Page 9 of Broken Roads
"Financial consultant," Sawyer repeats, extending a hand. His palm is warm and calloused against mine, his grip firm without the excessive pressure some men use to establish dominance. "Fancy title for someone so not-fancy-looking."
I arch an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"Absolutely." His grin widens, green eyes dancing. "Trust me, around here, not-fancy is the highest praise you can get."
Despite myself, I feel a smile tugging at my lips. There's something disarming about his straightforward charm, no agenda, no cold assessment, just open appreciation.
"Sawyer," Ruthie cuts in. "Shouldn't you be helping Miguel with the new fencing?"
He shrugs. "Already done. Besides, I wanted to meet the city girl." He leans casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ruthie’s been talking you up all mornin’. Said you're going to make this place the next best thing."
"That's the plan," I say, surprised by the confidence in my voice. "Though I'm expecting a lot of kicking from some more than others."
Sawyer laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "You’ve met Bradley, I see. Don't worry about him. He just hates change. And outsiders. And pretty much anything he didn't think of himself." He pushes off the doorframe. "Anyway, I should report back. Looking forward to seeing you at dinner tonight."
He tips his cap with an exaggerated courtesy, shoots me another grin, then disappears, leaving a vacuum of energy in his wake.
Ruthie shakes her head fondly. "That boy would flirt with a fence post if it wore a skirt."
“Ruthie,” I say, suddenly remembering my plans for the evening. “I won't make it to dinner tonight."
Her expression shifts to concern. "Everything alright?"
"I want to check out a local AA meeting in town." The words come out easier than I expected, no shame clinging to them. "I found one that meets at seven. I need to... I can't miss it."
Understanding softens Ruthie's face. No judgment, no disappointment, just a gentle nod and a squeeze of my arm. "I'll save you a plate."
Relief washes through me. Six months sober, and I still expect the worst when I admit to needing help. But Ruthie knows myhistory, knows what I'm fighting. And in her simple acceptance, I feel something I haven't in a long time.
I feel seen.
Chapter 4
Bradley
Ashaft of light cuts across the stable floor as the door swings open, silhouetting a lean figure against the bright afternoon sun. I don't need to see his face to know it's Sawyer. He's got that easy way of standing—one shoulder propped against the doorframe, ankles crossed—like he's never been in a hurry his entire life.
The baseball cap sits backward on his head, as always, sandy hair curling out beneath it. He spots me in Max's stall and his mouth curves into that perpetual half-smile that makes the local women at The Rusted Spur slide free drinks his way.
"There you are," he drawls, pushing off the frame and sauntering inside. The door swings shut behind him, returning the stable to its dimly lit state. "Thought I might find you hiding out here."
"Not hiding," I mutter, continuing to brush Max's flank in long, methodical strokes. "Working."
Sawyer chuckles, the sound loose and easy, like everything else about him. He's been working at Walker Ranch since hewas sixteen, nearly fifteen years now, but still moves with the unhurried grace of someone who hasn't had the weight of responsibility crush the joy out of simple moments.
"Sure, boss. Whatever you say." He leans against the stall door, arms folded across his chest. "Just wanted to let you know I fixed that broken fence in the north pasture. Had to replace two posts. Might need to order more lumber before we tackle the western stretch."
I nod, focusing on a spot of dried mud on Max's shoulder. "I'll call Harrison's tomorrow. You check the creek crossing after all that rain last night?"
"Water's up about six inches. Nothing to worry about yet, but we might want to move the yearlings to higher ground if this keeps up."
This is how it always is with Sawyer—easy, practical, no bullshit. It's why he's lasted here when other ranch hands have come and gone. He doesn't take my moods personally, doesn't push when I need space, gets the job done without needing to be told twice. If I had a brother by choice instead of blood, it might be him.
"Already done," I say. "Moved them this morning."
"Always one step ahead." Sawyer grins, reaching over to scratch Bandit behind the ears. The traitor immediately rolls onto his back, exposing his belly for more attention. "That's why you're the boss and I'm just the pretty face."
I snort, despite myself. "Pretty ugly, maybe."
