Page 15 of Broken Roads
"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.
