Page 5 of Mud & Moxie
Jenkins slides the folder across. “You’ll need to sign acknowledgment forms today, but I want you to take this entire WILL and read it thoroughly. If you have any questions about it, you know how to reach me.”
Madison snatches the pen first, fingers trembling just enough to notice. She signs with a flourish, shoves the papers at me like a dare.
I don’t back down. My name carves into the page, bold and final. Dylan Carter. It feels heavier, like Ray’s ghost is watching.
When I set the pen down, Madison’s eyes lock with mine. Fire blazes there, and the old pull stirs in my chest. I shove it down. This isn’t about her. This is about Ray. About the farm.
Jenkins gathers the papers with a nod. “Good. Tomorrow marks the beginning. Rest up.”
Rest. As if.
I stand, chair screeching, Madison rising a beat later. We glance at Matthew without words.
The storm outside booms again, rattling the windows like cannon fire.
As we walk out shoulder to shoulder—but not side by side—the weight of what just happened presses deep.
Six months.
A farm on the line.
Madison Wilkes at my hip.
It feels less like inheritance and more like walking into battle.
***
3
Old Wounds
MADISON
By the time we step out of Jenkins’s office the storm has let up a bit, but the air still smells of rain—wet asphalt, earth stirred up and raw.
My heels click against the pavement, and the whole town feels like it’s holding its breath.
I tell myself to focus on the puddles, to keep my suede pumps out of them, but my brain has other plans. It cracks open doors I’ve tried to keep shut for years.
Memories spill out uninvited.
Summers at Uncle Ray’s farm when I was a kid—bare feet on warm hay bales, the buzz of cicadas, the sticky taste of lemonade on my tongue. Dylan was always there, trailing after my older brother Matthew like a shadow, but somehow ending up everywhere I was. Matthew would narrow his eyes, standing between me and whatever trouble might be lurking, but Dylan still found ways to slip past his guard. He’d toss me a teasing grin when I tried to keep up with them, my skinny legs flying tomatch their longer strides. Once, he shoved a wildflower crown on my head and called me “Farm Princess.” I pretended to hate it, but secretly, I loved the attention.
My memory shifts, a sharper image taking its place—the high school dance. The gym smelled of cheap perfume and popcorn, colored lights flashing against the shiny floor. Matthew had been my shadow that night too, leaning against the bleachers with arms crossed, making sure no one got too close. But Dylan had asked me to save him a dance. I didn't know whether he was joking or not. My stomach had flipped when the slow song came on—“Amazed,” the one every couple seemed to claim astheirsong. He showed up, hands shoved in pockets, eyes darting like he’d rather be anywhere else. I reached out, nerves jangling, hope burning. And he laughed. Said something about how I always wanted the spotlight. How I was chasing shallow things.
The words burned then, and they still do. Too superficial. Not real work. That’s what he thought of me. That’s what everyone thought of me when I left this town. Matthew had stepped in that night, ready to deck him if I gave the nod, but I walked away instead—hot-faced, furious, humiliated.
Now, years later, the memory still throbs like a bruise.
***
The sky has turned a darker gray, clouds stacked heavy on the horizon. I keep my gaze on the street as we walk, but the memory won’t let go. His words from that dance cling like burrs:too superficial, not real work.
I can still see the way his mouth had twisted, like I was ridiculous for wanting more than cows and cornfields. I’d spent years since then proving him wrong—building a following, signing sponsorships, creating a career out of my voice and ideas. And yet, standing beside him now, it feels like none of itmatters. Like one dismissive look from Dylan Carter can shrink me back into that girl with glitter on her dress and shame in her throat.
I shoot him a sidelong glance. He’s quiet, as always, his stride steady and sure. His silence is the worst part. He doesn’t need words to tell me what he thinks. He never did. One look, one arched brow, and I’m back to being judged. Not good enough. Not serious enough. Notreal.
Matthew glances back at us as if sensing the shift. His shoulders square, protective as ever, and the warning in his eyes is clear. I can practically hear the unspoken rule:Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him see he still has that power.
