Page 2 of Broken Roads
We both turn to see a small, sturdy woman marching toward us, dish towel in hand like a weapon. Her auburn-gray hair is pulled back in a bun, and despite her size, she moves with the authority of a general.
Ruthie, I think the name, but he mutters it.
"Don't you 'Ruthie' me,” she scolds, flapping her dishtowel at him. “You know better than to run Max across the entrance. And you—" She turns to me, her expression softening. "You're late."
"GPS," I explain weakly, suddenly feeling like I'm twelve years old. "And... this."
"And this," she echoes, looking between Bradley and me with knowing eyes. "Well, it seems you two have introduced yourselves in the most dramatic way possible. Bradley, get that horse back to the stable and cool him down proper. Hailey, come here and let me hug you."
Bradley dismounts in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. His eyes find mine again over the horse's withers.
"Welcome to Walker Ranch," he says, voice flat. "Try not to break anything else while you're here."
"Charming," I mutter as he leads the horse away.
"Don't mind him," Ruthie says, looping her arm through mine and steering me toward the house. "He's got more walls than the ranch has fences. Always has."
I glance back over my shoulder, unable to help myself. Bradley has paused at the corner of the barn, the reins loose in his hand. He's looking back at me, his expression unreadable in the distance. Yet again, something unfamiliar rolls down my spine.
I force myself to look away first. I didn't come here for complications. I came here to do a job, to rebuild what I'd broken in Chicago. And no brooding cowboy with trust issues is going to get in my way.
No matter how good he looks on a horse.
Still holding onto Ruthie, I follow her into the house. The instant the screen door creaks shut behind us, the world changes. After the harsh sunlight and dust outside, the dimness of the ranch house wraps around me like cool water. I breathe in delicious scents—baked apples, cinnamon, vanilla—that yank me back to my childhood before everything fell apart. Before I fell apart. My throat tightens, and I swallow hard against the sudden pressure of memories I'd locked away.
"Come in, come in," Ruthie urges, her small hand warm against my back. "Don't hover in the doorway like a tax collector."
The entryway opens to a living room that feels impossibly vast after months in my cramped Chicago apartment. High ceilings crossed with exposed beams. A stone fireplace dominating one wall, large enough to stand in. Worn leather furniture arranged in a semicircle, each piece bearing the imprint of years and bodies.
The space makes me feel small. Exposed. There's nowhere to hide in a room this open, this honest.
"Let me look at you," Ruthie says, turning me to face her. She grips my shoulders, eyes scanning my face with the intensity of an X-ray. "You've gotten too thin."
Before I can protest, she pulls me into a hug. Her arms are stronger than they look, wrapping around me with the fierceness of someone who's known me since before I had teeth. I stiffen, then slowly relax, allowing myself one moment of surrender.
It's been three years since I've seen her. Since my parents’ funeral, when Ruthie held me while I sobbed in the bathroom of the funeral home, mascara streaking down my face like war paint.
"I'm so glad you're here," she says, finally releasing me but keeping one hand on my arm, as if she’s afraid I might bolt. "Your mother would be so proud of you for taking this step."
The mention of my mother is a fist around my heart. I manage a nod, not trusting my voice.
"You must be starving. I've got apple pie just out of the oven, and there's beef stew simmering for dinner. Bradford's in town getting supplies, he’ll be here later. He's looking forward to meeting you." Ruthie smiles sweetly. “Now, would you like coffee? Tea? Water?"
My head throbs with the beginning of a headache, the adrenaline from the near-accident fading into exhaustion.
"Water would be great," I manage, following her to a kitchen that's all warm wood and gleaming copper pots.
"Sit, sit," she insists, pulling out a stool at an island that could seat twelve. "You look dead on your feet. The drive can be murder if you're not used to it."
I sink into the chair, my body suddenly remembering the nineteen hours on the road. My hands feel empty without the wheel to grip. I flex my fingers, trying to work out the stiffness.
"Here you go, honey." She sets a glass of ice water in front of me, condensation already beading on the outside. "Drink up. Our well water's the best you'll ever taste. None of that city chemical nonsense."
I take a grateful sip. She's right, it tastes clean, cold, and almost sweet.
"I'm not hungry," I say when she starts moving toward the oven. "Just tired. And…"
I stop at the sound of boots on the porch, then the bang of the screen door. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees in an instant.
