Page 20 of Mud & Moxie
His hand closes on the loose edge of the tarp.
A seam gives way with a sound like a zipper on a sleeping bag right before you find out if you’re warm enough.
The world tips.
***
9
Cracks in the Armor
MADISON
Matthew yells as the ladder skids sideways. I grab the side rail; Dylan rides the sway and drops down over the last three rungs in one hard jump. The tarp rips free and whips into the dark like a black flag.
Thunder cracks overhead.
Matthew curses, shoving the ladder upright again before Dylan steadies it. Then he wipes the rain from his brow. “South doors are slamming open and shut—I’ll get them.” He takes off on a run toward the far end of the barn, leaving Dylan and me in the storm’s teeth.
At the door closest to us, a gust shoulders through the gap hard enough to slam it against my hip.The roof groans, sheets of tin clattering like loose teeth. Dylan glances my way, dark hair damp, jaw set tight. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
I cross my arms, rain misting my skin. “You shouldn’t be going up there.”
He’s already halfway back up the ladder, hammer in one hand, nails tucked between his teeth. Pure determination—and recklessness. My stomach knots. The whole roof looks ready to peel off, and he climbs it like it’s nothing.
Lightning flashes. Thunder cracks so close I flinch. Dylan doesn’t pause. He plants his boots on the top rung, muttering around the nails like this is just another Tuesday.
“Dylan!” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, split between fear and fury. “Do you have a death wish?”
He pulls the nails from his mouth, glances down with maddening calm. “Somebody’s gotta keep this place standing.”
The barn shudders, dust rains from the rafters. I press a hand to the beam beside me, heart hammering.
He’s impossible. Infuriating.
Yet watching him fight the storm, every muscle straining, I can’t deny the lump in my throat.
Beneath the stubbornness is a man carrying more weight than one person should.
And I’m not sure how long he can hold it up alone.
***
By the time Dylan climbs down, soaked and windblown, I’ve piled every tool I can find onto the workbench: nails, extra boards, even the flashlight that only works if you shake it. Matthew hasn’t come back yet—off wrestling the south doors—so it’s just Dylan and me in the charged quiet. onto the workbench: nails, extra boards, even the flashlight that only works if you shake it.
He gives me a look, part exasperation, part surprise.
“You planning to fix the whole barn yourself?” he asks, running a hand through wet hair.
“Only if you fall and break your neck,” I shoot back, pushing the hammer toward him. “Until then, I’m your assistant. Don’t die—I don’t need that on my résumé.”
For a second, his scowl falters. I swear I see the hint of a smile. He takes the hammer, and we get to work. He braces boards while I steady the ladder, our shoulders brushing whenever the wind shoves us closer.
The storm rages, rain drumming against tin, but inside the barn a rhythm forms. He hands me nails without asking; I keep the flashlight steady without being told. Every board secured, every tarp nailed down—small victories we share.
A gust hits and the ladder wobbles. Dylan curses. I grab the rung, my palm pressed against his boot. “See?” I call up, breathless. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t go inside?”
He looks down, sweat and rain dripping, and for once he doesn’t argue.
