Page 9 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

“Hey Becks, you home?” I call into the stillness of the house, my voice echoing faintly off the walls. It’s dark now, later than I meant to get in, but our flight got delayed taking off due to weather.

We’re tucked deep in the back of the Marshall family property, surrounded by miles of cornfields, open sky, and the kind of silence that hums louder the longer you stand in it.

Technically, this patch of land is what locals would call the back forty —the most remote part of the acreage.

Used to be the kind of spot where your phone dropped calls the second you stepped outside, where water came from the stubborn old well my grandfather dug for the farm that still feeds into the chicken coups, and the power flickered every time it rained.

But all that changed the day I found out that Beckham’s mom was pregnant.

I’d built this place from the ground up with Cash before he even took his first breath.

Back then, I didn’t know much about raising a kid, but I knew he’d need electricity to watch his cartoons, and I’d need reliable internet to work remotely on the weeks he was sick, or the custody schedule shifted.

So, we upgraded. Got decent Wi-Fi, swapped out our connection to the well for clean county water, and put in solar just in case the storms knocked out the power.

It’s not perfect, service still cuts out sometimes, but it’s home. Quiet, peaceful, untouchable and away from my siblings who've also built their houses on the land.

I spend most of the year on the road, ninety percent, easy.

Interviewing, pitching, chasing whatever the next thing is that'll grow the businesses. But when I’m home, this is where I come to breathe.

Out here, it’s just me, the dirt, and the Blue Ridge Mountains rising beneath my feet like a painting stretched across the face of the world.

And this time of year, they’re at their peak, lit up in reds, golds, and deep pumpkin-orange.

Nature showing off before winter rolls in and kills off the foliage.

“In here, Dad,” Beckham’s voice calls back, muffled.

I follow the sound, heading down the hallway and turning left into the living room.

Sure enough, he’s on the floor in front of the TV, controller in hand, eyes locked on whatever game he’s laser-focused on.

Kid doesn’t even look up. Just sits there cross-legged, shoulders hunched, completely in the zone.

I smile. My mini who’s not so mini anymore.

Turned fourteen this year. Voice deepening.

Shoulders broader. He’s growing into himself faster than I know what to do with.

And still, he’s a good kid. Plays football.

Gets good grades. Helps out on weekends with my brothers—Colt at the distillery or Cash with the chickens.

He spent the summer working the farm stand with his buddy, selling Regan’s tomatoes and wildflower bouquets to locals who couldn’t get enough of what she was growing.

He’s respectful and kind. Never causes me trouble. So, him staying here alone on the back forty, tucked in with his video games and a fridge full of leftovers for a couple extra hours doesn’t worry me.

“You winnin’?” I ask as I step into the room, dropping my bag onto the couch and sinking into the cushions behind him. I grip his shoulders firmly in greeting the way that we always do.

He pauses the game, finally looking at me with a lopsided grin. “What do you think, Dad?”

I chuckle, propping an elbow on the armrest. “Just makin’ sure you haven’t lost your edge.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t hear you come in,” he says with a smirk. “Would’ve tackled you.”

“Sure, sure. Just remember, your old man’s still got a few tricks even if I don't play your games.”

He rolls his eyes, then leans back on his palms, looking up at me. “Mom said you’re sticking around a couple weeks to help with the state fair stuff?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “I have two weeks off. Doesn’t exactly scream vacation, does it?”

“Not really,” he says, grinning again. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

My chest tightens a little. Damn kid always knows how to hit me right in the heart without even trying.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” I start, voice quieter now. He raises an eyebrow, sensing the shift in my tone, but before I can get another word out there’s a loud BANG.

The front door slams shut like a small explosion, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone tripping over every obstacle in my kitchen.

“Ah, shit.” Dani’s voice echoes from the entryway along with the clatter of keys, bags, and possibly her entire life hitting the floor.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, already smiling because I learned quickly that this is how she shows up most places.

Even for a short weekend trip a few hundred miles away, Dani comes packed and prepared for any possibility.

One time, her bag fell open before we stepped into an important pitch with an exclusive grocer in the northwest and out rolled a can of bug spray.

It was winter but she thought there might be mosquitos, so she packed it just in case.

A beat later, she barrels into the living room like a human hurricane, all dark, brown hair windblown, face flushed, arms flailing as she tries to right herself.

“Oh great,” she groans, planting her hands on her hips when she notices Beckham on the floor. “I’m now 0-for-2 today in not swearing in front of children.”

Beckham straightens, clearly trying not to laugh.

