Page 5 of Broken Roads
Dad turns away, picking up the grocery bags again. His shoulders look smaller than they used to, bent slightly with age and the weight of responsibilities I still don't fully understand. The conversation is clearly over.
I stand there, frozen, as he walks toward the kitchen. My fists clench and unclench at my sides.
He's right. Of course he's right. This was never really mine, not completely. I just forgot that for a while, wrapped up in the daily rhythms of the place, making decisions, feeling like the one in charge.
The truth settles over me, heavy and unavoidable: I'm still just the son who stayed.
I turn on my heel, heading for the door. I need air. Need space. Need to be anywhere but trapped in this house with her upstairs and Dad's words echoing in my head.
The stable door creaks open under my hand, familiar and welcoming in a way the main house no longer feels. I step inside, letting the shadows swallow me whole. The scent hits me immediately—hay and leather, horse sweat and sweet feed—smells that should quiet the storm in my chest. Today, they barely make a dent. I drag in a breath anyway, forcing my lungs to expand against the tightness there.
I head deeper into the cool darkness, past empty stalls waiting for the trail horses to return from the afternoon ride. This place has always been my sanctuary. When Claire left, I spent three straight days here, sleeping on a hay bale, speaking only to the horses. The stables know more of my secrets than any living soul.
A soft whine announces Bandit's presence before I see him. The border collie materializes from between two stalls, his black and white coat gleaming even in the dim light.
"Hey, boy," I murmur, the first gentle words I've spoken today.
He approaches cautiously, head lowered, tail giving a tentative wag. He can read my moods better than anyone, knows when to keep his distance and when to press close. Today, he pauses a foot away, waiting for permission.
I crouch, ignoring the protest from my bad leg, and hold out my hand. "C'mere."
He closes the distance immediately, pressing his muzzle into my palm, then leaning his whole body against my leg. I run my hand over his silky ears, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders at the simple contact.
"At least you're still on my side," I tell him, and he responds with another whine, softer this time.
Rising, I move toward the tack room, Bandit trotting at my heels. Inside, I grab a curry comb and dandy brush from their hooks, the wooden handles worn smooth from years of use. Some of these tools are older than I am, passed down from Dad, who got them from his father before him. Three generations of Walker men have held these same brushes, cared for horses with the same steady hands.
Now it's all at risk because Dad thinks we need saving.
Max's ears prick forward as I approach his stall. The chestnut quarter horse moves to the gate, stretching his neck over the top to greet me. He's a good horse—steady and dependable, with enough spirit to keep things interesting. I've had him for eight years, raised him from a gangly two-year-old to the powerful animal he is now.
"Hey, big guy," I say, running a hand down his neck. "Sorry about earlier. Didn't mean to put you in a bad spot."
I slip inside the stall, latching the door behind me. Max shifts his weight, moving to give me space but staying close enough for contact. I start with the curry comb, working in firm, circular motions across his shoulder. The brush makes a soft scratching sound against his summer coat, dislodging dirt and loose hair.
My movements are too aggressive, driven by the anger still simmering under my skin. Max tosses his head, taking a step sideways, ears flicking back in protest.
"Sorry," I mutter, forcing myself to ease up. I take a deep breath, then another, trying to match my rhythm to the horse's breathing. "Sorry about that."
Max settles as my touch softens, leaning slightly into the pressure. At my feet, Bandit curls up in the clean straw, head on paws, watching us with those knowing eyes.
"Dad's brought in some city girl to fix the ranch," I tell Max, keeping my voice low and even as I work my way along his back. "Hailey Monroe."
Max flicks an ear back, listening.
"We don't need fixing," I continue, moving the brush in long, steady strokes. "Sure, bookings are down from last year. Everyone's had a rough couple of years. Doesn't mean we need to change everything."
The repetitive motion soothes me, the familiar contours of the horse’s body under my hands grounding me in the present. I've done this thousands of times—could do it blindfolded, half-asleep, in the middle of a blizzard. There's comfort in the routine, in knowing exactly what comes next.
"I know what Dad's thinking.”
I pause, brush hovering over Max's flank. The image of Hailey rises unbidden—her wide, startled eyes as she tumbled out of that car. The way she stood her ground despite clearly being shaken. The defiance in her voice when she told me she was here to do a job.
"Reminds me of Claire," I admit quietly, the name still painful to say out loud even after five years.
Claire, with her big dreams and bigger cities. Claire, who loved me but loved the idea of escape more. "This place is swallowing you whole," she'd said, her bags already packed by the door. "There's a whole world out there, Bradley. We could see it together."
But I couldn't leave. Not with Dad's health declining, not with Sebastian already gone, not with the ranch needing someone to keep it alive. So she left without me, her taillights disappearing down the same gravel drive where Hailey appeared today.
