Page 5 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

A shaft of light cuts across the stable floor as the door swings open, silhouetting a lean figure against the bright afternoon sun.

I don't need to see his face to know it's Sawyer.

He's got that easy way of standing—one shoulder propped against the doorframe, ankles crossed—like he's never been in a hurry his entire life.

The baseball cap sits backward on his head, as always, sandy hair curling out beneath it. He spots me in Max's stall and his mouth curves into that perpetual half-smile that makes the local women at The Rusted Spur slide free drinks his way.

"There you are," he drawls, pushing off the frame and sauntering inside. The door swings shut behind him, returning the stable to its dimly lit state. "Thought I might find you hiding out here."

"Not hiding," I mutter, continuing to brush Max's flank in long, methodical strokes. "Working."

Sawyer chuckles, the sound loose and easy, like everything else about him. He's been working at Walker Ranch since he was sixteen, nearly fifteen years now, but still moves with the unhurried grace of someone who hasn't had the weight of responsibility crush the joy out of simple moments.

"Sure, boss. Whatever you say." He leans against the stall door, arms folded across his chest. "Just wanted to let you know I fixed that broken fence in the north pasture. Had to replace two posts. Might need to order more lumber before we tackle the western stretch."

I nod, focusing on a spot of dried mud on Max's shoulder. "I'll call Harrison's tomorrow. You check the creek crossing after all that rain last night?"

"Water's up about six inches. Nothing to worry about yet, but we might want to move the yearlings to higher ground if this keeps up."

This is how it always is with Sawyer—easy, practical, no bullshit.

It's why he's lasted here when other ranch hands have come and gone.

He doesn't take my moods personally, doesn't push when I need space, gets the job done without needing to be told twice.

If I had a brother by choice instead of blood, it might be him.

"Already done," I say. "Moved them this morning."

"Always one step ahead." Sawyer grins, reaching over to scratch Bandit behind the ears. The traitor immediately rolls onto his back, exposing his belly for more attention. "That's why you're the boss and I'm just the pretty face."

I snort, despite myself. "Pretty ugly, maybe."

Sawyer clutches his chest in mock hurt. "You wound me, Walker.

Good thing not everyone around here is blind to my charms." He straightens, his expression shifting to something that immediately puts me on edge.

"Speaking of which, I met the new girl when I was coming in. Ruthie was showing her around."

My hand stills on Max's coat for just a second before I force it to continue moving. "That so."

"Hailey, right? She's something else." Sawyer whistles low. "Not what I was expecting at all."

I keep my eyes fixed on Max, but I can feel tension creeping back into my shoulders, pulling the muscles tight. "Don't get any ideas, Reid. She's here to work, not to be your next conquest."

"Hey now, I'm just making observations." He raises his hands in surrender, but that grin is still there. "Professional observations. About how she seems smart. And capable . And happens to fill out a pair of jeans in ways that should probably be illegal in at least three counties."

I slam the brush down into the nearby bucket hard enough that Max startles, snorting and sidestepping away from me. The sharp clatter echoes through the stable, and even Bandit scrambles to his feet, ears pricked forward in alarm.

"Fuck, Bradley." Sawyer straightens, his easy demeanor faltering for the first time. "What's got into you?"

"Nothing." The word comes out sharper than I’d like. I move to Max's head, running a hand down his neck to settle him, but my touch is still too rough, too agitated. "Just don't need you sniffing around her like some damn dog in heat."

Sawyer's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Sniffing around? I introduced myself and made polite conversation. Last I checked, that wasn't a crime in Montana."

I can feel his eyes on me, studying my face with the kind of attention he usually reserves for injured horses or broken equipment.

Sawyer's got an annoying talent for reading people, seeing past the walls they put up.

It's served him well over the years, knowing when to push and when to back off.

Right now, I wish he'd just back the hell off.

"She's not staying," I say, moving to unlatch the stall door. Max needs to get out to pasture anyway, and I need space to breathe. "Soon as she realizes what ranch life actually entails, she'll be running back to whatever city spawned her."

"You seem awfully sure about that." Sawyer steps aside as I lead Max out of the stall, but he doesn't let the subject drop. Never could leave well enough alone. "What makes you think she's a runner?"

The question hits too close to home, dredging up memories I keep buried deep. Claire's face the morning she left, resignation mixed with something that might have been pity. "You'll never leave this place, Bradley. And I can't stay and watch it swallow you whole."

"Experience," I say curtly, leading Max toward the stable doors.

Sawyer falls into step beside me, Bandit trotting along at our heels. "You know, most people would call that prejudice."

I stop so abruptly that Max bumps into my shoulder. "Most people don't know what they're talking about."

