Page 7 of Broken Roads
I'm not convinced. The harshness in Bradley's eyes when he looked at me suggested his bite might be exactly as bad as advertised.
"Come on downstairs," Ruthie continues, already moving toward the door. "Clearly Bradford’s back from town, and he's been looking forward to meeting you."
I hesitate, glancing at my half-unpacked suitcase. "I should finish—"
"Later," she says firmly. "First impressions matter, and Bradford's the one signing your checks."
She has a point. I stand, running nervous hands through my hair, wishing I'd had time to shower off the travel grime. "Do I look okay?"
Ruthie gives me an appraising look. "You'll do. Besides, Bradford can barely see past his nose these days."
As I follow her out of the room—my room now, I suppose—I take one last glance at the bedside table. The drawer is closed, my chip safely tucked away. Six months of fighting, of clawing my way back from the edge.
I can handle a cranky cowboy and his father. I've survived worse.
Following Ruthie down the creaking staircase, my fingers trail along the smooth wooden banister. Generations of Walkers stare back at me from the frames on the wall, their eyes seeming to ask what right I have to be here. My stomach tightens as we reach the bottom of the stairs. First impressions matter, Ruthie said. I've already blown mine with Bradley. I can't afford to do the same with his father.
The living room opens up before us, and my attention locks on the man rising slowly from an armchair by the fireplace. Bradford Walker pushes himself up with the help of a wooden cane, his movements deliberate but not frail. He's tall—not as tall as his son but imposing in his own way—with broad shoulders that have only just begun to stoop with age. The resemblance to Bradley is startling. Same strong jawline, same dark eyes, same stubborn set to his mouth but where Bradley's features are hardened by hostility, Bradford's crease into a genuine smile that transforms his face.
"So you're the Hailey that Ruthie can't stop gushing over," he says with a gentle voice as he extends a hand to me. "Welcome to Walker Ranch."
I take his hand, surprised by the strength in his grip. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Walker. I appreciate the opportunity."
"Bradford," he corrects, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Mr. Walker was my father, and he's been long gone now."
Ruthie moves past us toward the kitchen. "I'll put on some coffee. You two get acquainted."
Left alone with Bradford, I fight the urge to fidget under his appraising gaze. Unlike his son's cold assessment, Bradford's eyes hold genuine curiosity.
"Sit, sit," he gestures to the sofa across from his chair. "You must be tired after that drive. Ruthie tells me you came all the way from Chicago."
I sink into the sofa, the leather cool even through the thick material of my jeans. "Yes, sir. Nineteen hours, give or take."
"Hell of a drive to make alone." He lowers himself back into his chair with a soft grunt of effort. Up close, I can see the deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth, not just age, but years of sun and wind and worry. "What made you take a job so far away?"
The question hangs between us, deceptively simple. What can I say? That I burned every bridge in Chicago? That Ruthie is trying to save me from myself?
"I needed a change," I finally say, the understatement of the century. "And Ruthie mentioned you were looking for someone with my background."
Bradford nods, his eyes never leaving my face. "MBA from Northwestern, isn't it? Pretty impressive. Most financial folks with your credentials don't end up on cattle ranches in the middle of nowhere."
"I'm not most financial folks," I counter, then immediately wonder if I've been too sharp. But Bradford's smile only widens.
"No, don't suppose you are."
"Stop interrogating the girl, Bradford," Ruthie scolds gently, setting the tray on the coffee table. "She's here to help with the books, not answer for her entire life history."
Bradford chuckles, accepting the mug she hands him. "Just getting acquainted, Ruthie. No harm in that."
I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic mug, grateful for something to do with my hands. The coffee is strong and black, no cream or sugar offered. Ranch coffee, I suppose.
"How are things with the east cabins?" Bradford asks Ruthie, shifting topics. "Did Miguel finish the roof repairs?"
"All done yesterday," Ruthie confirms. "Just in time for the Henderson party coming in next week."
They slip into a comfortable back-and-forth about ranch operations, and I listen silently, trying to absorb as much information as possible. Bradford mentions seasonal bookings, repair costs, a recent dip in trail ride reservations—all things I'll need to account for in my assessment of the ranch's finances.
The conversation flows around me, neither of them expecting me to contribute yet. It's a reprieve I'm grateful for. I sip my coffee and let my eyes wander over the family photos on the mantle—Bradley and another young man in front of a barn, Bradford and a woman who I presume to be his late wife on horseback, a Christmas gathering with Ruthie center stage, brandishing what looks like a massive turkey.
