Page 18 of Broken Roads
And then he's gone, his footsteps heavy on the stairs, leaving me alone in the entryway with my racing heart and Bandit's concerned brown eyes.
I sink back down to my knees, needing the comfort of the dog's uncomplicated affection. He immediately presses against me, offering the warmth of his solid body.
"What do you think, boy?" I whisper into his fur. "Think your master and I are going to kill each other before the week's out?"
Bandit's tail wags once, as if to say the odds are pretty good.
Chapter 8
Bradley
The morning crashes into me before I even open my eyes.
Every muscle is a chorus of complaints, every joint stiff with yesterday's labor. Dawn barely touches the window, but years of pre-dawn rises have trained my body better than any alarm. I lie still, cataloging each ache, letting the weight of another day settle over me. Another day of fences and feed, cattle and concerns. Another day of her in my house, in my space, upending the rhythm of a life I've worked so hard to control.
Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling. There’s movement in the house. Dad, probably, or Ruthie. Couldn’t possibly be—
A door closes softly down the hall. Too close to be downstairs.
Her.
The realization sits like a stone in my gut. She's an early riser too, apparently. One more unwelcome similarity I don't want to acknowledge.
I force myself upright, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Pressing my thumb into my hip, I massage the spot wherethe bull's horn tore through muscle and scraped bone. I need to work out some of the stiffness before I stand. It doesn't help much. My first few steps are halting, the limp more pronounced than I'd like. It'll ease up once I get moving, once the blood starts flowing and my body remembers its purpose. Always does. But these first moments of the day are a humbling reminder of my limitations.
I grab clean clothes from the dresser—worn jeans, a faded blue flannel that's seen better days but still has life in it. Ranch clothes. Working clothes. And as I swing my bedroom door open and step into the hall, my mind is already on the day ahead. Fence repairs in the north pasture, checking on the pregnant mare in the back stable, avoiding the city girl as much as humanly possible.
I reach for the bathroom doorknob just as it turns from the other side. My entire body freezes mid-step.
Hailey stands in the doorway, fully dressed in a cream-colored blouse tucked into dark jeans. Her wet hair falls over her shoulders, droplets of water clinging to the ends and darkening the fabric of her blouse. Her eyes widen as she takes me in, surprise quickly replaced by something else, something that sends heat crawling up my neck.
Her scent hits me next—sweet and fruity, like summer berries and something deeper, more floral. It wraps around me, invasive and intoxicating all at once.
We stand there, suspended in the narrow hallway, neither of us moving. Her eyes drop briefly to my chest, then back to my face, and I become acutely aware of my state of undress. The pajama bottoms slung low on my hips. My bare chest, crisscrossed with old scars from barbed wire and worse. The way my right hand instinctively moves to cover the worst of them—a jagged line that runs from my collarbone to just above my heart.
Her cheeks flush pink, the color spreading down her neck to disappear beneath the collar of her blouse. I wonder how far down that blush goes, then immediately hate myself for the thought.
"I..." she starts, then stops, clearing her throat. "I didn't know anyone else was up."
I should say something. Something normal, something that doesn't reveal the riot happening inside my chest. But my tongue feels too thick, my brain too slow. All I can focus on is the way water from her hair traces a path down her neck.
The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire fence in summer. Her lips part slightly, and I watch, transfixed, as her tongue darts out to wet them. Something hot and unwelcome coils low in my stomach.
"Are you going to move?" she finally snaps, her voice breaking the spell.
Heat floods my face as I realize I've been staring, stock-still, blocking her exit. I cover my embarrassment with a scowl, stepping back just enough to let her pass.
"Hope you left some hot water for the rest of us," I retort, the words scraping past the thickness in my throat.
She rolls her eyes—actually rolls them, like I'm some petulant child rather than the man who runs this entire ranch—and pushes past me. The narrow hallway forces us close, her shoulder brushing against my bare chest as she moves. The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt through me like I've grabbed an electric fence with both hands.
Her hair sweeps across my skin as she passes, leaving a trail of cool dampness and that fruity scent. I inhale sharply, the smell filling my lungs, imprinting itself on my memory without permission.
"There's plenty," she calls over her shoulder, already halfway to her room. "Though given your charming morning personality, a cold shower might do you some good."
Before I can think of a response that isn't childish or revealing, she's gone, her door clicking shut behind her. I stand there in the empty hallway, clothes clutched too tightly in my hand, skin still tingling where she brushed against it.
Damn her. Damn her and her city ways and her berry-scented shampoo and the way her wet hair clung to the curve of her neck.
