Page 8 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

M y boots hit the worn floorboards with deliberate force as I enter the dining room, each step sending a sharp protest up my right leg. The day's work sits heavy in my muscles, a familiar ache made worse by the tension I've been carrying since she arrived.

Hailey Monroe.

Even her name in my head feels like an intrusion, an unwelcome reminder that something has shifted in the foundation of my world.

The familiar scents of Ruthie's cooking—roast beef, garlic, fresh bread—should comfort me, but tonight they sit wrong in my stomach, like even this hasn't been left untouched by change.

The dining room looks the same as it has for as long as I can remember—oak table worn smooth by generations of elbows and forearms, walls lined with faded photographs of ancestors I've never met but somehow know, windows that frame the mountains like they were built specifically for that purpose.

Dad sits at the head of the table, his hands wrapped around a glass of water, deep lines etched around his eyes catching the warm light from the overhead fixture.

Sawyer's already there, leaning back in his chair with that perpetual ease that sometimes makes me want to knock him sideways.

And Beckett, one of our newer hands, sits quietly at the far end, his plate already half-empty.

But there's an empty chair. Her chair.

I slide onto the seat between Dad and Sawyer, satisfaction curling through me as I stare at the vacant spot across the table. She's gone. Maybe she's already realized she doesn't belong here and packed up her fancy degree and city clothes.

"Where's Hailey?" I ask, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice. I reach for the bowl of mashed potatoes, spooning a generous helping onto my plate.

Beckett looks up, fork halfway to his mouth. "Who's Hailey?" His genuine confusion would be funny if it weren't another reminder of how quickly Dad had made this decision or how little input any of us had.

Before anyone can answer, Sawyer leans forward, a grin spreading across his face that makes my hand tighten around my fork.

"Does Beckett live under a rock?" he laughs. "She's the new financial consultant Bradford told us about this morning." He pauses, his eyes sliding to me for just a moment before adding, "Cute city girl, sharp eyes that don't miss a thing... and legs for days."

Something hot and tight coils in my chest. My jaw clenches until my teeth grind together causing a dull ache to spread along my temples. The food on my plate suddenly looks like nothing I want.

"She had some meeting in town," Dad says, cutting into his meat with methodical precision. "Ruthie's saving her a plate."

The normalcy in his voice, like Hailey's presence is already an accepted fact, like her absence at dinner is something worth noting, snaps the last thread of my restraint. My palm slams against the wooden tabletop hard enough to rattle the dishes.

"We don't need her," I growl, the words tearing from my throat. "We don't need anyone coming in here telling us how to run our ranch."

The room goes still. Even Sawyer's perpetual smirk falters. Dad sets his knife and fork down with deliberate care, the soft clink of metal against ceramic somehow more ominous than if he'd slammed them down.

"That's enough, Bradley." His voice is quiet but carries the weight of stone. "This decision isn't up for debate."

"The hell it isn't." The words burn in my throat.

"I've been running this place for fifteen years.

Fifteen years of pre-dawn mornings and midnight emergencies.

Fifteen years of drought and market crashes and every other damn thing life's thrown at us.

And suddenly we need some outsider to tell us we're doing it wrong? "

Dad's eyes harden. "Watch your tone, son."

"Why? Because you don't want to hear the truth?" The words pour out of me, scalding and unstoppable. "You went behind my back. Brought in someone who doesn't know the first thing about ranching to fix problems that don't exist."

"Doesn't exist?" Dad's voice rises slightly, the only indication of his anger. "We haven’t been fully booked in over a year."

"We've weathered worse."

"Have we?" Dad leans forward, his forearms braced against the table’s edge.

"The east cabins need new roofs. The tractor's on its last legs.

And the booking calendar for fall is half what it was last year.

" He looks at me hard, the lines around his mouth deepening.

"Pride won't keep this place running, Bradley. "

The same words Sawyer used earlier. Like they've been talking about me behind my back. Like they've all decided I'm not enough.

"So instead of talking to me about it, you bring in some stranger? Give her an office, keys to our books, access to everything we've built?" My voice cracks on the last word, betraying more than I want to show.

Sawyer shifts beside me, his shoulder bumping mine in what might be meant as comfort. I pull away sharply, unwilling to accept it.

"Hailey is qualified," Dad says, his tone final. "More importantly, she's family to Ruthie, which means she's as good as family to us. Hailey stays. End of discussion."

End of discussion. Like I'm still a kid, like my opinion counts for nothing on the ranch I've poured my life into. The unfairness of it burns hot inside my chest.

I shove my chair back with enough force that it scrapes loudly against the floor.

Grabbing my barely-touched plate, I stand, my bad leg protesting the sudden movement with a jolt of pain that I welcome.

Pain I can handle. This feeling of being sidelined, replaced, of having my life upended without so much as a warning, that's the real wound.

"Bradley," Dad starts, his voice softening slightly, but I'm already turning away.

"Enjoy your dinner," I mutter, not looking at any of them as I stride toward the kitchen. Behind me, the dining room falls silent except for the soft clink of silverware resuming its rhythm. They'll keep eating. Keep talking. Life at Walker Ranch will go on, with or without my consent.

The thought follows me like a shadow as I march into the kitchen.

