Page 3 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

“What are you drinking tonight?” my sister-in-law Molly asks, setting a coaster down in front of me before wiping her hands over the front of her shirt.

The fabric stretches tightly against her small baby bump as she adjusts herself with a smile.

She leans on the bar, her gaze soft and steady as she waits.

“Whiskey. Please.”

She nods once, all business, and reaches under the counter.

Three fingers of our best house pour glug into the glass before she slides it across the smooth oak to me.

I take a slow sip, let the heat settle in my chest, and breathe out a sigh right as my younger brother Colt slides onto the stool beside me.

“Hey, Law. Didn’t expect to see you out tonight,” his deep voice booms.

“Had to swing by the egg farm,” I say, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Cash wanted to go over some new branding ideas he had. I’m flying out tomorrow to pitch it. Grabbed some updated shots while I was out there and figured I’d get a drink since Beckham’s with his mom tonight.”

Colt nods without any further questions. He’s always been a man of few words.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He snorts, and Molly already has a soda in front of him before he answers. “Watching my girl.”

Molly rolls her eyes but she's grinning at my brother, and I smirk back instead of gagging like Cash probably would’ve.

He’d be dramatically pretending to throw up from across the room if he saw the way these two looked at each other.

But me? I’m glad for them. Colt’s had a rougher road than most. Nearly two years out of a five-year prison sentence, and somehow ended up marrying his parole officer—who also happened to be his best friend’s little sister and a woman who's always felt like she belonged with our family. That’s a whole story on its own.

But I’ll say this, Molly Patrick, now Molly Marshall, brought my brother back to himself after getting out of that hell.

And if someone helps you find your way when you've lost yourself, they deserve your respect and love.

“You gonna be around for the baby shower in October?” she asks me, tossing a rag over her shoulder.

“Just send me the date and I’ll keep it clear.”

“October thirty-first.”

I blink, sip, and laugh under my breath. “Seriously? Halloween?”

She grins sheepishly. “Rae’s throwing it. You know how she gets about Halloween. She goes crazy during the autumn, I swear.”

“It would be Rae,” Colt mutters.

“What would be Rae?” comes Rae's voice from behind me as she gives my shoulder a solid squeeze. “Nice to see you, Lawson. You’ve been off the radar lately. I can’t remember the last time I caught you in town.”

“He leaves again tomorrow,” Molly chimes in, hands planted on her hips.

“Of course he does,” Rae sighs, leaning on the bar. “Where to this time? Alaska?”

“The West Coast,” I say. “LA first. Interview with a major network about the chickens. Then heading to San Diego to pitch the summer seltzers. Would be launching sooner if y’all could keep up with production demand,” I add, elbowing Colt easily.

He just grunts and sips his soda like that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve said all night.

“So… is this the first business trip with the new girl?” Rae asks, arching a brow.

I nod, trying not to show how I feel about it—because I’m not the guy who complains.

That’s never been my role. Cash is the life of the party.

Colt’s the quiet one. Troy’s the grumpy turned charismatic bulldozer and governor of the whole state of North Carolina and Reagan’s the wild card and sunshine.

Me? I’m the chill one. The one who doesn’t ruffle feathers, doesn’t ask for help, doesn’t show when he’s overwhelmed.

I just keep my head down and stay busy executing on everyone’s dreams and delivering the hell out of them so we can all keep our jobs and stay rich.

“Yeah,” I say simply.

“You met her yet?” Molly presses.

“Nope. All I know is she better be at the airport tomorrow morning by seven sharp because that’s when her boarding pass says we leave.”

Rae winces. “Oof. You run a tight ship. Glad I don’t work for the Marshall family empire,” she jokes, then eyes Molly. “And what exactly are you doing behind the bar tonight?”

Molly shrugs. “Staff called out. You know how it is.”

That’s how it always is around here. Doesn’t matter what your title is—cop, brother, farmer, wedding planner, mayor, bartender. If something needs doing, we do it. If there’s chicken shit to clean or whiskey barrels to roll, someone shows up. Always a Marshall.

Except for me. I never ask for help. My siblings don’t have to fly out, don’t have to leave their friends, their families, or this town behind to help with my side of the business.

I don’t call off sick. I don’t miss a pitch.

I show up, every time, because that’s what’s expected of me. Because if I don’t, who will?

And maybe that’s just the role I’ve slipped into without ever thinking twice.

