Page 4 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

Smythe snorts behind his beer, still half-smirking and clearly unashamed with my suggestion. He reaches past the wood barrier like this is his living room and snatches up the money. “I’m not above free charity.”

I shake my head and push back from the stool, dragging a hand through my hair that’s about two weeks past manageable.

Thick, unruly, and curling at the ends—just like Beckham's is when his mom and I get too busy to drag him to the barbershop. I could use a haircut. And a shave. I make a mental note to do both as soon as I land tomorrow after the interview. There’s a place I like down in Newport beach.

Old-school barber, straight razor, warm towels.

The kind of place that doesn’t rush you, even if you’re in town for just a day.

That’s how it is for me lately. City to city, state to state.

I’ve got my haunts across the country, spots where I know the coffee’s strong, the weights are heavy, and the people mind their damn business.

I’ve made a life out of bouncing from one to the next like it’s normal, because for me, it is.

Always on the road. Always moving. Except during my on-weeks with Beckham.

That’s when the world stops, and I stay put.

Autumn’s creeping in now. The leaves are starting to change, air cooling at night.

Football season’s back, which means I’ll be trying harder to get home for games and quiet Sunday afternoons on the couch with my son.

It’s also molting season for the hens, which slows down production on the egg farm.

Fewer eggs, fewer deliveries. But that just means I shift gears, push our spirits harder.

Holidays are around the corner, and if we time it right, Marshall whiskey ends up on a lot of gift lists.

I tap the bar twice with my knuckles. “Love you guys.”

“We love you, Lawson!” they call after me, a ragtag chorus of voices behind me.

Boots hit the floor, heavy and familiar.

I make my way through the crowd, stopping more than once—handshakes, back claps, a few How you doin’s, son?

from folks I’ve known since I was tall enough to ride a bike to town and back.

Slows me down, like it always does, so by the time I finally step out into the night and toward my truck, it’s a full thirty minutes later than I’d planned and I’m bone-deep exhausted.

I just want to get home, slide into bed, and crash hard before my 5 a.m. alarm wakes me up for my flight.

Except that doesn’t happen.

I’m halfway across the gravel lot, mind already shifting into interview mode and thinking through tomorrow’s pitch when mid-step I come to a halt.

What the hell?

Because it’s Davey Belk.

The same sorry bastard whose ex-sheriff daddy helped put my younger brother Colt behind bars for nearly five years after Colt stepped in to stop him from beating the hell out of some innocent woman outside Krissy’s bar. And tonight, it looks like he's got another woman in his sight.

It happened back when this spot was Krissy’s Bar, before us Marshalls bought the land, tore it down, and put up Whitewood Creek Brewery and Restaurant.? Back when we all pretended small-town meant safe and loyal.

Colt had stepped outside to take a piss. That’s it. Just taking a leak in the gravel behind the bar when he heard a scuffle, saw Davey manhandling a woman who wasn’t screaming, wasn’t crying for help—just taking it, like she’d already learned nobody would come when she needed a hero the most.

But Colt did. Colt came running. Because that's who we were raised to be.

Davey swung first, drunk and sloppy. Colt returned the favor with a few punishing right hooks that left Davey with a broken nose and permanent vision damage in his right eye.

The woman claimed Colt started it all when the sheriff showed up, and a good man, my brother, was sent to prison off her word alone.

And that woman's abuser limped away with a crooked face, a slap on the wrist and a sheriff father who buried evidence before retiring quietly while the whole town was outraged.

So yeah, the nerve of this prick to show his face here tonight at our bar has even my calm exterior seeing red.

I glance over my shoulder, jaw locked. Colt didn’t follow me out here thankfully, but if he gets wind that Davey Belk is on Marshall-owned property again, I don’t know what he’ll do.

He’s changed, sure. Reformed. Focused now on the most important things in life like his wife Molly and the family they're building together, but a man can only be pushed so far. And Davey showing up like a ghost that should’ve stayed buried?

That might be enough to have him resorting to his old ways.

And maybe that's exactly what Davey wants.

I shift closer, staying in the shadows near the far end of the lot, trying to get a better look.

The security lights are casting long, broken lines across the gravel, like everything out here’s happening underwater.

