Page 35 of Broken Roads
She pulls me into a hug.
It's not a polite, distant embrace. It's a full-bodied, all-encompassing hug that wraps around me like a blanket fresh from the dryer. She pulls me close against her, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head the way a mother would comfort a child. The gesture is so unexpected, so achingly familiar and yet foreign, that for a moment I stand frozen, unable to respond.
Then something gives way inside me, some wall I've kept carefully maintained since the night I lost my parents. Since the night I lost everything.
My arms come up to return the embrace, and I hold on as if she might vanish if I let go. The scent of vanilla and something herbal surrounds me, so different from my mother's perfume and yet hitting the same chord of comfort in my heart. It's been so long since anyone has held me like this. So long since I've allowed myself to be held.
"It's alright," Ruthie murmurs, her hand making small, soothing circles on my back. "Whatever happened, it's alright."
But it's not alright. Nothing has been alright for so long that I've forgotten what alright feels like. The realization burns in my throat, threatens to spill over in tears I refuse to shed.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm apologizing for. For yelling at her surrogate son? For being an intrusion in their lives? For falling apart in her arms?
Ruthie pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands coming up to frame my face. The gesture is so maternal that it steals my breath all over again, conjuring memories of my own mother wiping away tears after a scraped knee or a broken heart. The echo of loss rings through me, a bell struck years ago that never stops vibrating.
"Don't you apologize," she says firmly. "Not for having feelings. Not in this house."
I nod, not trusting my voice. My fingers still clutch the sobriety chip, pressing it into my palm hard enough to leave an impression. Ruthie's eyes drop to my closed fist, then back to my face, understanding dawning in her expression.
"I need to go into town for a bit," I manage, my voice cracking slightly. "Just... just to clear my head."
She nods immediately. "Of course you do. Take all the time you need. The ranch will still be here when you get back."
The simple acceptance in her voice threatens to unravel me all over again. She squeezes my hand, her small fingers warm and firm around mine.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Ruthie smiles, the lines around her eyes deepening with genuine warmth. "That's what family does, sweetie."
Family. The word echoes in the space between us, filling the office with its weight and possibility. I don't know how to respond, so I simply nod again, gently extracting myself from her presence to gather my keys and purse.
She watches me for a moment, then slips out the door with a final, understanding nod. Her footsteps fade down the wooden steps, leaving me alone with the aftermath of too much emotion.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself before following her out. I unlock my car with trembling fingers, sliding behind the wheel without allowing myself to look toward the main house, toward the porch where Bradley might still be standing.
The engine turns over with a comforting rumble, and I pull away from the ranch, gravel crunching beneath my tires. In my rearview mirror, the buildings grow smaller, but the weight in my chest doesn't diminish with distance. If anything, it seems to grow heavier with each mile I put between myself and Walker Ranch.
Between myself and him.
Chapter 14
Hailey
Tessa's bakery wraps around me like a warm embrace the moment I step through the door. The heat from the ovens, the sweet scent of cinnamon and butter, the gentle hum of conversation, it all feels like another world compared to the stark tension of Walker Ranch. My shoulders drop an inch, some of the tightness in my chest easing as the bell chimes softly. Tessa looks up from behind the counter, and the concern that immediately crosses her face tells me I look every bit as wrecked as I feel.
She doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask questions in front of curious customers. Instead, she wipes her flour-covered hands on her apron and calls over her shoulder to the young woman arranging pastries in the display case. "Lily, I need thirty minutes." Then she's around the counter in seconds, her arm sliding through mine with gentle firmness.
"Come on," she says, voice pitched low. "I've got just the spot."
She guides me past the main seating area to a small alcove in the back corner, partially hidden by a bookshelf stockedwith well-worn paperbacks and local cookbooks. A table for two sits in the nook, far enough from other customers that our conversation won't carry.
"Don't move," she orders, squeezing my shoulder before disappearing back toward the counter.
I stare at the table's surface, tracing the pattern of the wood grain with my eyes. My fingers find my pocket, touching the outline of my chip through the fabric. The confrontation with Bradley replays in my mind—my angry words, his stoic silence, the way something in his expression shifted just before I walked away. What was that look? Pity? Disgust? Or something else entirely?
Tessa returns before I can spiral further, setting down a mug of coffee so large it could double as a soup bowl. Steam rises from it in gentle curls, carrying the rich aroma of fresh-brewed dark roast. Beside it, she places a plate with an enormous cinnamon roll, still warm from the oven, frosting melting down its sides in glistening rivulets.
"Eat first, then talk," she says, sliding into the seat across from me. Her mismatched earrings today are a tiny coffee cup and a miniature whisk. "Sugar and caffeine. First aid for emotional emergencies."
