Page 44 of Broken Roads
Ruthie turns to face me fully, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes, sharp despite the wrinkles that frame them, seem to see straight through to the core of me. "Could you, now?"
"Just being polite," I mutter.
She studies me for a moment longer, then nods once. "Well, then. Being so polite, you won't mind taking a proper lunch basket. I won't have either of you working on empty stomachs."
Before I can respond, she's in motion, gathering containers with the efficiency of a woman who's packed countless meals for ranch hands and family alike. Two thermoses of coffee appear, followed by the sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, apples polished to a shine, and fresh cookies from this morning's baking.
"There's extra napkins in there," she says, packing everything into a wicker basket. "And don't rush her. That girl needs a proper break, not just food shoveled in while she works."
I take the basket, its weight substantial in my hands. "I'm sure she's busy. I’ll just leave this—"
"Bradley James Walker." Ruthie's use of my full name stops me mid-sentence. "You sit with her. Have a conversation. Like civilized people who aren't growling at each other across the breakfast table."
Heat rises to my face again. "Yes, ma'am."
Her expression softens, a maternal warmth replacing the stern command. "That's better." She pats my cheek, the gesture both comforting and dismissive. "Now go on. Food's getting cold."
As I turn to leave, basket in hand, I catch her smile, not the knowing one from before, but something gentler, almost hopeful. It follows me out the door and across the yard, adding another layer to the strange, unsettled feeling in my chest.
Bandit trots ahead of me down the path to Hailey's office, his tail held high like a flag announcing our approach. The dog's enthusiasm is almost embarrassing. He's supposed to be my loyal companion, not racing toward her door like she's the one who's fed him every day of his life.
When we reach the cabin, Bandit doesn't wait for me. He scratches at the door, whining with an impatience that mirrors the strange, restless energy coursing through my own veins. Before I can call him off, the door swings open, and there she is.
Standing in the doorway, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail with a few strands escaping to frame her face. She's changed since this morning, now wearing jeans and a soft green button-down with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. The sight of her steals the breath straight from my lungs.
Bandit lunges forward, nearly knocking her over in his enthusiasm. His whole body wiggles with joy as he presses against her legs. Her laugh, bright and genuine, fills the space between us before she drops to her knees, and finds the spots behind his ears that make his back leg thump against the wooden porch.
"Well, looks like someone's happy to see you," I say.
She glances up, still scratching Bandit's fur, her smile softer but no less real when it turns on me. "At least one Walker appreciates my company." The teasing lilt in her voice takes any sting from the words, transforming them into something almost flirtatious.
"He's easily bribed," I counter, lifting the basket slightly. "Ruthie sent lunch. Thought you might be hungry."
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, followed by a warmth that makes her eyes brighten. "You brought me lunch?"
"Us," I add quickly. "Ruthie made enough for an army."
She rises to her feet, brushing dog hair from her jeans. "Well, come in then. Though I should warn you, it's a bit of a disaster zone in here."
Bandit doesn't wait for a second invitation, darting past her into the office while I follow slowly.
The small cabin is transformed from when I last saw it. Paper covers almost every surface, but not in chaos. There's a system to it, sections clearly mapped out. Her laptop sits open on the desk, surrounded by coffee mugs in various states of emptiness. The walls have been covered with mock-ups of website designs, marketing materials, and what looks like a schedule for upcoming months, color-coded and annotated in her neat handwriting.
"Sorry about the mess," she says, quickly gathering some papers from the small table by the window to make room for our lunch. "I get a bit intense when I'm working."
"I hadn't noticed," I reply dryly, setting the basket down and unpacking it. The comment earns me another smile, this one carrying a hint of sheepishness that's unexpectedly endearing.
Bandit settles himself beneath the table with a contented sigh, clearly planning to stay for the duration. Traitor.
Hailey watches me, a small crease forming between her brows as I lay out Ruthie's offerings.
"This is a lot of food for lunch."
"Ruthie doesn't believe in small portions." I unscrew the top of a thermos, the rich aroma of dark roast filling the air between us. "Says ranch work requires proper fuel."
"And what's my excuse?" She accepts the coffee I pour, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The brief contact sends a current up my arm, like static electricity but warmer, more insistent.
"Brain work's just as demanding," I say, surprised by how easily the words come. A week ago, I might have dismissed herwork as unnecessary, as a complication in our simple ranch life. Now, seeing the evidence of her efforts spread across this room, I can't deny the value of what she's doing.
