Page 9 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

M ontana darkness is different than Chicago darkness.

There, night is never truly dark. It’s always diluted by streetlights, neon signs, headlights streaming in endless rivers.

Here, the darkness has weight and texture.

It presses against my windshield like living ink, parting reluctantly for my headlights before swallowing the road behind me.

The road unspools ahead, winding through fields and forests I can barely make out in the gloom.

The meeting has left me raw and exposed, but somehow lighter.

Tessa's words echo in my mind: "Sobriety's a bitch, but it beats the alternative.

" Simple truth, stripped of pretense. I could use more of that in my life.

The GPS announces my turn in half a mile, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Walker Ranch. Less than twenty-four hours there, and already I'm questioning if I've made a mistake. Bradley's cold eyes. The weight of expectation. The isolation that could either save me or break me.

I slow as the entrance comes into view. The ranch house is invisible beyond the curve but I know it’s there. My foot hovers over the brake, then presses down. The car stops completely, engine idling at the threshold between the road and the property.

I could turn around. Drive back to town. Find a motel, sleep there tonight, figure something else out tomorrow. I still have some savings. Not much, but enough to buy me time to find another job, go to another place. Somewhere without hostile cowboys and their judgmental stares.

My fingers tap against the steering wheel, one-two-three, one-two-three, a nervous rhythm I've carried since childhood. Through the rearview mirror, the empty road stretches back toward town, an escape route glowing faintly in my taillights. So easy to turn around. So easy to run.

Running is what I'm good at, after all. I ran from Chicago, from the mess I made there. From the memories of screeching tires and shattering glass. From the weight of guilt that threatened to drown me.

Ruthie's face appears in my mind—her kind eyes, the warmth in her voice when she welcomed me. "This is exactly what you need," she'd said, with such certainty it was almost contagious. Like she could see something in me I couldn't see in myself. And Bradford offering me a chance few others would.

I exhale slowly, shift the car back into drive, and turn onto the gravel path. The decision settles into my bones, not comfort, exactly, but resolve. I'm done running. Whatever waits for me at Walker Ranch, I'll face it head-on.

The thought barely forms when the main house materializes from the darkness, a solid shape against the night sky.

Most of the windows are dark, save for a warm glow from what I think is the kitchen and a faint light upstairs.

I park near the porch, cutting the engine.

The sudden silence feels heavy, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine and the distant chorus of night insects.

I gather my purse and the napkin with Tessa's bakery address, carefully folding it into my wallet. A promise for tomorrow, a thread connecting me to something beyond these ranch borders.

I've barely taken two steps inside when something barrels toward me from the shadows.

A blur of black and white fur moving at startling speed.

I freeze, a gasp caught in my throat, as a border collie skids to a halt in front of me, tail whipping back and forth with such force his entire body wiggles.

"Hi there," I whisper, kneeling slowly. The dog inches forward, sniffing my extended hand with intense concentration before deciding I'm acceptable. He pushes his head under my palm, demanding attention with shameless enthusiasm.

"At least someone's happy to see me," I murmur, scratching behind his ears.

His fur is silky beneath my fingers, his body warm and vibrating with energy even at this late hour.

A silver tag dangles from his collar, catching the dim light.

Turning it between my fingers, I read the engraving: Bandit .

"So you're Bandit," I say. "Pleasure to meet you."

Bandit responds by flopping onto his back, exposing his belly in a bid for more attention.

I laugh quietly, obliging with gentle scratches.

It's been so long since I've interacted with an animal.

My apartment in Chicago didn't allow pets, and before that…

well, I wasn't in any state to care for another living being when I could barely keep myself alive.

"Good boy," I murmur, working my fingers through his soft coat. "Such a good boy."

The warmth of another living creature accepting me without question, without judgment, without knowing my history is almost enough to bring tears to my eyes.

That's when I feel the prickling awareness of being watched. My hand stills on the dog’s belly as my eyes lift, scanning the dimly lit room.

Bradley fills the doorway leading to the kitchen, one shoulder propped against the frame like he's been standing there for a while.

The light behind him casts his face in shadow, but I can feel the weight of his stare, the way it seems to catalog every detail of my presence.

His arms are crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to reveal those ropey forearms I noticed earlier.

Even in the half-light, he looks solid and immovable, like he's grown from the ranch itself.

"Well, well," he drawls, his voice cutting through the quiet. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence after all. Thought maybe you'd gotten lost on your way back from whatever meeting was so damn important it couldn't wait."

Heat flashes through me, part embarrassment at being caught sneaking in, part irritation at his tone. I stand slowly and Bandit scrambles to his feet beside me.

"I didn't realize I had a curfew," I say, keeping my voice level despite the way his presence seems to suck all the air from the room. "Should I have called to let you know I'd be late?"

His jaw ticks, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. "Just seems polite to show up for dinner when you're a guest in someone's house."

"I told Ruthie I wouldn't be here." I cross my arms, mirroring his stance.

He straightens and pushes away from the doorframe. "What kind of meeting keeps someone out past nine on their first night in a new place? Or better yet, what kind of consultant shows up in designer jeans thinking she can fix problems she doesn't understand?"

He takes a step closer, and I catch that scent again—leather and something indefinably male that makes my stomach clench in ways I don't want to examine.

"I know your type," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "City girl looking for an adventure. Probably think this whole ranch thing is quaint. Something to tell your friends about when you go back to whatever fancy office you came from."

Each word reaches between my ribs and slices at the organ there. But beneath his cold assessment, I hear something else. Fear, maybe. Like he's trying to drive me away before I can hurt something he cares about.

The realization should soften my anger. Instead, it sharpens it.

"Fuck you," I say quietly. "You don't know anything about me or why I'm here."

His eyes narrow, dark and unreadable in the dim light. "Then enlighten me."

I could tell him. Could strip myself bare right here in his family's entryway, lay out every mistake and failure that brought me to his door.

The accident. The drinking. The slow-motion destruction of everything I'd built.

But some wounds are too fresh, too raw to expose to someone who's already looking for reasons to dismiss me.

"I don't owe you explanations," I say instead, stepping closer until we're almost toe-to-toe. I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, but I refuse to let him intimidate me. "I was hired by your father to do a job. Whether you like it or not doesn't change that."

"My father makes a lot of decisions without thinking them through," Bradley says, his voice so low it's almost a growl. "Doesn't mean they're good ones."

The words sting more than they should, hitting too close to my own fears about being here.

"Maybe not," I concede, holding his stare. "But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere just because you've decided I don't belong."

We stand there for a long moment, the tension crackling between us like electricity before a storm. Bandit whines softly at our feet, poor thing probably sensing the conflict even if he doesn't understand it. The sound breaks whatever spell we're under, and Bradley takes a deliberate step back.

"We'll see about that," he says, but there's less venom in it now. More resignation than anger.

He turns to go, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. "Ruthie left your plate in the fridge. Don't leave the dishes in the sink."

And then he's gone, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, leaving me alone in the entryway with my racing heart and Bandit's concerned brown eyes.

I sink back down to my knees, needing the comfort of the dog's uncomplicated affection. He immediately presses against me, offering the warmth of his solid body.

"What do you think, boy?" I whisper into his fur. "Think your master and I are going to kill each other before the week's out?"

Bandit's tail wags once, as if to say the odds are pretty good.