Page 5 of The Back Forty
“Hey, Law. Didn’t expect to see you out tonight,” his deep voice booms.
“Had to swing by the egg farm,” I say, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Cash wanted to go over some new branding ideas he had. I’m flying out tomorrow to pitch it. Grabbed someupdated shots while I was out there and figured I’d get a drink since Beckham’s with his mom tonight.”
Colt nods without any further questions. He’s always been a man of few words.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He snorts, and Molly already has a soda in front of him before he answers. “Watching my girl.”
Molly rolls her eyes but she's grinning at my brother, and I smirk back instead of gagging like Cash probably would’ve. He’d be dramatically pretending to throw up from across the room if he saw the way these two looked at each other. But me? I’m glad for them. Colt’s had a rougher road than most. Nearly two years out of a five-year prison sentence, and somehow ended up marrying his parole officer—who also happened to be his best friend’s little sister and a woman who's always felt like she belonged with our family. That’s a whole story on its own. But I’ll say this, Molly Patrick, now Molly Marshall, brought my brother back to himself after getting out of that hell. And if someone helps you find your way when you've lost yourself, they deserve your respect and love.
“You gonna be around for the baby shower in October?” she asks me, tossing a rag over her shoulder.
“Just send me the date and I’ll keep it clear.”
“October thirty-first.”
I blink, sip, and laugh under my breath. “Seriously? Halloween?”
She grins sheepishly. “Rae’s throwing it. You know how she gets about Halloween. She goes crazy during the autumn, I swear.”
“It would be Rae,” Colt mutters.
“What would be Rae?” comes Rae's voice from behind me as she gives my shoulder a solid squeeze. “Nice to see you, Lawson. You’ve been off the radar lately. I can’t remember the last time I caught you in town.”
“He leaves again tomorrow,” Molly chimes in, hands planted on her hips.
“Of course he does,” Rae sighs, leaning on the bar. “Where to this time? Alaska?”
“The West Coast,” I say. “LA first. Interview with a major network about the chickens. Then heading to San Diego to pitch the summer seltzers. Would be launching sooner if y’all could keep up with production demand,” I add, elbowing Colt easily.
He just grunts and sips his soda like that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve said all night.
“So… is this the first business trip with the new girl?” Rae asks, arching a brow.
I nod, trying not to show how I feel about it—because I’m not the guy who complains. That’s never been my role. Cash is the life of the party. Colt’s the quiet one. Troy’s the grumpy turned charismatic bulldozer and governor of the whole state of North Carolina and Reagan’s the wild card and sunshine. Me? I’m the chill one. The one who doesn’t ruffle feathers, doesn’t ask for help, doesn’t show when he’s overwhelmed. I just keep my head down and stay busy executing on everyone’s dreams and delivering the hell out of them so we can all keep our jobs and stay rich.
“Yeah,” I say simply.
“You met her yet?” Molly presses.
“Nope. All I know is she better be at the airport tomorrow morning by seven sharp because that’s when her boarding pass says we leave.”
Rae winces. “Oof. You run a tight ship. Glad I don’t work for the Marshall family empire,” she jokes, then eyes Molly. “And what exactly are youdoing behind the bar tonight?”
Molly shrugs. “Staff called out. You know how it is.”
That’s how it always is around here. Doesn’t matter what your title is—cop, brother, farmer, wedding planner, mayor, bartender. If something needs doing, we do it. If there’s chicken shit to clean or whiskey barrels to roll, someone shows up. Always a Marshall.
Except for me. I never ask for help. My siblings don’t have to fly out, don’t have to leave their friends, their families, or this town behind to help with my side of the business. I don’t call off sick. I don’t miss a pitch. I show up, every time, because that’s what’s expected of me. Because if I don’t, who will?
And maybe that’s just the role I’ve slipped into without ever thinking twice. But I wouldn't tell them this, but lately, I've been feeling overwhelmed. Frankly, it’s kind of my personal mission to be the best damn dad I can be to Beckham during the weeks he’s with me. And on the weeks that I don’t have him I work like I’m trying to outrun grief. Twenty-four hours a day, hopping from city to city, meeting to meeting, pitch to pitch, chasing the future I want for all of us.
Molly gives me a small smile and wipes down the bar with practiced ease while sliding another beer over to Smythe, one of our town locals, who’s parked on the stool next to us doing a bad job of pretending not to eavesdrop. He’s leaned in just enough to catch pieces of the conversation while swirling his drink casually.
“Y’all hired someone outside the Marshall family?” he pipes up, not even bothering to pretend anymore.
I glance sideways at him, then smile. Smythe’s alright. Old, retired Marine who still stands like he’s waiting for orders and talks more shit than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s known for tailgating high school football games with my younger brother Cash and making wild bets with Coach Harper about who’s gonna fumble first. He also inherited Mrs. Mayberry’s gossip crown when she passed away last spring, and he wears it proudly.
