Page 17 of Mud & Moxie
Dylan’s jaw flexes. “Plan.”
Inside, the kitchen smells like coffee grounds and hay dust, which is a terrible scent combination and also somehow my favorite now. Matthew drags the Ray Wilkes memorial legal folder onto the table—the one with deeds and deadlines and the underlined line that says if the farm can’t show solvent operations by harvest, everything Ray built gets carved up and sold.
“So.” Matthew taps the folder. “If you’re committed to the… performance in town—”
“It’s not—” I start.
He cocks an eyebrow.
“Fine,” I sigh. “It’s strategy. Temporary.”
“It should never be temporary when it comes to the farm,” Dylan says, voice low. He’s looking at the folder, not me.
I pinch my fingers together to keep from reaching for him. “The strategy is to get enough attention to float the proof-of-concept suppers and the flour from your mill and the ‘Farm Firsts’ series. Not because it’s cute. Because it’s revenue. Because it buys us runway to do this right.”
Matthew nods like he hates agreeing with me. “Ground rules, then.
One: nobody climbs anything alone.
Two: nobody drives anything without a spotter.
Three:if you’re going to let town-folk believe you’re playing house, you keep the drama off-camera.”
“Deal,” I say.
Dylan looks at me finally, eyes pale and unreadable.
“Four:you tell the truth in what you post.”
My mouth is dry. “Always.”
“Then we start with tractors,” Dylan says, clapping his hands once like a coach. “Because the wheat isn’t going to plant itself and I’m too handsome to die pushing this field by hand.”
***
There are skills you learn with your brain and skills you learn with your bones. Tractor driving is both and neither. It’s also a surprise arm workout when you panic and oversteer.
“Ease it,” Dylan says from the step, one boot on the metal rung, one hand braced on the fender. “Ease. Don’t fight it.”
“I’m not fighting,” I say, fighting. The wheel is alive under my palms, and our row looks like it’s trying to chart an escape route.
He leans in, reaches across me to nudge the throttle, the brim of his cap bumping my temple. The scent of sun and old cotton and clean sweat fills every cell I own. His forearm brushes my ribs. Neutral. Totally neutral. I am a professional.
“Look ahead,” he murmurs. “Pick a point and go there. Not the ground. There.” He taps the far fencepost.
I do it. We straighten. The hum of the engine smooths out like a compliment.
“Better,” he says. There’s a ghost of a smile on his mouth before he notices and erases it. He takes his hat off and sets it on my head. “Sun,” he says, like it’s a reason and not a gesture that detonates in my chest.
“Cute,” Matthew calls from the field edge. He’s filming, the traitor. “City girl cosplays farmer. Internet loses its mind.”
“Internet can lose its mind about the straight row,” I call back, giddy and proud. I keep my eyes on the fencepost, ease the throttle at the turn, breathe. The second row is better. The third is almost clean. My bones start to learn.
We spend an hour like that—Dylan’s voice a metronome, my hands discovering they can be steady. Sweat runs down my spine; dust cakes in my elbows. I love it. I love it in a way I don’t know what to do with, because loving this means loving everything that comes with it.
Which is when the goats stage a jailbreak.
“Gate!” Matthew shouts.
