Page 36 of Mud & Moxie
Whispers rush louder: “Are they together?” “Was this planned?” Phones stay raised. Hashtags are already trending—I can almost see the posts forming. Part of me wants to panic. Another part—the part that’s been craving honesty—wants the truth out there, messy and raw.
Matthew finally steps from the shadows, approaching the stage. His expression is tight, but not hostile. He offers me ahand down from the steps, murmuring low enough that only I hear: “Guess you’re really doing this, huh?” I squeeze his hand, whisper back, “Yeah. I think I am.”
***
We retreat to the side of the ballroom, where chandeliers glow like constellations. Dylan stands close, awkward in the glittering setting, while Matthew hovers protectively nearby. A sponsor approaches, eyes wide with excitement. “If this is your angle—the farm, the authenticity—I want in. People are starving for something real.”
Her words tumble over me, surreal. I nod politely, but inside, all I hear is the wordreal.Dylan shifts uncomfortably, clearly out of place among silk ties and cocktail dresses, yet somehow grounding me more than anything in the room. Matthew watches, arms crossed, but there’s less fight in him now. More wary acceptance.
I thank the sponsor, promise to follow up, then turn to Dylan. His gaze searches mine like he’s trying to memorize me in this moment, this world I once thought I wanted. For the first time, I let him see the fear and the longing tangled together. He doesn’t flinch.
***
The night winds down, but the storm inside me only builds. I step back onto the stage for closing remarks. My scripted lines vanish from my mind, replaced by the steady beat of Dylan’s words. I grip the mic and speak from the heart.
“Mud & Moxie isn’t just a brand—it’s a bridge. Between roots and wings, past and future, dirt and dreams. It’s about honoring where we came from while daring to grow bigger.” I glance atDylan, then Matthew. “It’s about second chances. For farms, for families, for people who thought they were too different to ever find their way back to each other.”
The room falls silent. Then, applause surges—not polite, but thunderous. Cameras flash, hashtags explode, and for once, it doesn’t feel hollow. It feels earned.
I step away from the podium, heart pounding, and meet Dylan at the edge of the stage. The crowd blurs around us, but his eyes hold me steady. Whatever comes next—sponsors, headlines, gossip—we’ll face it together.
***
17
The Farmhouse Forever
DYLAN
Walking through the house now feels like stepping into a different life. The front door no longer sticks, swinging open easily to reveal a brightened hallway where sunlight spills through polished windows. The kitchen hums with warmth—fresh bread cooling on the counter, the faint scent of cedar from the newly sanded cabinets, and Madison’s herb garden perched neatly on the sill. Upstairs, the once-creaking stairs carry us to bedrooms painted in light colors, with quilts spread across beds for guests who will come for retreats. Even the attic, once dusty and forgotten, has been cleared to store her event supplies and my old ledgers side by side. Each space breathes differently now, alive with shared purpose and love.
The porch rail gleams with fresh paint, a project finished with the help of neighbors who showed up on weekends with brushes and ladders. Matthew was there too, grumbling but steady as he hammered nails and carried lumber. Even the local 4-H kids pitched in to clear weeds and plant flowers, laughing as theyworked. Guests who arrive now often pause at the entrance, remarking on how the place shines with new life, not just because of Madison and me, but because the whole community had a hand in breathing it back to life. The shutters hang straight again, and the roof no longer leaks when it rains.
Six months have passed, and when I look back I can trace the milestones that got us here: the first week we argued over everything from chores to finances, the night we sat in the kitchen counting pennies to buy seed, the morning she convinced a sponsor to take a chance, the afternoon I taught her to drive the tractor and she nearly tipped it. There were setbacks—storms that flattened rows, a calf we lost despite all efforts—but there were victories too: the first fence line finished together, the first guest who said the place felt like home.
Each moment stitched us closer, proof that we learned not only to share the farm but to share ourselves. Months of sweat, arguments, laughter, and compromise have transformed Ray’s neglected farmhouse into a place that feels like ours. Not just mine, not just hers—ours. Madison’s touch is everywhere: curated décor in every room, an airy office she’s carved out for blogging and planning retreats, and a guest suite prepared for visitors who come to stay. Her presence is stitched into the details, blending her brand identity with the farmhouse’s renewed soul. Flowers line the walkway, the new sign out front readsMud & Moxie Farmstead, etched in bold script. And my mark is here too: the repaired fences, the sturdy barn, the fields humming with life again. The farmhouse doesn’t just stand—it thrives, a testament to what we built together.
