Page 16 of Broken Roads
"We're not failing," I insist, but there's less conviction in my voice than I'd like.
"No one said we are." Ruthie squeezes my arm gently. "But we're struggling. You know it, even if you won't say it."
I close my eyes, the truth of her words settling heavy in my gut. I do know it. I see it in the ledgers I pore over late at night, in the careful way we stretch every dollar, in Dad's face when he thinks no one is looking. But admitting it feels like surrendering something essential, like removing the first stone from a wall that's already straining.
"I should be able to fix it," I say, my voice low. "This is my responsibility."
"Is it?" Ruthie asks, tilting her head slightly. "All of it? Every burden, every decision, every problem? That's a heavy crown you've put on your own head, Bradley James."
She moves away, returning to her custard on the stove. I watch her back, the steady way she stirs, the confident movements of someone who knows exactly what she's doing. Ruthie has been the heart of this house for as long as I remember. If anyone understands what it means to care for Walker Ranch, it's her.
"Give Hailey a chance," she says without turning around. "A fair chance. She's smarter than you think, and she cares more than you know."
"How can she care?" The question bursts from me. "She just got here. She doesn't know this place, what it means, what we've sacrificed to keep it alive."
Ruthie turns then, fixing me with a look that silences further protest. "Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve like you do. Some people carry their pain deeper, hide it better. Doesn't mean it's not there."
Something in her tone makes me pause. There's a weight to her words, a significance I can't quite grasp.
"What are you saying?" I ask, suddenly uneasy.
"I'm saying there's more to Hailey than a fancy degree and city clothes. And if you'd stop being so damn stubborn for five minutes, you might see it." She steps closer again, her expression softening. "I'm asking you to try. Not for her, not even for me. For this place you love so much."
I say nothing at first, the request settling between us like a challenge. My instinct is to resist, to hold tight to the anger that's been fueling me since Hailey arrived. But beneath that, deeper than pride or fear, is the truth I can't escape: I would do anything for Walker Ranch. Even this.
The hard lines around my mouth soften just enough to let the thought settle in. "I'll try," I finally say. "But I'm not making any promises."
Ruthie's smile is warm enough to thaw the last of the ice inside my chest. "That's all I'm asking for." She reaches up, patting mycheek the way she did when I was a boy. "Now sit down and eat your dinner before it gets any colder. You need your strength if you're going to be civil tomorrow."
I obey without thought, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island as she retrieves my abandoned plate. The familiar routine of being cared for, of allowing someone else to carry a small piece of my burden, feels foreign but not unwelcome.
As I take the first bite of now-lukewarm roast beef, I consider what Ruthie said about Hailey. About pain carried deep. About seeing beyond the surface. It's a discomforting thought, the idea that I might have misjudged her so completely.
But discomfort has never stopped me before.
Chapter 7
Hailey
Montana darkness is different than Chicago darkness. There, night is never truly dark. It’s always diluted by streetlights, neon signs, headlights streaming in endless rivers. Here, the darkness has weight and texture. It presses against my windshield like living ink, parting reluctantly for my headlights before swallowing the road behind me.
The road unspools ahead, winding through fields and forests I can barely make out in the gloom. The meeting has left me raw and exposed, but somehow lighter. Tessa's words echo in my mind: "Sobriety's a bitch, but it beats the alternative." Simple truth, stripped of pretense. I could use more of that in my life.
The GPS announces my turn in half a mile, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Walker Ranch. Less than twenty-four hours there, and already I'm questioning if I've made a mistake. Bradley's cold eyes. The weight of expectation. The isolation that could either save me or break me.
I slow as the entrance comes into view. The ranch house is invisible beyond the curve but I know it’s there. My foot hoversover the brake, then presses down. The car stops completely, engine idling at the threshold between the road and the property.
I could turn around. Drive back to town. Find a motel, sleep there tonight, figure something else out tomorrow. I still have some savings. Not much, but enough to buy me time to find another job, go to another place. Somewhere without hostile cowboys and their judgmental stares.
My fingers tap against the steering wheel, one-two-three, one-two-three, a nervous rhythm I've carried since childhood. Through the rearview mirror, the empty road stretches back toward town, an escape route glowing faintly in my taillights. So easy to turn around. So easy to run.
Running is what I'm good at, after all. I ran from Chicago, from the mess I made there. From the memories of screeching tires and shattering glass. From the weight of guilt that threatened to drown me.
Ruthie's face appears in my mind—her kind eyes, the warmth in her voice when she welcomed me. "This is exactly what you need," she'd said, with such certainty it was almost contagious. Like she could see something in me I couldn't see in myself. And Bradford offering me a chance few others would.
I exhale slowly, shift the car back into drive, and turn onto the gravel path. The decision settles into my bones, not comfort, exactly, but resolve. I'm done running. Whatever waits for me at Walker Ranch, I'll face it head-on.
The thought barely forms when the main house materializes from the darkness, a solid shape against the night sky. Most of the windows are dark, save for a warm glow from what I think is the kitchen and a faint light upstairs. I park near the porch, cutting the engine. The sudden silence feels heavy, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine and the distant chorus of night insects.
