Page 39 of Broken Roads
The drive back to the ranch is short, but long enough for my mind to circle back to her again. To her words, landing like precision strikes at every weak point in my armor.
I park near the barn rather than the main house, telling myself it's to unload tools, though the hammer and fencing supplies remain untouched in the truck bed behind me as I walk away. My boots follow a path I know by heart, but not in the direction of my usual haunts. Not toward the stables or even the main house where dinner will be waiting.
Instead, I’m drawn toward the small cabin that serves as Hailey's office.
I tell myself I'm just checking to see if she's returned from town. That I'm going to apologize properly this time, without the defensiveness that's become my default setting around her. Lies, all of it bitter-tasting lies.
The truth is both simpler and much more complicated: I can't stop thinking about her.
The cabin sits quiet in the fading afternoon light. No lamp glows through the window, no movement disturbs the stillness around it. She hasn't returned. The knowledge should bring relief but instead, a strange disappointment settles in my chest.
I hesitate at the door, hand lifted toward the knob but not quite touching it. This is wrong. This is trespassing, invading herspace when she's not here to defend it. Crossing a line I've drawn so carefully between us.
I should turn around. Should walk away. Should do anything except what I'm about to do.
My hand closes around the knob and turns. The door swings open on silent hinges, and I step inside, heart hammering against my ribs with the knowledge of my transgression. Her scent hits me immediately, wrapping around me in a way that’s both welcoming and accusatory.
I move, drawn by the papers spread across her desk. Marketing plans, budget projections, sketches for cabin renovations—all arranged in neat piles that speak of an organized mind.
I pick up one of the sketches, surprised by the detail. It's the main guest cabin, but reimagined with a wider porch, hanging plants, and new Adirondack chairs arranged to face the sunset. Nothing flashy or out of place, just small, thoughtful improvements that would make the space more inviting without sacrificing its rustic charm.
Next to it lies a projected revenue report, numbers laid out in careful columns. She's highlighted areas where costs could be cut without impacting guest experience, suggested partnerships with local vendors that would reduce food expenses while supporting the community. There's even a section on grant opportunities for historic ranch preservation—something I'd never considered.
The realization hits me in the balls. Her ideas are good. Really fucking good. Not the city-slicker makeover I'd feared, but thoughtful enhancements that honor what we already have while making it more viable for the future.
You're so afraid of change that you can't see it's the only thing that will save what you love.
Her words echo in my head again, but this time without the sting of defensive anger to distract from their truth. Looking at these papers, I can't deny it anymore. She's right. She's been right all along.
My fingers brush over a framed photograph half-hidden beneath a folder. Carefully, I pick it up. It's Hailey, standing between an older couple. The resemblance is unmistakable—her mother's eyes, her father's smile. They stand in front of what looks like a small café, arms around each other, happiness radiating from their faces.
Hailey looks younger, more carefree. Her smile reaches her eyes in a way I haven't seen since she arrived here. Something about the image catches in my chest—the obvious love between them, the casual joy of a moment captured before whatever shadows now haunt her eyes took root.
The sudden sound of footsteps on the wooden porch yanks me from my. I quickly replace the photo where I found it, my heart racing like I've been caught stealing.
I could leave. Could slip out the window before whoever's coming makes it inside. No one would know I was here.
But I don't move. Something keeps my feet rooted to the spot, perhaps the same inexplicable pull that drew me here in the first place. Or maybe it's simpler than that; maybe I'm just tired of running from whatever these feelings in my bones are.
The doorknob turns. I stand straight, hands at my sides, waiting to be discovered. Waiting to face whatever comes next, consequences be damned.
Because for once in my life, I'm not running away from the hard conversation. I'm standing still, letting it find me.
Chapter 16
Hailey
The drive back from town leaves my nerves steadier, Tessa's wisdom and coffee working through my system like a balm. The familiar crunch of gravel beneath my tires as I pull up to my office feels almost comforting now, a small piece of routine in a day that's been anything but.
I climb the steps to my office, each footfall a deliberate attempt to ground myself. Fingers closing around the doorknob, I push it open, and walk inside, ready to lose myself in work that doesn't talk back or judge.
Except someone's already there.
Bradley stands beside my desk; broad shoulders tense like he's been caught doing something he shouldn’t. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the silence between us thick enough to choke on. His presence fills the small cabin, making it impossible to breathe without drawing in the scent of him—leather and earth and something distinctly male that my body responds to before my brain can stop it.
"What the hell are you doing here?" The words tear angrily from my throat.
His jaw works, that telltale muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Hailey, I—"