***
The executor signed off the papers in a small wood-paneled office that smelled of old books, ink, and rain-soaked coats. Theair was hushed except for the scratch of his fountain pen across thick paper. My palms were damp against the polished oak table as I watched the final line of Ray’s WILL take shape. The leather chair creaked beneath me, the clock on the wall ticked too loud, and every sound hammered home the permanence of the moment. Out of the corner of my eye, Madison sat tall, her fingers white-knuckled on the edge of her notebook, until she slipped her hand quietly into mine under the conference table. Her touch steadied me, and for the first time in months I exhaled fully, realizing this was not just about inheritance—it was about the life we were building together. Equal co-owners, bound for at least three years by Ray’s covenant, but really bound by something deeper. When the ink dried, I knew this wasn’t just survival—it was the beginning of a forever.
***
The retreats are full of life and color: the air rich with the aroma of roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and herbs clipped straight from Madison’s kitchen garden. Guests chatter and laugh, children squeal with delight as they chase barn cats or gather eggs, and music drifts from a speaker tucked under the eaves. As dusk falls, lanterns strung between the trees glow softly, illuminating long wooden tables decorated with jars of wildflowers and hand-lettered place cards Madison curated herself. Every detail is Instagram-ready but also warmly authentic, her signature blend of polish and heart that makes visitors feel both enchanted and at home.
On Saturday mornings, the driveway fills with cars, and every retreat feels like a story unfolding. One weekend a retired teacher clasped Madison’s hands, tears in her eyes, thanking her for reminding her what community tastes like. Another time a sponsor from the city wandered the orchard at dusk, marvelingaloud that it looked like something out of a film and promising support for future events. Families spread quilts under the trees, children pressed their noses against the chicken coop wire, and couples leaned in close over glasses of cider. The driveway doesn’t just hold vehicles—it carries anticipation, curiosity, and the hum of lives briefly stitched together by the farm’s promise.
I watch her directing guests, pride swelling in my chest even as a flicker of insecurity tugs at me. She thrives here in a way I never imagined—her laughter bright, her directions crisp, her presence magnetic. Part of me wonders if I’ll ever measure up to her polish, if my muddy boots and blunt edges can really stand beside her glossy world. But then I catch the way she glances over at me mid-sentence, as if to anchor herself, with a clipboard in one hand and a glass of cider in the other, smiling as if this is what she was born to do. And maybe she was. She’s taken Ray’s dream, my sweat, and her vision, and made them into something new: a farm that doesn’t just survive, but invites the world in to celebrate it.
After one of the retreats, I hear Madison telling a group of sponsors about her long-term vision—seasonal festivals, educational programs for kids, even online storytelling workshops that connect city families back to the soil. Her voice is alive with conviction, her hands painting pictures in the air as she explains how Mud & Moxie can bridge two worlds. Later, when we’re alone, she leans into me and repeats the same dreams more softly, confessing that she never thought she could merge her influencer world with her roots until now. Listening to her, I realize the farmhouse has become more than shelter or inheritance. It’s the stage for everything we’re building together.
***
Matthew lingers at the edge of most gatherings, but I can still remember when he wasn’t just lingering—he was openly objecting. In those early weeks he warned me not to toy with her, reminded me of every reason it could never work, and threw up walls between us every chance he got. The memory of his sharp words makes the contrast with today feel sharper, more unexpected. At first, he bristled at our every laugh, our every stolen glance. But slowly, his edges softened. Today, he steps up onto the porch, eyes scanning the happy chaos of guests sipping cider and kids chasing chickens. His voice is gruff when he finally speaks. “You’ve done right by Ray. By the farm.” He glances at Madison, then back at me. “By each other too, I suppose.”
It’s not flowery, not warm—but it’s Matthew’s version of surrender. Madison’s eyes mist over, and I squeeze her hand, grateful for the weight of his reluctant blessing.
Later, as the retreat winds down, he corners me by the barn. The smell of hay and cooling earth hangs in the air, lantern light throwing long shadows across his face. His jaw works before he speaks, like he’s chewing over words he doesn’t want to say. Finally, he mutters about Ray, how the old man would’ve wanted us to figure this out together. Then he admits what I never expected to hear—that he’s been afraid all along, afraid of losing his sister to heartbreak and losing me as his closest friend in the same breath. The admission softens the anger in his tone, makes his blessing feel heavier, more costly, and rougher but laced with truth. “I’ll always watch out for her, Dylan. That won’t change. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re the one who will actually keep her safe.”
