Page 12 of Mud & Moxie
But beneath the jokes runs something unspoken: Matthew’s warning to me, Madison’s determination to prove herself, and my own uneasy hope that maybe—just maybe—we can rebuild more than just a chicken coop.
***
MADISON
By the time we’re done hammering the last crooked board into place, my arms are trembling from effort I’m not used to. Sweat trickles down my neck despite the cool breeze. I swat at a strand of hair clinging to my face, smearing mud across my cheek like war paint. The coop looks rough, but at least it’s standing. The chickens cluck inside, indignant but contained.
Matthew eyes my handiwork skeptically. “Better than I expected,” he admits. His voice carries that older-brother edge, the one that makes me want to prove him wrong just to watch his expression change.
“High praise from you,” I shoot back, propping my hands on my hips. “Maybe I should add ‘professional carpenter’ to my blog bio.”
Dylan snorts. “Sure. Put up a picture of that board you bent the nails into. Sponsors will line up.”
I glare, but there’s no real heat. The banter feels different now—less like war, more like sparring partners figuring out their rhythm. Still, I can’t shake the heat in my chest when Dylan’s gaze lingers, softer than his words.
***
We put the tools away, but the silence after the laughter feels heavier than it should. Matthew lingers near the shed, his arms folded. He’s watching me like he’s trying to solve an equation that doesn’t add up.
“Ray wanted this place cared for,” he says finally. “Not turned into a circus.”
The words are meant for both of us, but his eyes pin me. The unspoken part:Don’t screw this up—with the farm or with her.
“I know what Ray wanted,” I say, sharper than I intend. I take a breath, force my voice down. “I’m trying.”
Madison leans on the fence, hair tangled, blouse ruined, but chin high. “We both are.”
Something shifts in Matthew’s expression. Not approval, not yet, but maybe the first crack in the wall he’s built between us. He pushes away from the shed and heads toward the house without another word.
I watch him go, then glance at Madison.
She’s still standing there, stubborn as ever, mud and feathers clinging like a badge of honor.
And damn if my chest doesn’t tighten at the sight.
***
6
Town Gossip
MADISON
Ilove going to the local farmer’s market. It hums like a beehive. Tinny music blares from a bluetooth speaker. The sweet smell of kettle corn drifts through the crowd. Yeast and cinnamon roll out from the bakery tent. Sunlight flashes off mason jars lined like soldiers: pickles, peaches, honey the color of stained glass.
I brace for quaint. What I get is a slow-motion head swivel the instant Dylan and I step onto Main Street together.
Whispers buzz my way before we clear the first stall. Mrs. Latham—matchbook queen, cardigan commander—pauses mid-sale to stare, three floral matchbooks fanned in her palm like playing cards. The jam ladies lean across their gingham table. The teen barista at Bean There cranes over her espresso machine with foam art half-finished.
I lock my smile in place, the one that says sure, photograph me while I pretend I’m not combusting inside. Dylan just tips his cap at Mr. Hanley’s produce like he owns the pavement. I nudge him with my tote. “Do they always ogle like this?”
“Market’s entertainment budget is small,” he murmurs, mouth tilted. “We’re free.”
I want to laugh, but my throat is tight.
All eyes follow us like we’re a parade float rolling too close for comfort.
I grew up here. I should know how this works.
