Page 6 of The Back Forty
“Yeah, Smythe. We did,” I reply, careful to keep my tone easy. “Girl from the west coast.”
His grin spreads like someone just handed him the secret recipe to our distillery’s peach shine. “What’s her name?”
I lift my glass and take a slow sip, stalling. “Hell, if I know. Regan didn't even show me her resume. Just interviewed and hired her without telling me.”
That gets a lifted brow out of Molly and a soft snort of laughter from Rae, who’s lounging behind the bar comfortably. She crosses her arms over her chest and smiles.
“Regan said she goes by Dani.”
Dani. Great. Now I’ve got a name for the woman who’s about to follow me around like a shadow and probably get on my last nerve. Not that I'm an impatient guy. I've got plenty of patience and time. But Dani's probably used to five-dollar lattes and catered meetings. She probably thinks chickens are cute in a quirkyPinterestkind of way but has no idea how to market eggs to third-generation grocers in backroad Alabama.
Dani, who might smile and nod at my pitch deck and still have no damn clue what it means to grow something from dirt and sweat and turn it into something you’re proud to pass down.
Maybe she’ll take one look at the real side of this job which includes early flights, long hours, occasional chicken shit under your nails and whiskey samples at ten in the morning, and decide she misses tech sales, west coast sunsets, and kombucha.
Maybe while we’re in L.A. for work this next week she’ll catch a whiff of whatever she left behind and just… stay there.Yeah, that sounds good.
And look, I’m not an asshole. I’m not going to be mean to her, I’m not gonna make her feel small or unwanted, but Iamgoing to test her. I’m going to make sure she knows her shit. That she understands what she’s walking into. Because the Marshall family name? That’s not a brand to me. That’s my kid’s future. It’s our story. It’s a promise built on trust, on ethics, on the kind of small-town loyalty that doesn’t bend when the market does. And I’m not about to let some slick, stock-optioned, yoga-before-breakfast transplant screw it up.
“This Dani, whoever she is, she’s in for a real treat getting to work with you,” Rae says, sliding a fresh napkin across the counter just to give her hands something to do. “I’ve always been curious about how you run things when you're on the road. With my background in PR and marketing I can tell you do a good job.”
“You sure you don’t want to quit your mayor gig and join me full-time?” I grin at her.
She laughs, tossing her light brown hair over one shoulder. “And let down the fine people of Whitewood Creek who voted for me in a landslide to kick your brothers' ass? Absolutely not. But seriously, Law, I think this’ll be good for you.”
Molly leans forward, her elbows on the bar. “I agree. We miss having you around. Maybe you can train her up enough to take over some of your travel. Let you stay back a bit.”
I offer a practiced smile, the kind that makes people think I’m nodding along when really inside I’m screamingnot a fucking chance in hell am I giving this up.
“Sure,” I say smoothly.
Colt chuckles beside me, low and amused. He doesn’t call me on it, doesn’t out me, but he knows exactly what that suremeans. It meansno.
I drain the rest of my whiskey and toss a few bills on the bar.
Molly frowns like I just insulted her. “Really? It’s your own damn bar.”
I shrug, standing up and stretching the tension out of my back. “Give it to Smythe. He looks like he could use it.”
Smythe snorts behind his beer, still half-smirking and clearly unashamed with my suggestion. He reaches past the wood barrier like this is his living room and snatches up the money. “I’m not above free charity.”
I shake my head and push back from the stool, dragging a hand through my hair that’s about two weeks past manageable. Thick, unruly, and curling at the ends—just like Beckham's is when his mom and I get too busy to drag him to the barbershop. I could use a haircut. And a shave. I make a mental note to do both as soon as I land tomorrow after the interview. There’s a place I like down in Newport beach. Old-school barber, straight razor, warm towels. The kind of place that doesn’t rush you, even if you’re in town for just a day.
That’s how it is for me lately. City to city, state to state. I’ve got my haunts across the country, spots where I know the coffee’sstrong, the weights are heavy, and the people mind their damn business. I’ve made a life out of bouncing from one to the next like it’s normal, because for me, it is. Always on the road. Always moving. Except during my on-weeks with Beckham. That’s when the world stops, and I stay put.
Autumn’s creeping in now. The leaves are starting to change, air cooling at night. Football season’s back, which means I’ll be trying harder to get home for games and quiet Sunday afternoons on the couch with my son. It’s also molting season for the hens, which slows down production on the egg farm. Fewer eggs, fewer deliveries. But that just means I shift gears, push our spirits harder. Holidays are around the corner, and if we time it right, Marshall whiskey ends up on a lot of gift lists.
I tap the bar twice with my knuckles. “Love you guys.”
“We love you, Lawson!” they call after me, a ragtag chorus of voices behind me.
Boots hit the floor, heavy and familiar. I make my way through the crowd, stopping more than once—handshakes, back claps, a fewHow you doin’s, son?from folks I’ve known since I was tall enough to ride a bike to town and back. Slows me down, like it always does, so by the time I finally step out into the night and toward my truck, it’s a full thirty minutes later than I’d planned and I’m bone-deep exhausted. I just want to get home, slide into bed, and crash hard before my 5 a.m. alarm wakes me up for my flight.
Except that doesn’t happen.
I’m halfway across the gravel lot, mind already shifting into interview mode and thinking through tomorrow’s pitch when mid-step I come to a halt.
What the hell?
