Page 53 of Broken Roads
Yet she didn't tell me to fuck off. Didn't refuse to speak to me again. Said we'd continue this conversation at home. The word echoes in my mind…home. As if Walker Ranch could be her home too, not just a temporary assignment.
What’s supposed to be soft rain lashes against the truck, driven sideways by a gust of wind strong enough to make the vehicle shudder. Montana weather, unpredictable as my own emotions these days. The wind mirrors the chaos inside me—relief at her willingness to talk warring with shame at my actions, then excitement at her return to the ranch tempering the fear that I've irrevocably damaged whatever was growing between us.
Her brake lights flare brighter as she slows for the turn onto our driveway. I follow, the familiar crunch of gravel beneath my tires somehow grounding. This drive, this land, these buildings looming through the rain-darkened evening, they've always been my constant. My roots run deep here, tangled with the soil itself.
But for the first time, I wonder if that's enough. If being the steady, unmovable rancher is all I want to be.
Hailey's car comes to a stop near the main house and I pull up beside her, angling my truck so our driver's side windows align. For a moment, we both sit motionless in our respective vehicles. I can see her staring straight ahead, her profile illuminated by the porch light that Ruthie always leaves burning when anyone's out after dark.
This isn't a conversation for the main house, with its thin walls and Ruthie's sharp ears. Not with my father possibly awake. Not with the weight of what needs to be said between us.
I cut my engine, darkness engulfing us save for that distant porch light. Before I can overthink it, I'm out of my truck and crossing the short distance to her car.
Her window slides down as I approach, revealing her face fully for the first time since the parking lot. Droplets of rain catch in her eyelashes and on her cheeks. Whether there are tears mixed in, I can't tell. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest, a physical ache I'm not used to feeling.
"Would you walk with me?" The question comes out rougher than intended, my voice catching on emotions I usually keep buried. "Instead of going inside."
She studies me for a long, long moment, searching my face for something—sincerity, perhaps, or proof that I can be trusted with her vulnerability after betraying it so spectacularly.
Finally, a small nod. "Okay."
The single word, soft as it is, hits me with more force than any shouted accusation could have. She's giving me a chance I'm not sure I deserve.
"Give me a second," I say, already turning back to my truck. I reach behind the seat for the heavy-duty flashlight I keep for emergencies, testing its beam against the darkness. The rain has lightened to a steady drizzle, not enough to soak us through but plenty to remind us of its presence.
When I return to her car, she's already stepped out, pulling the hood of her jacket up to shield her face from the rain. She looks smaller somehow, standing there in the dim light, arms wrapped around herself as if for protection. The sight sends another wave of shame crashing through me. I did this. I made her feel unsafe in the one place she was starting to belong.
"This way," I say, gesturing toward a path that leads away from the main house. She follows without question, her footsteps nearly silent on the wet ground beside my heavier tread.
My flashlight beam cuts through the gathering darkness, illuminating the familiar trail ahead. We walk side by side but not touching, and the space between us feels both necessary and unbearable.
I could tell her about the bench we're heading toward, about why it matters to me, about all the times I've sat there alone with my thoughts. I could fill this silence with explanations or excuses or more apologies. But something tells me that's not what she needs right now.
So I remain quiet, letting the sounds of our footsteps and the distant calls of night birds fill the space between us. The ranch spreads out around us, shadowy and vast in the darkness. I know every inch of this land, can navigate it blindfolded if needed. Yet beside this woman, I feel uncharted, unsure of my footing for the first time in years.
One thing I know with absolute certainty: I don't want more walls between us. Not the ones I built with suspicion and stubborn pride when she first arrived, not the ones she's constructed to protect her sobriety, not the ones either of us might instinctively raise now after what happened tonight.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I want to let someone in completely. No barriers, no defenses, no careful distance. Just me, offering everything I am, flaws and strengths alike, and hoping like hell it's enough.
The bench appears through the darkness, a simple wooden structure weathered by years of Montana seasons. My flashlight beam catches it, illuminating the worn planks that have held my weight through teenage anger, adult disappointment, and countless moments of solitude. I've never brought anyone here before—not Dad, not Ruthie, not even Claire during the years wewere together. This small rise overlooking the valley has been mine alone, a private sanctuary when the walls of the ranch house felt too confining. Until now. Until her.
"We're here," I say, sweeping the sleeve of my jacket across the bench to clear away any moisture from the earlier rain. The wood is damp but not soaked through, protected partially by the massive pine that spreads its branches overhead.
Hailey steps closer, her features half-illuminated by the flashlight's glow. She studies the bench, then lifts her gaze to take in the view spreading before us. Even in the darkness, the valley unfolds beneath us, the distant lights of town visible as a faint glow on the horizon. Above, the clouds have begun to part, revealing patches of night sky studded with stars.
"Sit," I offer, gesturing to the bench. "If you want."
She settles onto one end, leaving space between us that I honor as I take my seat. The wood creaks slightly beneath my weight, a familiar sound that's oddly comforting. I place the flashlight between us, its beam pointing upward to create a small pool of light that illuminates both our faces without blinding either of us.
"Why did you bring me here?" Hailey asks softly. Her tone is filled with curiosity rather than accusation.
I inhale deeply, gathering courage from the land that's always sustained me. "I built this bench when I was fifteen," I begin, the words emerging more easily than expected. "After Sebastian left."
Her eyebrows lift slightly at the name she hasn't heard before. I stare out into the darkness, finding it easier to speak without meeting her gaze directly.
"My brother," I clarify. "He's three years older." The facts come easily; it's the emotions behind them that tangle my tongue. "He left when he was eighteen. Scholarship to some fancy university. Pre-med."
I run my palm along the rough edge of the bench, feeling the grain of the wood beneath my fingers. "I would come up here when I needed to think. Or yell. Or just...be away from expectations for a while."
