Page 8 of Hard Bred

In his living room, he sets me down gently on his oversized leather sofa. The leather is cool against my skin, buttery soft with age and use. Brady starts moving around the room with purpose, his boots thudding softly on the hardwood floor. He grabs pillows to prop up my leg, then retreats into the kitchen, and I hear the whoosh of a freezer door sliding open and shut before he comes back with an ice pack in hand.

Brady arranges everything I might need within reach—a glass of water beading with condensation, the TV remote, a thick wool throw blanket. His fingers brush against mine as he hands me the water, and a shiver zips up my spine at the brief moment of contact.

“Rest,” he says gruffly, once he’s satisfied with the setup. “I’ll check on you later.”

I open my mouth to reply, but he doesn’t give me a chance to speak. Suddenly he’s gone, and I’m left alone in his house.

I shift on the sofa, trying to get comfortable. The ice pack is shockingly cold against my ankle, but it helps numb the throbbing pain. The ticking of a clock on the mantel seems unnaturally loud in the quiet house. Outside, I can hear the distant sounds of ranch life continuing without me.

My gaze wanders around the room, taking in the personal touches that make up Brady’s private world. A well-worn saddle sits in the corner, its leather cracked and sun-faded. I can easily imagine Brady caring for it, his strong hands working oil into the leather. Just beyond the saddle, a bookshelf is filled with books on horse care and ranch management, their spines creased with use.

And then I see an old framed photograph sitting on one of the shelves. It’s of Brady, many years younger, standing with a woman I instantly know must be his late wife. They’re both smiling, arms draped around each other in a way that radiates love and comfort.

The sight makes my heart ache, both for the happiness captured in that moment and for the loss that followed.

The hours crawl by, marked by the steady ticking of the clock and the changing angle of sunlight through the windows. I drift in and out of a restless doze, lulled by the quiet of the house and the lingering scent of Brady on the blanket wrapped around me.

The sound of the front door opening draws me out of my nap. Brady walks in, and suddenly I’m wide awake. As he moves intothe living room, my pulse quickens at the sight of his ruggedly handsome appearance, and I smile at him, feeling more tender toward him after the way he protectively looked after me today. But his focus is entirely on my ankle.

“How’s it feeling?” he asks, kneeling beside the sofa to examine it. His voice is low, but not as rough as before.

“Much better, thanks to you,” I say softly.

His fingers are gentle as they examine my ankle, and I swallow hard at his touch. I know his touch doesn’t mean anything, but it still has the power to make all kinds of feelings bloom in my chest.

My gaze drifts over to the framed photograph, and even though I know it’s a question that could make Brady retreat into his hard shell again, I ask it anyway. “Is that your wife in the photo on the bookshelf?”

Brady tenses, his hands stilling on my ankle. He follows my gaze, and for a moment, I think he might shut down completely.

But then he nods. “Yes. That’s Sarah.”

“She’s beautiful,” I say gently. “How long were you two together?”

Brady is quiet for a moment, his eyes distant. The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken memories.

“About ten years,” he finally says. “Felt like a lifetime and not nearly long enough, all at once.”

“You must miss her,” I say, my heart aching for him.

He nods, his jaw tightening. “Every day.”

I hesitate, then ask, “What was she like?”

For a moment, I think I’ve pushed too far. Brady’s face shutters, and I can almost see him retreating behind his walls. But then, to my surprise, he starts to speak, his voice soft with memory.

“She was everything to me,” he says, his eyes focused on something I can’t see. “Smart as a whip, stubborn as all get out. She could light up a room just by walking into it.”

As he talks, his whole demeanor slowly shifts. Brady shares one story, and then, without my prompting, shares another. He tells me how he and Sarah were both driven by dreams of wide open spaces and a life built with their own hands. He tells me about their early days on the ranch, how they worked side by side to build it from nothing, and the plans they had for the future.

His voice warms as he talks about the day Logan was born, how fussy but perfect he was. And how good the next few years were. And then, more quietly, Brady speaks of how everything unraveled after Sarah’s death, leaving him to run the ranch and raise his son alone.

I listen, my heart hurting for the man sitting next to me, understanding now why he keeps his emotions so tightly under wraps. He’s lost so much, risked his heart and had it shattered. No wonder he’s hesitant to open up again.

The vulnerability of the moment shifts the air between us. Brady is sitting closer to me now, looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

I reach out, touching his arm lightly—just enough to show I see him,allof him. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture, but the moment my fingers make contact with his skin, I feel a spark of electricity between us.

Brady goes still, his eyes locked on mine. I can see the conflict there, his desire warring with doubt and old pain.

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