Page 11 of Mud & Moxie
Most people would’ve quit already. Packed up, gone inside, sworn off chickens forever. But Madison? She wipes mud from her cheek with the back of her hand, squares her shoulders, and bends to pick up the scattered feed bucket like she’s starting round two.
Something shifts in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I admire her grit, even if she has no clue what she’s doing. She’s out of her depth, drowning in feathers and mud, but she refuses to let the town - or me - see her break. That stubborn streak I used to call arrogance looks a whole lot more like courage from where I’m standing now.
I shove my hands in my pockets, scowling at the ground before I give too much away.
The truth is, watching her keep going despite every bit of humiliation makes me want to root for her.
Makes me wonder if Ray saw this in her all along.
***
She finally wrestles the feed bucket from the mud, cheeks burning, feathers still sticking stubbornly to her hair. For the first time all morning, I don’t laugh. I follow her gaze when she glances toward the fields beyond the house. My heart skips.
The land’s a wreck—ragged lines, weeds choking out good soil, puddles where drainage failed. To her, it probably looks like a mess. To me, it looks like a ghost. Like the future I once planned here but never saw through. Ray and I used to talk about running this ground side by side, making it something bigger, something better. But life had other plans. And when he passed, all that promise went with him.
My hand grips the porch rail until my knuckles pale. I don’t even realize Matthew’s come up behind me until I feel his eyes on me too. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, and in his silence I know he understands. He’s seen me carry this weight for years. He knows how much of me is still buried in these fields.
Madison notices, too.
Her expression softens, confusion mixing with something like sympathy.
She doesn’t ask, but the questions are in her eyes: what did this place take from you? What broke you here?
***
MADISON
The silence stretches, thick with things unspoken. Dylan doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move, just keeps his eyes fixed on the fields like if he stares hard enough, the past might right itself. There’s a shadow in his posture I’ve never noticed before—a heaviness that doesn’t come from work alone.
I hug the feed bucket to my chest, mud dripping down my arms, and for the first time since I arrived, my frustrationwavers. I came here ready to prove myself, ready to fight him at every turn. But right now, all I can think about is the way his shoulders slump, the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding back more than words.
Something happened here.
Something that scarred him deeper than fences falling or barns rotting. And I can’t shake the thought: what tragedy hardened Dylan Carter? What loss carved that grief into him?
The question lingers, heavier than the mud on my clothes.
I don’t have the answer yet, but I know one thing—I want to find out.
***
Matthew comes striding into the yard just as Madison sets the feed bucket down with a huff. His boots crunch over gravel, his eyes flicking between us like he’s trying to decide who needs scolding more. “Heard the commotion all the way down the lane,” he says dryly. “Guess the chickens won this round.”
Madison plants her hands on her hips. “Totally had it handled. Dylan just ruined my strategy.” Her sass almost convinces me—almost.
Matthew chuckles, but then his gaze sharpens on me. “Funny, isn’t it? Watching my little sister flail around in the mud while you lean on the fence.” The protective edge in his voice is as familiar as the fields themselves.
I lift a brow. “I stepped in. Birds are back where they belong.”
“Yeah, after half the county got a free show.” He shakes his head, but there’s humor hiding in his exasperation. Madison rolls her eyes and mutters something about small-town entertainment.
We drift toward the coop together, the three of us like shadows of who we used to be—siblings in everything but blood.For a moment, I’m back in high school, sneaking sodas from Ray’s fridge with Matthew, Madison trailing behind insisting she could keep up. Only now the weight of years, grief, and responsibility sits heavy on all of us.
Matthew nudges the chicken coop door with his boot. “Do I need to say it again? Place needs fixing. You two willing to stop bickering long enough to help?”
Madison groans dramatically, but she grabs a hammer from the shed. I can’t fight the smirk tugging at my mouth. She’s messy, stubborn, and way out of her depth—but she’s still here, trying.
As we set to work, the banter continues, Matthew ribbing his sister, Madison firing back, me grumbling in between.
