Page 4 of Broken Roads
Bradley
Islam the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, satisfaction burning through me at the sound. My boots hit each floorboard like I'm trying to break through them, heel-toe, heel-toe, the rhythm punctuated by the dull ache in my right leg. The pain sharpens with each step, feeding the anger coursing through my veins. She's been here less than an hour, and already this city girl thinks she can waltz in and fix what isn't broken.
The hallway stretches before me, lined with photographs I barely see anymore—Mom holding me as a baby, me and Sebastian on our first horses, Dad standing proud in front of the original barn. This house, this ranch, it's in my blood, woven into every muscle and bone. And now she's here, with her city clothes and sharp eyes, looking at everything like it's a puzzle to solve.
My limp grows more pronounced with each furious step. The old rodeo injury—a bull named Lucifer who had something to prove—always flares when I'm angry or tired. Right now, I'm both.
I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I nearly collide with Dad as I round the corner into the living room. He's just setting down grocery bags, his hands moving with the slow deliberation of age.
"Whoa there," he says, straightening up, his voice gravel from years of smoking before Ruthie finally made him quit. His eyes—the same dark brown as mine—narrow slightly. "What's got a fire lit under you?"
The sight of him, standing there like he hasn't just upended everything, snaps the last thread of my restraint.
"You hired her without even talking to me." The words tear out of me. "Some city girl with a fancy degree who probably thinks a cow is just something on a menu? She nearly ran me and Max down on the drive not ten minutes after arriving."
Dad crosses his arms over his chest, a stance I've seen a thousand times—immovable as the mountains behind our property. His silence only fuels me further.
"We don't need some outsider telling us how to run our ranch," I continue, gesturing sharply toward the stairs. "I've managed fine for fifteen years. The seasonal bookings are down, sure, but everyone's hurting. It's not a crisis that requires bringing in a consultant who probably thinks a lasso is some kind of Italian coffee."
The corner of Dad's mouth twitches, just slightly, which only pisses me off more. He thinks this is funny?
"If there are financial problems, I should know about them. I should handle them. Not some stranger who—"
"Who what?" Dad cuts in, voice soft but sharp enough to slice through my tirade. "Who has an MBA from Northwestern? And not just that, she’s Ruthie’s family.” Dad shifts his weight. "When she mentioned Hailey needed a fresh start, and I knew we needed help, it seemed like fate to me."
I snort, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "Since when do you believe in fate?"
"Since your mother walked into that county fair in seventy-eight wearing a blue sundress and changed my life." His voice softens for just a moment before hardening again. "Point is, Hailey Monroe is qualified. More qualified than either of us to tackle the numbers side of things."
"And what exactly are these numbers you're so worried about?" I step closer. "You've been hiding something. The books looked fine last quarter."
Dad's jaw works, the stubborn set to his chin so familiar it aches. We share the same face, thirty-five years apart. Same eyes, same stubborn mouth, same ability to lock everything down tight.
"The bank called," he finally says. "The last two loans came due faster than expected. Between that and the repairs to the east cabins, the medical bills from my hip replacement—"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Something cold drops through my stomach. "I'm the one running this place day-to-day. I should know if we're in trouble."
"We're not in trouble," he says quickly, too quickly. "We just need a different perspective. Fresh ideas."
"Fresh ideas," I repeat, the words bitter on my tongue. "Like what? Turning the ranch into some Social media-friendly glamping resort? Adding fake Western experiences for tourists who want to play cowboy for a weekend?"
"If that's what brings in money, what's wrong with it?"
"It's not who we are." The words explode out of me, echoing against the high ceiling. "This place has history. Integrity. We're not some theme park."
Dad's eyes flash with something dangerous. "You think I don't know that? I built this place. Me and your mother. While youwere still learning to walk, I was up before dawn breaking in horses and fixing fences and wondering how to make payroll."
I step back, stung by the sudden heat in his voice.
"You want to talk about integrity?" he continues. "Integrity is doing what needs to be done to keep this place alive. For the family. For the people who work here. For the legacy."
We stand there, the silence between us charged and heavy, both of us breathing harder than we should be. Outside, a horse whinnies from the pasture. Inside, the old grandfather clock in the corner ticks steadily, marking time in a rhythm that hasn't changed since I was a boy.
I open my mouth to argue further, but Dad cuts me off with five simple words:
"You might run this place," he says, each syllable distinct and final, "but I still own it."
I flinch. The truth in them strips away everything else. In the end, it doesn't matter what I think. It doesn't matter that I stayed when Sebastian left for med school, that I gave up my own dreams, that I've poured every drop of sweat and blood I have into this land.
