in."

Everyone obeys without question, recognizing the authority in his voice. I remain kneeling beside Dad, unwilling to let go of his hand.

"You're going to be fine," I tell him, forcing confidence I don't feel into my voice. "You hear me? Don't you dare check out on us. Not today."

Dad's eyes find mine, clearer now despite the pain etched into every line of his face. His lips move, and I lean closer to catch his whispered words.

"Don't fight," he manages, each word an effort. "You... brothers."

The simplicity of his plea cuts straight to my core. Even now, even in agony, his greatest concern is for his sons to make peace. The realization brings a hot sting of tears to my eyes that I rapidly blink away.

"Don't worry about that now," I say, squeezing his hand gently. "Just focus on staying with us."

The paramedics burst through the door with Sebastian leading them, pointing and explaining in rapid medical shorthand. I'm pushed aside as they surround Dad, checking vitals, attaching monitors, and sliding an oxygen mask over his face.

Hailey's arm circles my waist, holding me upright as I watch strangers take control of my father's fate. I want to tell them he's tough as old leather, that he survived losing his wife when we were just kids, that it takes more than a weak heart to kill a Walker. But the words stick in my throat.

Sebastian stands at the edge of the activity, arms crossed tightly over his chest. For the first time, I notice how exhausted he looks. How the confident doctor persona hides something rawer beneath.

My chest still burns with anger at him, but it's tempered now by the shared terror of possibly losing our father. I hold Hailey tighter, drawing strength from her presence, and prepare for the longest wait of my life.

If Dad survives this, we'll have to find a way forward—me, Sebastian, all of us. And if he doesn't...

I can't even finish the thought. Some possibilities are too devastating to acknowledge, even in the privacy of my own mind.