Page 17 of Broken Roads
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 wholeranch 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 hedoesn'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."