I set my plate down on the counter with more care than my mood deserves, the quiet clink of ceramic against granite a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me.

Leaning back against the worn wooden edge, I close my eyes and draw in a breath of the kitchen's warmth.

It smells like Ruthie. Like home. Like everything I'm fighting to preserve, even if no one else seems to understand why.

My fingers curl around the edge of the counter, knuckles pained with tension.

My jaw aches from clenching, and I force myself to loosen it, to breathe through the tightness in my chest. The kitchen has always been my refuge, the place I retreat to when the world outside feels too sharp, too demanding.

Even as a boy, I'd sit at this counter while Ruthie baked, scraping bowls and stealing cookie dough when she pretended not to look.

There’s movement behind me, and I don't need to turn to know it's her. Ruthie's presence announces itself in the soft shuffle of her feet, the subtle scent of vanilla that clings to her clothes, and the weight of her gaze boring into me.

"You barely ate." Her voice is matter-of-fact but still gentle.

I keep my back to her, not ready to face the knowing look she'll give me. "Not hungry."

"Mmm." The noncommittal sound speaks volumes. "That temper of yours hasn't changed since you were five."

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitches. "I didn't have a temper at five."

"Oh, honey." She laughs softly. "You threw a toy tractor at your brother's head because he said your fence line was crooked. You've always been particular about this place."

I finally turn, finding her at the stove, wooden spoon in hand as she stirs what smells like custard. The sight of her eases something tight in my chest.

"I'm sorry, Ruthie," I say, the words coming easier with her than they would with anyone else. "I know what she means to you."

Setting the spoon down, she turns to face me and wipes her hands on her apron. Her eyes, sharp and soft all at once, see right through me, like they always have.

"This isn't really about Bradford hiring Hailey," she says, crossing the kitchen to stand in front of me. "It's that he hired anyone at all."

I drop my gaze to the floor, unable to hold her knowing look. "He should have talked to me first," I say, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

Ruthie reaches out, placing a wrinkled hand on my arm. Her touch is light but anchoring, pulling me back from the edge of anger I've been teetering on all day.

"You've been carrying this place on your shoulders so long, you've forgotten what it feels like to share the load." Her voice is soft but firm. "It's not a weakness to need help, Bradley. It's not failure."

The word strikes a nerve so raw I almost flinch. Failure. The specter that haunts my every decision, every sleepless night. The fear that despite every sacrifice, every sixteen-hour day, every missed opportunity, I still won't be enough to save what my parents built.

"We're not failing," I insist, but there's less conviction in my voice than I'd like.

"No one said we are." Ruthie squeezes my arm gently. "But we're struggling. You know it, even if you won't say it."

I close my eyes, the truth of her words settling heavy in my gut.

I do know it. I see it in the ledgers I pore over late at night, in the careful way we stretch every dollar, in Dad's face when he thinks no one is looking.

But admitting it feels like surrendering something essential, like removing the first stone from a wall that's already straining.

"I should be able to fix it," I say, my voice low. "This is my responsibility."

"Is it?" Ruthie asks, tilting her head slightly. "All of it? Every burden, every decision, every problem? That's a heavy crown you've put on your own head, Bradley James."

She moves away, returning to her custard on the stove.

I watch her back, the steady way she stirs, the confident movements of someone who knows exactly what she's doing.

Ruthie has been the heart of this house for as long as I remember.

If anyone understands what it means to care for Walker Ranch, it's her.

"Give Hailey a chance," she says without turning around. "A fair chance. She's smarter than you think, and she cares more than you know."

"How can she care?" The question bursts from me. "She just got here. She doesn't know this place, what it means, what we've sacrificed to keep it alive."

Ruthie turns then, fixing me with a look that silences further protest. "Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve like you do. Some people carry their pain deeper, hide it better. Doesn't mean it's not there."

Something in her tone makes me pause. There's a weight to her words, a significance I can't quite grasp.

"What are you saying?" I ask, suddenly uneasy.

"I'm saying there's more to Hailey than a fancy degree and city clothes. And if you'd stop being so damn stubborn for five minutes, you might see it." She steps closer again, her expression softening. "I'm asking you to try. Not for her, not even for me. For this place you love so much."

I say nothing at first, the request settling between us like a challenge. My instinct is to resist, to hold tight to the anger that's been fueling me since Hailey arrived. But beneath that, deeper than pride or fear, is the truth I can't escape: I would do anything for Walker Ranch. Even this.

The hard lines around my mouth soften just enough to let the thought settle in. "I'll try," I finally say. "But I'm not making any promises."

Ruthie's smile is warm enough to thaw the last of the ice inside my chest. "That's all I'm asking for." She reaches up, patting my cheek the way she did when I was a boy. "Now sit down and eat your dinner before it gets any colder. You need your strength if you're going to be civil tomorrow."

I obey without thought, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island as she retrieves my abandoned plate. The familiar routine of being cared for, of allowing someone else to carry a small piece of my burden, feels foreign but not unwelcome.

As I take the first bite of now-lukewarm roast beef, I consider what Ruthie said about Hailey. About pain carried deep. About seeing beyond the surface. It's a discomforting thought, the idea that I might have misjudged her so completely.

But discomfort has never stopped me before.