Page 3 of Broken Roads
Bradley walks in like he owns the place—which, I suppose, he does. His hat is gone now, revealing dark hair damp with sweat and sticking up in places where his fingers must’ve run through it. His flannel shirt clings to broad shoulders, dirt smudging one sleeve. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his neck.
His eyes find mine immediately, like there's some invisible tether between us that neither of us asked for. The silence stretches and thickens, until I can feel it pressing against my skin like humidity before a storm.
"Well," Ruthie says, breaking the tension. "Bradley, go on and show Hailey to her room. And help her with her bags, won't you?"
For a moment, no one moves. Bradley's jaw works like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say. There’s a protest on my tongue, but I press my lips together, refusing to be the first one to give in.
Then Bradley turns on his heel without a word and walks straight back toward the door.
"The bags," Ruthie reminds him, her voice carrying a warning that even I can hear.
He stops, shoulders tensing beneath his shirt. "Fine," he says, the single word clipped and cold. He doesn't look at me again as he strides out, screen door slapping shut behind him.
"That boy," Ruthie mutters, shaking her head. "Stubborn as his father and twice as prideful."
"It's okay," I say, standing. "I can get my own bags."
"Nonsense. You'll let him do his job as host, even if it kills him." There’s a finality in her voice that tolerates no argument. "Your room's upstairs, third door on the right. Bathroom's shared, I'm afraid, but it's just you and Bradley up there since Sebastian's gone and Bradford's moved to the first floor."
My stomach drops. "Bradley and I are the only ones upstairs?"
Ruthie's eyes twinkle with something that looks dangerously close to amusement. "The walls are thick, honey. You won't hear a thing."
That's not what I'm worried about.
Before I can formulate a response, the screen door bangs again, and Bradley reappears with my suitcase in one hand and laptop bag in the other. His expression could freeze hell.
"Follow me," he says, not waiting to see if I comply before starting up a wide wooden staircase to the right of the kitchen.
I hurry after him, irritation prickling under my skin. The stairs creak beneath our feet, marking our ascent with sounds like old men groaning. The upstairs hallway is long and dim with faded photographs lining the walls.
Tension walks beside us like a third person, invisible but undeniable. His shoulders are rigid, his steps measured despite the slight hitch in his gait. I keep my distance, watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt as he moves.
He stops at a door, turning the glass knob and pushes it open without a word. Then he steps back, waiting for me to enter first.
I brush past him, close enough to catch that scent—horses and leather and man. Something inside me coils tight, unwelcome and so inconvenient.
The room is simple but beautiful. A quilt-covered bed beneath a window overlooking the mountains. Dresser, nightstand, reading chair.
Bradley sets my bags down just inside the door. He doesn't cross the threshold, as if the room is somehow my territory now and he won't invade it.
"Bathroom's across the hall," he says, voice flat. "Dinner's at six."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without snapping at him.
He turns to go, then stops, one hand on the doorframe. "Look, we don't need some big city girl trying to fix problems where there aren't none. My father might think we need saving, but we've been running this place just fine for well over thirty years."
The words hit like tiny slaps, each one precise and aimed to sting. I feel heat rise to my face, but I refuse to let him see he's rattled me.
"I don't care what you think you need." My tone is sharp. "I was hired to do a job, and I'm going to do it."
His eyes narrow, something flashing in their dark depths. For a moment, I think he might argue. Instead, he gives a curt nod, slams my door and leaves.
Suddenly exhausted, I sit on the edge of the bed. My heart pounds against my ribs, and I press a hand to my chest, willing it to calm.
This is going to be so much harder than I thought.
Chapter 2