“I’m not a child,” he says with faux indignation.

But then he moves, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around her in a full-body hug that I didn't get when I walked in.

She hugs him back instantly, melting into it, and I just sit there for a second, watching them curiously.

They pull apart just enough to start talking, rapid-fire, stream of conscious in code language. There’re school jokes, social media references, a ridiculous story about something that sounds like a video game, and I swear, I only catch about half of it.

I lean back, watching them banter like they’ve got their own language.

Maybe they do. And as much as I’d been bracing for this conversation, for the moment when I’d have to figure out how to tell my kid that Dani's going to be staying with us for the next two weeks while I'm in town because her sister stole her room, it suddenly seems like that won't be such a big deal to him anymore.

“Uh, what's happening here?” I finally cut in, watching them like they’re part of some inside joke I wasn’t invited to.

Beckham and Dani both glance over like they just remembered I existed, like I wasn’t sitting right there, backpack half-zipped, boots still tracking in dirt from the porch.

“Dani’s been playing on my team for our league,” Beckham says with a casual shrug, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

But it makes my eyebrows shoot up because that’s news to me.

And Dani’s never said a word that she was playing video games with Beckham in her down time.

Also, what downtime has she had because we've been on the road a lot together these past few months?

She shoots me a saccharine smile, all teeth and trouble. “There’s a lot that I don’t tell you,” she says as if reading my mind because that's what she figured out how to do pretty quickly once I hired her and it's both a blessing and a curse at times.

Then she drops down onto the couch next to me like it’s hers and shoves my bag to the floor. Beckham settles cross-legged on the floor in front of us, controller still in hand, completely unbothered. And me? I’m left staring between the two of them confused.

“Well, alright then,” I mutter, scratching the back of my neck. “Looks like what I needed to talk to you about won’t be an issue.”

Beckham doesn’t even blink. “That Dani’s staying with us for the next two weeks because her sister’s visiting? Yeah, she already texted me.”

My eyes snap to her.

She’s sitting there chewing on a Twizzler now, of all things—her lips pink and shiny, tongue curling around the candy like she’s completely unfazed. She meets my gaze, smug and entirely too pleased with herself.

“What?” she says innocently. “I had a feeling you were gonna make it a whole thing and have some long talk, try to ‘set expectations’ or whatever, so I gave him a heads-up. You’re not exactly known for being a top-tier communicator.”

I blink. “I’m the damn king of communication. I run sales and marketing for four successful businesses.”

She lifts her hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Okay, okay, easy there, daddy . It was a joke.”

I blow out a sigh, trying to dial it back because that's another thing she does that impacts me more than it should. When she's teasing me, she calls me Daddy. And yes, I know how that sounds but to her it's just to get a reaction, to me, fuck , I think I like it way more than I should.

“You’re right,” I admit reluctantly, dragging a hand down my face. “I just didn’t realize you two had each other’s phone numbers.”

Before I can finish, she’s sliding onto the floor next to Beckham, bumping his shoulder with hers as she grabs the extra controller like this is their Tuesday night routine.

What the hell is happening right now?

“So, you're also good at video games?” I ask, genuinely confused.

She tosses me a grin without looking away from the screen. “Not really. But once I found out he played them, I figured I’d better learn fast.”

“Dad, she’s amazing,” Beckham says without hesitation, still clicking away at the controller, eyes locked in on the game.

And I just sit there, watching them. My teenage son and my employee, shoulder to shoulder, laughing like old friends. Like this wasn’t just something she did as a favor or out of obligation. Like they genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

Which is... new.

I guess I’ve never been around when Dani’s been here helping with Beckham’s schedule. I’d always assumed it was basic logistics. A quick school drop-off. A ride to practice. Homework supervision. The usual.

She’d always played it down when I'd call to check in if I couldn't get home in time.

“Yeah, it was fine. Took him to football. Dropped him at Kirk's house. No big deal. ” Not once did she mention they stayed up late playing video games like two roommates who’d known each other since birth and now that I do the math.

.. no, no, she's closer to my age than his.

“Well, alright then.” I push up from the couch, my tone casual but my mind spinning with about six different thoughts at once. “Dani, when you get a second, mind stepping into my office?”

She waves me off without turning around. “Yeah, yeah, I thought we were on vacation, boss."

Beckham snickers something to her about me never taking time off and they both start giggling.

"I’ll be in there after we beat this level,” she calls sweetly.

I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I start down the hall. Because clearly, I’m not the one running this house anymore. And maybe there’s more she’s keeping from me than I thought.