Page 9 of Mud & Moxie
“And you can’t plow your way out of a balance sheet that doesn’t add up,” she snaps back. “We do both. Or we’re done before we start.”
“Enough,” Matthew cuts in, voice low but edged. He turns to me first. “You’re right about the fences and the roof. Nonnegotiable. Operations need a lead, and you’re it.” He pivots to Madison before I can enjoy the win. “You’re also right that the money has to come from somewhere fast. No bank will float a dream. We need pre-booked events, partnerships, and a marketing calendar. That’s you.”
He faces us both again, the human version of a stop sign at an intersection with no lights. “If you two spend your energy tryingto prove the other wrong, this place dies. Ray didn’t ask you to agree—he asked you toco-manage.So here’s how it goes: Dylan, you run farm ops. Madison, you run business and branding. You both get veto power on expenses over a set number.”
“Five grand,” I say.
“Ten,” Dylan counters.
“Nine,” Matthew decides. “Weekly check-ins, Friday mornings, both present. Shared spreadsheet. If you deadlock, it waits till the next meeting unless it’s safety or animal welfare. Non-negotiables go through me until you two prove you can pick up the phone before you draw blood.”
He looks between us. “Pick your hill to die on, or pick the porch light you want lit by winter. But picktogether.”
The rain on the tin awning keeps time with my pulse. Dylan’s glare softens into something like reluctant respect—or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Either way, Matthew’s thrown the rope over the post. We can pull in the same direction or hang ourselves with it.
***
I pull my notebook from my tote, flip to a clean page, and write in big block letters:PACT.
“Farm Operations: Dylan,” I say as my pen moves. “Budget oversight: shared. Safety and animal care: automatic yes.” I glance up. “Branding & Business: Madison. Deliverables this month—one soft-launch supper, a market day stand, and a sponsor pitch deck.”
“Fence line: west pasture,” Dylan says, surprising me with how quickly he plays along. “Barn roof: patched within two weeks. Equipment: borrow a post driver from the mill until we see cash flow.” He looks at Matthew. “I’ll take those two hands you offered.”
Matthew nods. “I’ll also call Jenkins about liability waivers for events.” His eyes cut to me. “And you’re going to need permits if you’re feeding more than family on this lawn.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say, already adding a column labeledPermits/Insuranceand another labeledSponsors. My mind races—with names, with angles, with the way a before-and-after reel could go viral if we time it right. “I want weekly photo documentation. Nothing staged. Real work. People respond to that.”
Dylan huffs. “So you want me on camera while I’m knee-deep in mud.”
“Yes,” I say, and can’t help the small smile. “It’ll do wonders for your grumpy brand.”
His mouth almost,almosttilts. “You’re impossible.”
“Practical,” I correct. Then, because the air between us suddenly feels too warm, I hold the notebook out. “We both sign. It’s not a contract, but it’s a start.”
He studies me for a heartbeat, then takes the pen. His signature is bold, decisive. I add mine beneath it, hand steady even though my insides feel like high wire. Matthew’s fingertip taps the page when we’re done, the quiet approval of a foreman who’s seen crews rise and fold.
***
MATTHEW
They’re still bristling—same posture, same pride, just pointed in a slightly different direction now. The PACT sits between them on Madison’s notebook like a truce flag we all know could catch fire the second the wind shifts.
I look at the house. I see Ray on that porch in a threadbare sweater, coffee steaming, sun burning a path up over the maples. He wanted this place to live after him. He bet on the two peoplemost likely to fight each other to the floor and then carry one another home when it counted. Brave or foolish—I can’t tell yet.
What I do know is this: if they fail, the county gets a bargain and our town loses a heartbeat. If they hurt each other in the process, I lose my best friend or my sister—or both. I’m not letting that happen.
“Tomorrow,” Dylan says, and Madison lifts her chin like a dare.
They don’t look at me, but they don’t have to. I’m in this now—referee, backup crew, last line before the cliff.
The wind gusts, slamming the loose shutter. It sounds like a warning. I fix the hinge with my palm and feel the whole frame shiver under the pressure.
“Don’t drop this,” I tell the wood—then them. “Either of you.”
The silence that follows isn’t peace. It’s a countdown.
***
