Page 28 of Broken Roads
One week at Walker Ranch. Seven days of spreadsheets and financial projections and marketing strategies. Seven days of Bradley's cold eyes and dismissive scowls whenever I offer a suggestion. I press my palms against my eyelids until sparks dance in the darkness, trying to push away the memory of this afternoon's meeting.
"Dude ranch experiences are trending," I'd explained, pointing to the market research I'd compiled. "We could increase bookings by at least thirty percent if we updated the website and offered themed weekend packages."
Bradford had nodded along, his face brightening with each point I made. But Bradley—oh, Bradley had stood with his arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, and those dark eyes hard as stone.
"People don't come here for trends," he'd spat. "They come for authenticity. For something real."
"They won't come at all if they don't know we exist," I'd fired back.
The argument had spiraled from there, with Bradford eventually stepping in, putting a hand on his son's shoulder and telling him to "give the ideas some thought." The look Bradley gave me as he stalked out made it clear exactly how much thought he intended to give them.
“That man. Ugh.”
My mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof like I've been chewing cotton. I need water. Need to move. Need to shake this leaden weight of memory from my limbs.
Rising on unsteady legs, I make my way to the door and pause to listen. The house is silent save for the soft groans of old timber settling and the distant ticking of a clock somewhere downstairs.
Easing open the door, I wince at the barely audible creak of hinges. The hallway stretches before me, shadows pooling like ink between patches of silver moonlight streaming through windows. Five doors line this corridor. But only two are occupied.
I stare at the door at the end of hallway, Bradley’s door, wondering if he's asleep or if he lies awake too, turning over the day's arguments in his mind like I do. Does he dream? Does he wake in the night, haunted by things he can't change?
The thought is oddly intimate, and I push it away, uncomfortable with the direction of my musings.
Instead, I move down the hallway like a ghost, placing each foot with deliberate care to avoid the spots I've learned will betray me with a creak or groan.
Thankfully I make it down without incident.
Bandit isn't on his usual spot on the living room rug. Probably upstairs with his master, curled at the foot of Bradley's bed.
He’s the only creature on this ranch who seems genuinely pleased by my presence.
Well, him and Bradford. And Ruthie. And everyone except the man whose opinion somehow matters most, though I'd rather die than admit it.
My throat constricts with thirst, that familiar ache that once signaled a different kind of need. In my darkest days after my parents’ deaths, alcohol was my water, my air, my salvation and damnation wrapped in one glass bottle. The nightmare has left me raw and exposed with a craving crawling beneath my skin like an army of ants.
Six months and two weeks sober, and still, these moments come. These knife-edge instants where I could so easily fall.
I take a deep breath and continue toward the kitchen. Once I’m at the sink, I find the tap and turn it slowly to minimize the noise. The first sip of water is like mercy against my parched throat. I close my eyes, savoring the simple relief. For this brief moment, cool liquid washes away the lingering taste of fear and memories that refuse to stay buried.
"Trouble sleeping?"
That voice—deep and rough-edged with something I can't identify—cuts through the silence like a blade. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. My hand jerks violently, causing the glass to tilt. Water cascades down, drenching the front of my thin white t-shirt in an icy rush that tears a gasp from my lips.
I whirl around, heart slamming against my ribs, to find Bradley leaning against the doorframe. The hallway light behind him casts his face in shadow, but I can make out the strong line of his jaw and the breadth of those shoulders that seem to fill the entire doorway. He's fully dressed—button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and faded jeans that hang low on his hips.
"Holy shit," I breathe, setting the half-empty glass down with a clunk. "Do you always lurk in doorways at three in the morning?"
"Do you always wander around the house half-dressed in the middle of the night?" he counters, voice low enough that it won't carry upstairs.
The word "half-dressed" suddenly has me acutely aware of my appearance. The thin cotton of my sleep shirt—now transparent where the water has soaked through—clings to my breasts, outlining them in damning detail. I'm not wearing a bra. Of course I'm not wearing a bra, it's the middle of the night, and I didn't exactly plan for company on my trip to the kitchen.
Heat blazes across my cheeks as I cross my arms over my chest, the gesture as instinctive as it is futile. The damage is done. Whatever he saw, he saw.
"I needed water," I say, hating how defensive I sound. "Some of us were actually trying to sleep tonight. Unlike you, apparently."
His lips quirk at one corner, not quite a smile but something adjacent to it. "Some of us have actual work to do. Ranch doesn't run itself."
"At three in the morning?" I raise an eyebrow, taking in his appearance more carefully. The slightly rumpled quality of his clothes. His disheveled hair. "Must be some important ranch work."
