Page 80 of Where the Blacktop Ends

Kent nods knowingly. “So, what’s Liam going to call me now that Georgia’s teaching him all these new words? Your papa says you’re talking in sentences now?”

Regan snickers. “Grampy?”

Lawson chimes in with a grin. “Granddaddy?”

Cash offers, “A pain in all of our asses?”

I can’t resist. With a sweet, innocent smile, I suggest, “How about Big Papa?”

Troy barks out a sharp, “No!” startling Liam in Kent’s arms. His siblings shoot him curious looks. Cash bursts into laughter, and Lawson shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Well, I’ll be damned...,” he mutters, disappearing into the kitchen with a smirk.

Troy’s eyes narrow at me, and he leans in close, his voice a low, dangerous whisper in my ear. “I’ll deal with you later.”

A delicious shiver runs up my spine. Because I like the sound of that.

“Dinner in thirty,” Kent calls out, glancing at the two of us while holding Liam close. “Big Papais going to take his great-grandson for a ride on the tractor. Troy, why don’t you giveCash a hand at the brewery? He’s got a new shipment in of our seasonal brews.”

Troy sighs, half-complaining. “Just got here and already being put to work.”

Kent shakes his head with a grin and walks off with Liam, while Regan loops her arm through mine. “Come on, Georgia. I’ll show you the baby chicks. Cash may have been provoking Troy, but they really are adorable.”

Troy levels her with a stern look. “Behave.” Then his eyes flick to mine, his voice dropping lower. “You too. Behave.”

I swallow hard, hearing both the warning and the promise in his tone as my pulse races. “Oh, I plan to,Big Papa,” I whisper back, just loud enough for only him to hear.

***

Regan’s laughter lingers as we make our way to a souped-up golf cart parked behind the main house.? The crunch of gravel under my boots stills my racing thoughts at Troy’s words. Growing up on a ranch, I’m no stranger to riding anything—4-wheelers, ATVs, tractors, horses—you name it, I’ve ridden or driven it. My twin cousins, Cody and Wilder, once stole an old golf cart from a nearby golf course, slapped on some monster truck tires, and tore around Ashwood Ranch, kicking up mud everywhere. Eventually it tipped over and almost broke Wilder’s arm which is when my uncle Nash took it away. So, when Regan gestures for me to climb into her modified cart, it doesn’t even faze me.

“Hang on!” she yells, slamming the vehicle into drive.

We zip off, bouncing down the dirt roads that weave through the property like a labyrinth. The path looks just wide enough for trucks to deliver goods deeper into the farmstead but not wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other at the same time. Thepavement quickly gives way to gravel, then dirt as cornstalks and fruit trees whiz by.

Finally, Regan pulls up to the front of the first building that has a single sign blowing in the breeze indicating it’s theWhitewood Creek Egg Farmstead. The first thing I notice is how peaceful everything feels down here. The road, now flanked by tall grasses, winds downward toward two large structures—a modern barn and a massive open-air facility beside it.

We hop out of the cart and follow a path between the buildings, which opens into vast fenced pastures. Chickens scatter across the fields, their feathers catching the golden light of the late October sun. Brown, red and black, their colors make a beautiful tapestry across the hill. In the distance, I spot clusters of baby chicks darting around with the boundless energy that only the young have.

There’s no industrial noise here, no overwhelming stench like the chicken farms I remember from Texas. The earthy smell of chicken manure blends with the natural surroundings, softening the usual assault on the senses.

“Our great-great-grandfather designed the original barn with proper ventilation to keep the smell manageable,” Regan explains beside me. “Chickens usually stink more than any other animal.”

“I’m surprised how fresh it smells here,” I admit.

She smiles, her blue eyes bright in the fading daylight. The peacefulness of the scene tugs at something inside me, stirring up memories of my home in Texas and causing me to miss it for just a moment. The only sounds are the soft clucks of the hens, the flutter of wings, and the breeze rustling through the grass. It’s a calm I hadn’t realized I’d missed until now.

We turn back to walk towards the modern structure and pass a few wooden signs proudly displaying phrases likePasture-Raised, Organic Feed Only, and No-Kill Facility.

“The chickens can move in and out freely through this back section as they please. It allows them to constantly have access to the freshest grass, bugs, and clean air.” She points at the open-air doors on the side of the largest building and the hens who are clucking peacefully as they move inside.

“It’s a sanctuary,” I respond.

She laughs. “It is. Like a little chicken heaven. We all love spending time here. Sometimes, I catch Cash in here brushing their feathers and talking to them. But don’t tell him I told you that,” she winks, and I laugh, imagining the outgoing brother I just met sneaking off to pet his chickens at night.

“If I were a chicken, this is where I’d want to live.”

She grins. “I’m glad you see it that way. Come on, let me show you the inside next.”

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