It looks like he's drunk as he stumbles forward slightly, then I notice the shadow behind him move slightly as the woman shifts her weight.

Jeans, tight enough to make a man lose focus.

Low-cut tank top. Wild, dark brown or black hair whipping around her face in the night breeze.

She’s saying something sharp to him, arms crossed over her chest protectively.

She doesn’t look scared. Doesn’t look like she’s backing down either.

But I’ve learned not to trust surface-level bravado.

Not when it comes to men like him who can be dangerous even to the most prepared person.

I try to focus, get a better read on what's happening over there. I’m not usually the kind to step in unless I have to but if this turns sideways, if he gets even a little more agitated, it won’t end clean. And I’m not about to let someone else get locked up over this asshole.

I fold my arms, exhale through my nose, and decide to take a few slow steps forward just to make sure she's okay. Gravel crunches beneath my boots quietly but neither of them have noticed me yet.

My mind runs on instinct. My gun’s in the glove box of my truck that’s locked, but I don’t think I’ll need it.

Davey's been laying low since his daddy—the disgraced ex-sheriff—retired. Heard he’d been over in Meadowbrook causing trouble with the women there.

Guess something, or maybe someone, brought him crawling back.

The woman throws her hands up in the air, clearly fed up with whatever he just said to her and that's when I hear her voice, loud and clear. “ It’s a fucking cable charger, ” she shouts, exasperated. “Probably worth, what, a dollar? ”

That’s my cue.

“Hey now,” I call out, voice calm and even, the kind of tone I use when defusing tempers in a boardroom or trying to get my siblings to agree on the latest product designs. “What’s going on here?”

She jumps, startled, eyes wide as she stumbles back a step.

Davey turns slowly, like it’s a bad Western and I’m the guy who just strolled into the saloon uninvited.

His brows rise, lips curling into something that’s supposed to be a grin but lands closer to a sneer.

His nose is still crooked from where my brother hit him.

Still healing wrong a half a decade later.

Looks like he's gotten bigger since the last time I saw him, but I know I still have an advantage with the loss of vision in his eye if I need it.

“Well look who the fuck it is,” he says, venom slick in his voice. “Ain’t nothing to see here, buddy.”

I don’t even acknowledge him. My eyes find hers instead.

She’s got big, wide, deep, brown eyes. Guarded with some smokey makeup rimmed all around them and miles of smooth, exposed skin and thick curves that catch the light like polished honey.

I don't recognize her, and she doesn’t look like she belongs here, but she's frustrated, practically vibrating with irritation and I’m glad for that.

She looks like she’s ready to throw her own punch at this guy.

“You good?” I ask her gently, ignoring the prick still breathing beside her like a bull.

She presses her lips together. “Not really. My phone’s dead, and I really need to pee. Davey said I could use his charger but apparently, that comes with conditions .”

My molars grind together because I have a feeling that I know what those conditions are.

I take a step closer to Davey, my boots landing solidly in the space between us.

I’m calm on the surface, but just beneath, a familiar rage starts to coil in my core.

It’s the same one that I keep always suppressed.

Hidden for anyone else to see. Years of disappointment and internalized hurt ready to strike.

“What kind of conditions, Davey?” I ask, voice flat as steel.

He shrugs. “Ain’t none of your business, rich boy.”

I let out a low laugh, tilting my head to the sky like maybe if I stare hard enough, I’ll find the patience that I need somewhere up there. “Didn’t ask if it was,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Back the hell off and walk away from the lady.”

Davey shifts his weight, but I can see it, the way he’s measuring his options.

I’ve got at least four inches of height on him.

Years of workouts on the road, tension turned into strength and a quiet storm on the outside that’s masking the rage I carry around on the inside.

He might be dumb, but he’s not suicidal.

I catch the way his eyes flick toward my boots, then to the parking lot beyond. He exhales hard through his nose.

“Alright,” he mumbles, backing away.

He turns and stalks off toward his car, leaving the woman and me in the haze of tension he dragged in like a storm cloud. I should walk away now too. Should turn and head inside. But I can feel her eyes on me, curious, guarded, grateful.

I sigh and glance back at her, knowing I’m not ready to let her out of my sight just yet.

“What was it you needed again, darlin’?” I ask instead.