Page 24 of Where the Blacktop Ends

My dad stands from behind his desk, his smile softening the tension between us.

“Leave him alone, Cash. You know why he’s here and what he’s been doing for the family. Just one more month, and hopefully we can put this all behind us. Now, have a seat, son.”

I sink into the chair next to Cash, who kicks his dusty, worn-out boots onto Dad’s desk. It’s been a while since I’ve worn anything but mystuffy suits,as Cash would call them, and at times, I miss the ease of a good pair of work boots, a tattered t-shirt and a classic pair of well-worn Wranglers.

I don’t have much time before I need to slip back into my other life—the one where I’m Troy Marshall, political consultant and not yet announced candidate for governor of the state. Meeting with lobbyists, shaking hands, kissing babies, and flashing fake smiles for the cameras. But first, I need to focus on what truly matters. My family.

“So,” I say, cutting to the chase. “Give me the latest on Colt.”

Chapter 8 – Troy

My dad moves behind his desk, sinking into his chair before running a hand through his beard, now thicker, full of greys, and much more unruly than when I last saw him a month ago while here to visit with Colt’s lawyer. The lines around his eyes have deepened, the weariness unmistakable. I can’t help but wonder if it’s all the construction and growth happening between the farmstead and distillery wearing him down, or the weight of his youngest child being gone for four years—something no amount of money or frustrated effort has been able to fix.

In a way, my dad and I grew up together.

He and my mom were just seventeen—barely more than kids themselves—when I was born. High school sweethearts turned teenage parents, trying to navigate a world they hadn’t even figured out yet. Raising me while they were still finding their own way couldn’t have been easy.

I understand that better than anyone now, repeating the cycle with Max.

I know those first few years had to be brutal. The stress, the exhaustion, the uncertainty of two teenagers suddenlyresponsible for a whole new life. But they hadlove. That much, I remember.

And I was lucky enough to see it.

Unlike my younger siblings, I still have pieces of those early days locked away in my memory—the way they looked at each other, the way my mom laughed at my dad’s terrible jokes, the way they always seemed to find their way back to each other, no matter how hard things got.

Before everything changed.

Before we lost her.

Mom died unexpectedly giving birth to Colt and Regan, and after that, nothing was ever the same. But even under the crushing weight of grief, of raising five kids on his own, my dad never stopped beingDad. And no matter how hard things got, one thing remained true—

They had been a team, and their children have carried that same spirit forward, doing whatever it takes for the family to succeed.

“I met with the lawyer last week,” he says, rubbing his temples. “He wants to talk to you while you’re in town.”

“I know. I plan on it. Said we could meet up while I visit Colt.”

He sighs, his hands falling to the desk heavily. “The lawyer thinks with the new footage from the bar security camera, we might have a chance at getting him out on parole for an early release. Something about submitting an appeal. But he thinks it’s likely that the charges will still stick.”

“Bullshit,” Cash growls, slamming his fists down on the desk. Though Lawson is usually the calmest out of us, Cash comes in a close second with his perpetually annoying happiness. But four years without Colt here has changed all of us. “He’s fucking innocent. It was self-defense! The footage proves that!”

“Not quite self-defense,” I correct. “Defense of others, sure. But then the law brings up reasonableness of force, imminent threat, duty to retreat. And the woman said Colt swung at Fenley first. Claimed she wasn’t being hurt by him and he started the whole thing.”

“She lied,” Cash spits through clenched teeth.

“We know,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “We all know that, and the tapes contradict her statement which will only help us.”

But four years of fighting through the legal system, inching through the red tape, has me hesitating to believe in any sort of justice. Colt’s case has been wrapped in politics from the start, and it didn’t help that the guy he knocked out was the sheriff’s son—who’s the mayor of Whitewood Creek’s best friend and Sunday night poker buddy.

When you’ve got that much power stacked against you, that’s how a five-year sentence for aggravated assault comes down, despite the truth being on your side.

And the fact that Colt had a juvenile record when sentencing? Yeah, that didn’t help. It was mostly petty stuff—cow tipping, stealing a goat from a neighbor’s farm, joyriding—dumb stuff he did with his best friend Maverick, but it was enough to paint him as a troublemaker with a pattern that extended into his early twenties. And when that reputation was dredged up, it created a storm that tore our family apart, sending him to prison and I’ve been fighting to get him out ever since.

“I’m meeting with his lawyer on Wednesday,” I say, trying to keep my frustration in check to calm my brother’s mood. “With this new evidence, we’ve got a shot at getting the appeal approved. He’s up for parole anyways.”

Cash pushes his chair back, standing with a clenched jaw and fire in his eyes. “I just want Colt home for the holidays, out of that hellhole.”

“We all do,” I reply, steady as ever because I’ve had to be. And I’ll continue to be for the people who are depending on me to keep it together and not fall apart.

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