Page 28 of Mud & Moxie
He doesn’t ask what happened—one look at my face is enough. “Grab your suitcase, and get in,” he says, voice low, steady. I slide into the bench seat, the familiar smell of leather andblack coffee wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed.
I watch him stride toward the porch, fury in every line of his shoulders. Dylan stands in the doorway, shadowed and stiff. My brother’s voice cuts through the storm: “What the hell did you do?”
I press my forehead against the cool glass, heart pounding. Their voices rise and clash, muffled by the rain and the truck’s thin frame. For a few minutes, I let myself be small, tucked away while Matthew does what he’s always done—protect me. But hiding in here feels wrong. Cowardly. I wipe my wet cheeks and sit straighter.
If I don’t face Dylan, I’ll never forgive myself.
I grab the handle, push the truck door open, and step back into the storm. My boots sink into gravel as I march across the yard toward the two men who have defined my whole life in different ways.
“Enough!” I shout, climbing the steps, water dripping off my hair and jacket. Both of them freeze—Matthew mid-accusation, Dylan pale and hollow in the porch light. My voice shakes, but I don’t back down. “If there’s going to be a fight, it’s not going to be about me. It’s going to be with me.”
For a heartbeat, silence. Only the wind howling through the trees, only the rain hammering on the porch roof. Dylan’s eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable, and it feels like the storm is trapped between us. I want to demand answers, demand why he never speaks up, why he lets the world paint me as the villain. But the words knot in my throat. Instead, I stand there shaking, staring at him, waiting for something—anything.
His jaw flexes, his mouth parts as if he might finally say what he should have said hours ago. But nothing comes. And the emptiness of his silence cuts sharper than Matthew’s anger ever could.
Matthew mutters something under his breath, pulls me gently by the elbow, and steers me back into the rain. The porch door bangs shut behind us, leaving Dylan alone in his quiet shadows. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break out of my chest, half fury, half heartbreak.
Matthew doesn't let go until we're both at the truck, and even then, I feel his grip lingering like a tether keeping me from unraveling. I’m drenched, the storm plastering my hair to my face, again. I swipe at my eyes, unsure whether it’s rain or tears blurring everything.
Matthew doesn’t start the engine right away. He looks at me, jaw tight. “You okay?”
I let out a brittle laugh. “Do I look okay?”
He exhales hard, gripping the wheel. “He should’ve defended you. I told him to. You didn’t deserve that.”
“Maybe I did,” I whisper, surprising even myself. “Maybe coming back here was a mistake.”
Matthew’s eyes soften, but his voice stays firm. “Don’t you ever say that. Ray picked you for a reason. You’re tougher than they think. Tougher than Dylan thinks.”
The words splinter something inside me. Because I want to believe them. I need to.
***
Back in the farmhouse, the silence is suffocating. Her suitcase’s absence is louder than any slammed door. I walk through the rooms—kitchen, parlor, Ray’s study—and every corner feels hollow without her presence. The smell of her perfume lingers faintly in the hall, mocking me.
I sink into Ray’s old armchair, guilt pressing harder than the springs. I think about the WILL, the responsibility, and Ray’s faith in both of us. He’d trusted me to protect this land, but he’dtrusted her too—with vision, with moxie. And I failed them both tonight.
My fists clench on the armrests. Silence might be my shield, but tonight it feels like a prison.
***
Memories surface unbidden. Ray leaning on the fence line one summer evening, watching Madison chasing fireflies with Matthew and I looking on. He’d said, “That girl’s got grit. Different kind than us, but grit all the same. Don’t you ever underestimate it.”
I’d shrugged it off then. But now, the memory burns. Because Ray had seen her clearly when I refused to.
Lightning cracks outside, echoing the storm inside me. I bury my face in my hands, wondering if I’ve already lost the one person who could have made this place whole.
***
MADISON
Morning comes too soon. I wake in Matthew’s guest room above the garage, the mattress hard, the ceiling low. Newsprint rustles downstairs—he’s already reading. Bracing myself, I head into town, thinking maybe errands will distract me.
No such luck. At the café, conversations falter when I enter. Someone at the counter mutters, “She’s the one from the paper.” Another shakes her head, pity in her eyes. I grab a coffee anyway, holding my chin high, but inside my chest feels hollow.
I scroll my phone, thinking maybe my online world will steady me. But even there, comments sting:Knew she was fake.Just chasing clout.
Everywhere I turn, someone’s ready to believe the worst.
