Page 6 of Broken Roads
I've made my peace with it. Mostly. But seeing another city woman arrive, looking at everything with those assessing eyes, picking apart the only home I've ever known tears open something I thought had healed.
"It's not just the ranch," I tell Max, moving to brush his other side. "Dad's hiding something. The bank loans, he said. Medicalbills. But I check the books monthly. Things are tight, but we're making it."
Max shifts his weight, leaning into the brush.
"Unless he's been keeping separate books. Unless things are worse than I thought." The possibility sits cold and heavy in my gut. "Maybe I've been missing something. Maybe I'm not doing enough."
And there it is—the fear lurking beneath the anger. That I'm failing. That this place my parents built, this legacy they entrusted to me, is slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I hold on.
Bandit whines softly from his spot on the floor, sensing the shift in my mood. I look down at him, then at Max, whose warm brown eye watches me with what I choose to interpret as understanding.
"We'll figure it out," I promise them both, running a hand down Max's neck one more time. "We don't need someone from the outside telling us how to save ourselves."
Max lowers his head, bumping his muzzle gently against my chest in a rare display of affection. I rest my forehead against his neck for a moment, breathing in his warm, familiar scent. In this quiet moment, with my animals close and the rest of the world held at bay by wooden walls, I almost believe it might be true.
Almost.
Chapter 3
Hailey
My clothes barely fill a quarter of the dresser drawers. Six months sober, and this is what I've managed to hold onto—three pairs of jeans, a handful of t-shirts, two sweaters, and enough underwear to avoid daily laundry. The rest I sold or lost during that spiraling year after my parents died. I smooth my fingers over a gray cashmere sweater, one of the few expensive things I kept. My mother bought it for me the Christmas before the accident. Before everything.
I place the sweater in the drawer with deliberate care, as if it might disintegrate under rough handling. My hands aren't steady, haven't been since I pulled onto the property. Meeting Bradley Walker—correction, nearly running him over—wasn't the welcome I'd hoped for. The cold assessment in his dark eyes made it clear what he thinks of me: city girl, outsider, intruder.
I reach into my pocket for the most important thing I own. The dark blue AA chip feels heavier than its actual weight, six months of sobriety compressed into a small metal circle. I run my thumb over the engraved serenity prayer, a ritual that'sbecome as necessary as breathing. The edges are smooth from countless similar touches, countless moments when I've wanted nothing more than to find the nearest bar and drink until I can't remember my own name.
I open the bedside table drawer and place the chip inside, next to the journal my last sponsor gave me. Not hidden, just... private. I don't need Bradley or anyone else questioning me before I've even started the job.
"Settling in alright?"
Startling, I nearly slam the drawer on my fingers. Ruthie stands in the doorway, arms laden with fluffy white towels. Her eyes miss nothing, including my flustered movement.
"Sorry, honey. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." She enters without waiting for an invitation, setting the towels on the edge of the bed. "Thought you might need these. Bathroom's stocked, but everyone likes extra towels."
"Thanks." My voice sounds thin, even to my own ears. I close the drawer carefully, feeling like I've been caught hiding something worse than a sobriety chip.
Ruthie studies my face with the unnerving intensity of someone who's known me since birth, though we've only met a handful of times over the years.
"You look like hell," she says frankly, but there's tenderness in her bluntness.
A surprised laugh escapes me. "Thanks. It's been a long drive."
"And a long road before that." She pats the bed beside her. "Sit."
I obey without thinking, the old spring mattress dipping beneath our combined weight. The room suddenly feels smaller with her in it, but not in a suffocating way.
Ruthie takes my hands in hers. "This is exactly what you need, honey. I feel it in my bones."
I want to believe her. Heaven knows, I want to believe that this place—this nowhere ranch in the middle of Montana—is where I'll finally find solid ground. Where I'll prove I'm not the disaster that Chicago saw.
"I don't know, Ruthie." The words catch in my throat. "I'm not sure I belong here."
"Belong?" She squeezes my fingers tightly. "Honey, no one belongs anywhere until they decide to. You think I was born knowing how to birth calves or mend fences? I was a schoolteacher when I met Bradford. Didn't know a bridle from a saddle. But I chose this place. And it chose me back."
Before I can respond, raised voices filter through the ceiling. Deep, angry male voices, though the words are indistinct. I tense, my shoulders going rigid, a pavlovian response to conflict. In Chicago, raised voices usually preceded the crash of bottles, the slam of doors, the kind of nights I couldn't remember in the morning.
"They're at it again," Ruthie sighs, shaking her head. "Bradford and Bradley have been butting heads since that boy could talk. Both too stubborn for their own good." She rises from the bed, smoothing her apron with practiced hands. "Don't you worry about them. Their bark is worse than their bite."
