Page 22 of Broken Roads
"You don't have to—" I start, but Tessa is already back behind the counter, pouring coffee into a mug the size of a soup bowl.
"First rule of our friendship," she calls over her shoulder. "Never argue when I'm offering free pastries." She returns moments later, setting down the enormous mug and a plate holding what might be the largest cinnamon roll I've ever seen, dripping with cream cheese frosting. "House specialty. One bite and you'll forget all about whatever surly cowboy is making your life difficult."
I blink at her, momentarily taken aback. "How did you—"
"Honey, it's written all over your face." She drops into the chair opposite me, leaning forward on her elbows. "Plus, everyone knows Bradley Walker has the emotional accessibility of a brick wall. Gorgeous brick wall, mind you, but still."
Heat creeps up my neck, and I quickly take a sip of coffee to hide my reaction. It's rich and smooth, none of the bitter aftertaste I've gotten used to from chain coffee shops.
"It's not just Bradley," I say after I've composed myself. "It's... everything. The ranch is so different from what I'm used to. I feel like I'm constantly one step away from making a complete fool of myself."
Tessa's expression softens. "That's just new job jitters. Give it time." She pushes the plate closer to me. "Eat. Sugar makes everything better."
I take a bite of the cinnamon roll and barely stifle a moan. It's still warm, the dough pillowy soft, the cinnamon filling perfectly balanced between sweet and spicy, and the frosting tangy against the richness.
"Oh my," I manage between bites. "This is incredible."
Tessa beams. "Secret family recipe. Well, not really. I found it in an old church cookbook at a yard sale, but I like to pretend my great-grandmother handed it down through generations of strong, independent women."
Her candor startles a laugh out of me, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. When was the last time I genuinely laughed? The realization sobers me slightly.
"So, besides Bradley being Bradley, how's the ranch?" Tessa asks, sipping from her own mug.
"It's... overwhelming." I stare out the window at the quiet street. "Beautiful, though. The mountains, the space. It feels like you can breathe out there."
"That's Montana for you. Equal parts terror and wonder." She tilts her head, studying me. "You'll adjust. Might even fall in love with it."
The way she says it—not as a platitude but as a simple truth—settles something in me. The constant anxiety that's been my companion since arriving at Walker Ranch eases slightly.
"One thing I definitely need are boots," I say, changing the subject. "These aren't exactly ranch-appropriate." I gesture to my ankle boots, already scuffed and dusty from just one day on the property.
Tessa practically levitates from her chair, eyes widening with sudden excitement. "Oh honey, I thought you'd never ask."
She's up and moving before I can process her reaction, untying her apron and tossing it behind the counter. "Lily." she calls to a young woman arranging pastries in the display case. "I'm taking thirty. Can you handle the fort?"
The girl nods, clearly used to Tessa's whirlwind energy.
"Come on," she says, linking her arm through mine and pulling me to my feet. "Callahan's has the best selection. And Marcus owes me a favor after I catered his daughter's wedding for practically nothing."
I barely have time to grab my purse before she's dragging me out onto the sidewalk.
"My son Dylan outgrows his boots every three months," she chatters as we walk, her arm still linked through mine like we'vebeen friends for years instead of barely a day. "Twelve years old and suddenly he's shooting up like a weed. And don't get me started on his appetite. I swear, I bake all day and still can't keep enough food in the house to satisfy him."
She navigates us down the sidewalk with easy familiarity, nodding to people we pass. "Single motherhood is not for the faint of heart, let me tell you. Especially in a town like this where everyone knows your business and has an opinion on how you should raise your kid."
There's no bitterness in her voice, just matter-of-fact acceptance. I’m drawn to her openness, to her lack of pretense. In Chicago, everyone wore masks—social masks, professional masks, the careful facades we constructed to hide our messiness. Tessa seems to have no interest in such concealments.
"Dylan's on the baseball team now," she continues, steering us around an older couple walking hand-in-hand. "Which means I spend every Saturday screaming my head off at games and trying not to murder the umpire when he makes a bad call. I'm pretty sure I'm going to get banned one of these days."
I laugh again, surprised by how easily it comes with her. "Sounds like you're a good mom."
She shoots me a sideways glance, something vulnerable briefly flickering in her eyes. "I'm trying. Some days are better than others." She squeezes my arm. "That's all any of us can do, right? Try our best and hope it's enough."
The simple wisdom of her words hits me harder than I expect. Isn't that all I'm doing too? Trying my best to stay sober, to rebuild what I've broken, to prove—to myself more than anyone—that I'm worth a second chance?
"Right," I agree softly. "That's all we can do."
Rich, earthy scents hit me the moment Tessa pulls open the heavy wooden door to Callahan's Western Outfitters. The store is twice the size of the bakery but somehow feels more crowded.Cowboy boots line one entire wall in neat rows, organized by size and style. Hats hang from ceiling hooks, Stetsons and work hats in varying shades of black, brown, and tan. Glass cases display belt buckles that could double as weapons, gleaming under the lights.
