Page 8 of Mud & Moxie
***
Matthew comes out the barn and joins us at the gate. He takes it all in without a word, jaw ticking, hands on his hips in that way that always meant he was taking stock before he spoke a hard truth. “This,” he says finally, voice even, “is bigger than yourpride.” His gaze pins us both—Dylan first, then me. “Bigger than whatever you two think about each other’s lives. It’s Ray’s place. Don’t make it a battlefield.”
Dylan unlatches the gate. The hinges protest with a rusted screech. He looks past me toward the barn roof that dips like a broken wing. “Watch your step,” he mutters.
I do. But I also look up. I try to see what Ray saw when he walked out on this porch—the porch light glowing, harvest dinners spilling into laughter, summers that lingered long after the sun went down. It hurts. Grief comes sharp and sudden, catching me under the ribs. Ray deserved better than this neglect. Maybe we all did.
Inside, the air is musty, the kind that clings to wood left unpainted too long. We step into the kitchen, boots creaking on floorboards that protest under the weight of memory.
Jenkins’s folder under my arm contains Ray’s WILL, pages marked with clauses that feel heavier than the sagging beams above us. Dylan and I take chairs across from each other, like opponents at a match neither of us wants to lose. Matthew drops into the third chair, arms folded, the referee who knows he might have to blow the whistle at any second.
Matthew flips the folder open and runs a finger down the page. "Six months of joint management, equal say in all decisions," he reads aloud, tone flat. "If either of you walks before that term, the land reverts to county auction." Dylan’s jaw works as if he’s grinding stone. My stomach knots—six months suddenly feels like six lifetimes.
Matthew clears his throat. "Veto power over expenses beyond a set limit. Safety and animal care decisions automatic yes. If you deadlock, it waits till the next meeting unless it’s urgent."
Clause by clause, Matthew helped us review the contents of Ray’s WILL. At the end, Matthew looks at each of us. "Ray wanted fairness. Balance. Not a tug-of-war." His eyes soften, andfor a moment, I see my brother—not just the mediator. "Don’t forget, he believed you both could carry this. Together."
Dylan leans forward, elbows on the scarred table. "Then we’d better figure out how not to tear it apart first." I swallow, pen scratching notes onto the margin of my planner, and the three of us sit in that kitchen—grief, pride, and possibility spread out between us like the ink on Ray’s WILL.
***
DYLAN
The land is a mess, but it’s not lost. I can see what needs doing the way some folks see blueprints—straight lines where fence has to go, bracing where posts have rotted, new tin over the barn to stop the leaks. I picture a tractor planting in dark, clean rows. I can hear engines again—steady, sure. We’ve turned worse ground around on the Carter side. This place still has a pulse if we dig deep and push.
I plant my palm on the porch rail. Flakes of paint dust my skin. “We start with fences,” I say, scanning the west pasture. “Posts sunk two feet, brace and a half on corners, pull new wire. That barn roof gets patched before the next rain. We can’t keep losing hay to rot.”
Matthew nods once. “You’ll need a crew—at least for the first push. I can spare two guys tomorrow morning.” He pauses, eyes shifting toward the peeling porch boards as if weighing ghosts. “Listen up, I want you both to know I understand why Ray would choose Madison to breathe life back into the place, he knew I'm stretched thin with the mill and our own acreage. Ray wanted to keep at least part of the farm in the family. Madison has the business chops. It makes sense. And y'all know I'll back you up. Right? I want this farm standing again as much as either of you.” His eyes flick to me, and then to Madison.
Madison’s heels click behind us as she moves onto the porch, and the sound doesn’t belong here but somehow it does—like a challenge, like a metronome keeping time we’ve all forgotten. She’s looking at the house the way investors look at a pitch deck: seeing more than what is, seeing what could be if someone tells the story right.
“Ray talked about this place like it was family,” I say before I can stop myself. “Said he kept a lightbulb in the porch fixture even after the wiring went bad, just to remember the glow.” I clear my throat and tug my cap lower. “We’ll get it lit again.”
Matthew’s hand lands on my shoulder, brief and solid. “Then let’s make a plan that doesn’t bleed cash or sanity by week two.”
***
Dylan and Matthew are counting posts and beams. I count something else—eyes. People. Guests. Followers. I see the porch scrubbed clean, strung with lights that hum at dusk. Long tables down the lawn with herbs in mismatched jars, a chalkboard sign that readsWilkes Farm Supper—tonight’s menu sourced within 50 miles.A Saturday morning farmstand with coffee and cinnamon rolls. Sunday sunrise yoga by the maples, cowbells low in the distance. And a weekend retreat package that sells out months in advance because it promises something people in my world ache for—quiet they can post about later.
My fingers trace the rail’s rough edge. “This house is content,” I say, and both men look at me like I’ve spoken Martian. “Not fake.Authentic.We don’t hide the age; we honor it. We give people experiences they want to talk about—harvest dinners, canning classes, a behind-the-scenes of actual farm life. We make it bookable. We make it beautiful. Sponsors will want in—kitchenware, outdoor lighting, seed partnerships with a sustainability angle. I can place it all.”
Matthew’s brows draw together, but not in dismissal. He’s running numbers in his head; I can see it. “You’re saying the story pays for the lumber.”
“Yes,” I say. “The storyisthe lumber.”
Dylan exhales like he’s been asked to swallow a stone. “You want to turn Ray’s place into a stage.”
I meet his eyes. “I want to turn it into a future.”
***
DYLAN
“It doesn’t matter how pretty the porch looks if the fields don’t produce,” I say. “Seed, fuel, veterinary bills—none of that’s paid in likes. You can’t feed cattle a caption.”
Madison steps closer, rain misting her hair. “And it doesn’t matter how perfectly straight your rows are if we can’t pay the note or keep the county from auctioning off the place in six months. People’s attention is currency, Dylan. We leverage it, or we lose.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You can’t hashtag your way out of a drought.”