"Maybe not." Sawyer's voice has lost its teasing edge, gone serious in a way that makes my stomach clench. "But I know you, Bradley. And this isn't about her being from the city. This is about you being scared."

The words steal the very breath from my lungs. "I'm not scared of anything."

"No?" He crosses his arms, fixing me with that steady green gaze that's always been able to see too much. "Then why are you out here brushing a horse that doesn't need brushing instead of in there figuring out how to work with someone who might actually be able to help this place?"

"Because she doesn't belong here." The words tear out of me, raw and angry. "We've survived droughts and market crashes and every other damn thing life's thrown at us. We don't need some outsider with a fancy degree. We don’t need anyone."

Sawyer is quiet for a long moment, examining my face. Then he shakes his head slowly. "You really don't see it, do you?"

"See what?"

"That you're so busy protecting this place from change, you might just protect it to death."

I want to argue, to tell him he doesn't know what he's talking about, but something in his expression stops me cold. There's no mockery there, no teasing grin. Just the kind of quiet certainty that comes from watching someone make the same mistakes over and over.

"That's enough," I growl, tugging on Max's lead rope. The horse follows willingly, probably grateful to escape the tension crackling between Sawyer and me.

But Sawyer doesn't take the hint. "Your dad's worried, Bradley. More worried than he's letting on. And maybe, just maybe, this girl is exactly what the ranch needs."

I push through the stable doors into the afternoon heat, squinting against the sudden brightness.

The sun sits lower now, casting long shadows across the yard.

In a few hours, it'll be time for dinner, time to sit around that table and pretend everything's fine while she watches us with those sharp hazel eyes, cataloging our failures.

"Dad can worry all he wants," I say, leading Max toward the near pasture. "Doesn't change the fact that we've been running this place just fine without help."

"Have we?" Sawyer's voice is quiet behind me, but it carries. "Because from where I'm standing, fine looks a lot like barely hanging on."

I stop at the pasture gate, my free hand gripping the metal latch so hard my knuckles go white. Max nickers softly, sensing the tension radiating off me in waves. Even the damn horse knows I'm wound too tight.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sawyer moves up beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he helps with the gate. "It means I've got eyes, Bradley. I see how you work sixteen-hour days and still can't sleep at night. I see how you check and recheck the books like you're looking for money that isn't there."

The gate swings open with a metallic groan. I unclip Max's lead rope and give him a gentle slap on the rump, sending him trotting into the pasture toward the other horses. He immediately drops his head to graze, content in the simple pleasure of grass and sunshine.

I wish it were that easy for the rest of us.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I mutter, but the words lack conviction even to my own ears.

"Don't I?" Sawyer leans against the fence rail, his eyes following Max's progress across the field. "When's the last time you took a day off? A real day off, not just switching from ranch work to paperwork."

I can't remember. The realization sits heavy in my chest.

"When's the last time you went into town for something other than supplies? Had a beer at the Spur? Hell, when's the last time you talked to a woman who wasn't Ruthie?"

"That's none of your damn business."

"Maybe not. But it's sad as hell to watch." He turns to face me fully, and there's something in his expression I don't like—pity, maybe, or concern that cuts too close to the bone. "You're thirty-five years old, Bradley. You're not supposed to be married to a piece of land."

"This land is all I have left." The admission slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest in a way that makes me want to take it back immediately.

Sawyer's expression softens. "No, it's not. You've got family. Friends. You've got a life beyond these fences, if you'd let yourself live it."

I turn away from him, from the understanding in his voice that makes my throat tight. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Fine. But answer me this; what happens if she's right?

What happens if there really are problems you can't see, solutions you haven't thought of?

" He pauses, letting the question hang in the air between us.

"What happens if letting her help is the difference between saving this place and losing it? "

The possibility I've been trying not to think about crashes over me like cold water. Losing the ranch. Losing everything my parents built, everything they trusted me to protect. The weight of that potential failure presses down on my shoulders until I can barely breathe.

"She won't be right," I say, but even I can hear the uncertainty creeping into my voice.

Sawyer pushes off from the fence, his boots crunching on the dry grass. "For your sake—for all our sakes—I hope you're right about that." He starts walking back toward the stable, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. "But if you're wrong, your pride won't keep the lights on."

He disappears around the corner of the barn, leaving me alone with the horses and the weight of words I don't want to consider.

In the distance, a meadowlark calls from the fence line, its song clear and sweet in the evening air.

The sound should be comforting—it's been the soundtrack of my entire life—but today it feels like a goodbye.

I close my eyes and try to imagine this place without me. Without any of us. Try to picture strangers walking through these fields, sleeping in the house where my brother and I have been born and raised. Where my mother died. The image makes my stomach turn.

Maybe Sawyer's right. Maybe I am scared.

But being scared doesn't make me wrong.