But I wouldn't tell them this, but lately, I've been feeling overwhelmed. Frankly, it’s kind of my personal mission to be the best damn dad I can be to Beckham during the weeks he’s with me.

And on the weeks that I don’t have him I work like I’m trying to outrun grief.

Twenty-four hours a day, hopping from city to city, meeting to meeting, pitch to pitch, chasing the future I want for all of us.

Molly gives me a small smile and wipes down the bar with practiced ease while sliding another beer over to Smythe, one of our town locals, who’s parked on the stool next to us doing a bad job of pretending not to eavesdrop.

He’s leaned in just enough to catch pieces of the conversation while swirling his drink casually.

“Y’all hired someone outside the Marshall family?” he pipes up, not even bothering to pretend anymore.

I glance sideways at him, then smile. Smythe’s alright.

Old, retired Marine who still stands like he’s waiting for orders and talks more shit than anyone I’ve ever met.

He’s known for tailgating high school football games with my younger brother Cash and making wild bets with Coach Harper about who’s gonna fumble first. He also inherited Mrs. Mayberry’s gossip crown when she passed away last spring, and he wears it proudly.

“Yeah, Smythe. We did,” I reply, careful to keep my tone easy. “Girl from the west coast.”

His grin spreads like someone just handed him the secret recipe to our distillery’s peach shine. “What’s her name?”

I lift my glass and take a slow sip, stalling. “Hell, if I know. Regan didn't even show me her resume. Just interviewed and hired her without telling me.”

That gets a lifted brow out of Molly and a soft snort of laughter from Rae, who’s lounging behind the bar comfortably. She crosses her arms over her chest and smiles.

“Regan said she goes by Dani.”

Dani. Great. Now I’ve got a name for the woman who’s about to follow me around like a shadow and probably get on my last nerve.

Not that I'm an impatient guy. I've got plenty of patience and time.

But Dani's probably used to five-dollar lattes and catered meetings.

She probably thinks chickens are cute in a quirky Pinterest kind of way but has no idea how to market eggs to third-generation grocers in backroad Alabama.

Dani, who might smile and nod at my pitch deck and still have no damn clue what it means to grow something from dirt and sweat and turn it into something you’re proud to pass down.

Maybe she’ll take one look at the real side of this job which includes early flights, long hours, occasional chicken shit under your nails and whiskey samples at ten in the morning, and decide she misses tech sales, west coast sunsets, and kombucha.

Maybe while we’re in L.A. for work this next week she’ll catch a whiff of whatever she left behind and just… stay there. Yeah, that sounds good.

And look, I’m not an asshole. I’m not going to be mean to her, I’m not gonna make her feel small or unwanted, but I am going to test her.

I’m going to make sure she knows her shit.

That she understands what she’s walking into.

Because the Marshall family name? That’s not a brand to me.

That’s my kid’s future. It’s our story. It’s a promise built on trust, on ethics, on the kind of small-town loyalty that doesn’t bend when the market does.

And I’m not about to let some slick, stock-optioned, yoga-before-breakfast transplant screw it up.

“This Dani, whoever she is, she’s in for a real treat getting to work with you,” Rae says, sliding a fresh napkin across the counter just to give her hands something to do.

“I’ve always been curious about how you run things when you're on the road. With my background in PR and marketing I can tell you do a good job.”

“You sure you don’t want to quit your mayor gig and join me full-time?” I grin at her.

She laughs, tossing her light brown hair over one shoulder. “And let down the fine people of Whitewood Creek who voted for me in a landslide to kick your brothers' ass? Absolutely not. But seriously, Law, I think this’ll be good for you.”

Molly leans forward, her elbows on the bar. “I agree. We miss having you around. Maybe you can train her up enough to take over some of your travel. Let you stay back a bit.”

I offer a practiced smile, the kind that makes people think I’m nodding along when really inside I’m screaming not a fucking chance in hell am I giving this up.

“Sure,” I say smoothly.

Colt chuckles beside me, low and amused. He doesn’t call me on it, doesn’t out me, but he knows exactly what that sure means. It means no .

I drain the rest of my whiskey and toss a few bills on the bar.

Molly frowns like I just insulted her. “Really? It’s your own damn bar.”

I shrug, standing up and stretching the tension out of my back. “Give it to Smythe. He looks like he could use it.”