Page 10 of Mud & Moxie
5
Back in the Dirt
DYLAN
The morning sun breaks through the clouds, sharp and bright after yesterday’s rain. The fields glisten, mud clinging thick to the ruts in the lane. I know better than to wear anything but rubber boots in weather like this. Madison, of course, didn’t get the memo.
She’s ten paces ahead of me, balancing on the edge of the path like it’s a catwalk. Her sleek city-cowboy boots don’t last five steps before the heel sinks into muck. She squeals, yanks at her foot, and the boot stays buried while she stumbles forward in socked feet. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Need a hand?” I call, more smirk than sympathy.
She spins on me, hair whipping, mud streaked across the hem of her jeans. “I’ve got it.” She braces on the fence post and tugs, finally wrenching the boot free with a loudschlopthat sprays mud in a perfect arc—right across her blouse. Her glare could cut steel. My chest shakes with a laugh I barely choke down.
She soldiers on toward the chicken coop, muttering under her breath. I follow, slower, watching as she swings the latch open. The second the door cracks, feathers explode like confetti. The hens pour out in a frenzy, wings flapping, squawks rising. Madison shrieks and flails as one particularly determined hen makes a beeline for her hair.
She takes off running, arms pin-wheeling, the chicken hot on her heels. I lean against the fence, laughter spilling free, echoing across the yard. She’s a mess—mud-streaked, hair wild, screeching at a five-pound hen—and still she refuses to give up. There’s something almost admirable in the chaos.
Almost.
***
The racket draws attention faster than I’d like. By the time Madison corrals the last hen—if you can call flailing and stumbling a method—three neighbors have gathered along the fence line. Old Mrs. Hardy from down the road, arms crossed and apron still dusted with flour, shakes her head like she’s watching a train wreck. Young Tom Jenkins leans on his bike, grinning like he’s discovered free entertainment. Even Ed Wilson, who hardly leaves his barn, is perched on the fence rail, chewing straw and enjoying the show.
“City girl’s got her hands full,” Ed drawls, nodding toward Madison as she lunges for a runaway hen and misses by a mile.
“She’ll never last a week,” Mrs. Hardy mutters, not even lowering her voice.
Madison hears it. I can tell by the way her shoulders stiffen, even as she forces a laugh and tries again. Mud clings to her jeans, feathers to her hair, but she straightens every time she falls, brushing herself off like she’s staging a comeback. Hersmile is tight, practiced—the kind you flash when you know people are waiting to see you fail.
My gut twists. I’ve lived here my whole life. I know what small-town gossip can do, how quick folks decide who belongs and who doesn’t. Madison’s fighting more than chickens. She’s fighting the weight of every sideways glance and whispered word.
I cross my arms, leaning against the fence. Part of me wants to laugh along with the crowd.
The other part… the other part isn’t laughing at all.
***
I push off the fence with a sigh, ignoring the chuckles of the onlookers. Madison’s chasing hens in circles, arms flapping like she’s trying to take flight herself. She’s got grit, I’ll give her that, but at this rate she’ll be at it until sundown.
“Move,” I mutter, stepping past her. She opens her mouth—probably to argue—but I’m already in the coop, clapping my hands and guiding the birds back with practiced ease. A few flaps, a quick reach, and I’ve got the last one tucked under my arm. Its indignant squawk cuts through the yard as I latch the door.
The fence-line audience groans like the show’s been cut short. Tom pedals off, still laughing. Mrs. Hardy shakes her head and heads back down the road. Ed spits out his straw and mutters something I don’t catch before sauntering away.
I glance at Madison. She’s standing there, panting, hair full of feathers, blouse smeared with mud. Her eyes spark with humiliation—and stubborn pride. “I had it under control,” she says between breaths.
“Sure you did.” I set the chicken down. “Next time, maybe wear higher boots.”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “Next time, maybe don’t assume I can’t handle it.”
I fight a smile. She’s ridiculous.
But the way she’s standing there, mud-streaked and unyielding,
I can’t help but respect her a little.
***
She looks like a disaster, all messed up and muddy, but not defeated. She straightens her spine and meets my gaze with the same fire I remember from years ago. The kind that says she’ll claw her way through anything rather than admit defeat.
