Page 27 of Broken Roads
Another thump of Bandit's tail. Another soft laugh.
"At least someone around here doesn't look at me like I'm about to burn the place down."
The vulnerability feels like a punch to the gut. There's a weariness beneath her words, a resignation that feels too familiar. Like she's used to being viewed with suspicion. Used to having to prove herself worthy of basic trust.
Something sharp and unexpected twists in my chest—not anger or resentment, but a pang of recognition. How many times have I felt that same weight? That need to prove myself, to show I'm worthy of the legacy my parents left? The constant fear of failure, of letting down the people who depend on me?
I take an instinctive step backward, needing distance from this sudden, unwanted empathy. My boot catches on a loose stone, sending it skittering across the path with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet evening.
"Hello?" Hailey calls, her voice immediately shifting back to that guarded tone I'm more familiar with. "Is someone there?"
I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped animal. The last thing I want is for her to find me lurking outside her door like some creep. But my feet seem rooted to the spot, unable to carry me away quickly enough.
Bandit's nails click against the wooden floor, coming closer to the door. Any second now, he'll push it open further, see me standing here, and give me away with his excited greeting.
I force myself to move, backing away as quietly as possible, then turning to quickly stride toward the stables. Each step feels like a retreat, but from what, I'm not entirely sure. From her? From the feelings her words stirred up? From the uncomfortable recognition that perhaps we're not as different as I want to believe?
My pace increases until I'm nearly jogging, putting distance between myself and that cabin, and the confusion churning in my gut. I reach the stable door and yank it open, slipping inside where the familiar smells of hay and horse immediately envelop me.
Leaning back against the closed door, I draw in a deep breath, then another, trying to steady the strange rhythm of my heart. What the hell was that? Why am I reacting like this to a few overheard words? To the sound of vulnerability in a voice that's been nothing but sharp around me?
The memory of her soft laugh plays again in my mind, followed by the weariness in her admission about how people look at her. HowIlook at her.
Do I really look at her like she's about to burn the place down?
The question sits uncomfortable in my chest as I push off from the door and move deeper into the stable. Of course I do. She's an outsider. A city girl who knows nothing about ranch life, about what we've built here, about what we've sacrificed to keep it alive. She represents change, and change has brought nothing but loss in my experience.
So why do I suddenly feel like I'm the one who's been unfair? Like I've been judging a book not just by its cover, but by where it was published, without bothering to read a single page?
I grab a pitchfork from the wall, attacking the nearest stall that needs cleaning with more force than necessary. Physical labor has always been my refuge when thoughts become too complicated, when feelings threaten to spill beyond the carefully constructed dams I've built around them.
Each thrust of the pitchfork into the soiled bedding pushes away the echo of Hailey's words, the memory of her unguarded laugh, the startling realization that there might be more to her than I've allowed myself to see.
By the time I finish cleaning the stall, sweat dampens my shirt and sticks it to my back. My breathing has steadied, but the confusion hasn't entirely subsided. It sits there, stubborn as a stain, refusing to be scrubbed away by physical exertion.
Through the stable window, I can see the cabin. The light still glows from within, a warm beacon in the deepening dusk. Bandit hasn't returned, clearly having found company he prefers to mine tonight.
I should be annoyed by that. Should be irritated by my dog's betrayal, by the woman who's captured his loyalty so quickly.
Instead, I wonder what other surprises Hailey Monroe might be hiding behind those defensive walls. What other sides of her I haven't allowed myself to see because I've been too busy protecting myself from what she represents.
And for the first time since she arrived, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, I've been looking at her all wrong from the start.
Chapter 11
Hailey
The impact comes without warning. Metal crunches. Glass explodes. My body jerks forward then snaps back, and the seat belt cuts into my chest like a blade. Headlights swing wildly through my rain-streaked windshield, illuminating a face frozen in terror before darkness swallows everything.
And then, the screams.
I jolt upright, a gasp tearing from my throat. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. For a terrifying moment, I don't know where I am. The darkness presses in, unfamiliar shadows lurking in corners my mind hasn't mapped. I clutch at the sheets, fingernails digging into the fabric as if it might anchor me to reality.
Walker Ranch. I'm at Walker Ranch. In Montana. Not Chicago. Not that night.
Slowly, the room materializes around me—the dresser against the far wall, the chair draped with yesterday's clothes, a window framing a slice of star-studded sky no city could ever offer. Mybreathing comes in ragged bursts, each exhale carrying a tremor I can't control.
I've been here a week, and still the nightmares follow me. As if geographical distance could somehow sever me from my own history. As if mountains and plains and thousands of miles could shield me from the truth of what I've done.
