Page 22 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

“You think it wasn’t bad timing for me to get locked up just as Troy was launching his political career and our family was breaking ground on the brewery? Yeah, shit happens at the worst times. But there’s never a good time for something bad to happen, is there?”

“We don’t even know the full story yet,” I counter, trying to rein in his intensity.

“You’re jumping to conclusions based on one conversation with her and a single observation out in public.

There’s a process, Colt. Foster parents have to go through background checks and follow protocols to get approved before taking in a child.

We’d need to follow the prescribed process to look into these claims that you’re making. ”

His jaw tightens. His voice drops. “I don’t need the whole damn story. I know what I saw. And the look on that girl’s face? It reminded me of another young girl I saw once. She was scared, mistreated, and need someone to trust and believe her.”

My chest tightens as I realize exactly who he’s talking about.

Me.

“You don’t think I haven’t hated myself for years for not pushing my dad harder to help you and Maverick out when we were kids?

” His tone softens, his eyes shadowed with guilt.

“I can’t even count how many times you two would show up at my house, shivering, hungry, and malnourished because of that piece-of-shit father you had and the scumbags he let hang around your trailer. ”

A tear slips down my cheek at the memories.

One winter night immediately comes to mind.

Maverick and I standing on the Marshall’s back porch, soaked from the rain, my fingers numb from the cold.

Colt’s dad had answered the door instead, his expression shifting quickly from surprise to anger.

He didn’t ask questions. Just pulled us inside, wrapped us in blankets that smelled like campfires and laundry detergent, and set plates of pasta in front of us like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I remember crying while I ate, my tears mixing in with the seasonings while Maverick told me to stop being a baby and not to embarrass myself.

Even now, I can feel the warmth of that kitchen—the hum of the refrigerator, the way the wood floor creaked under Colt’s dad’s boots, the flickering light above the sink.

It had felt like another world, one where things made sense and people showed up for once.

I used to sit quietly at their dinner table, afraid if I made too much noise or took up too much space, they’d remember I didn’t belong and send me back home when all I wanted was a family.

“I used to tell myself every single day that one day, I’d ask my dad if he'd take you two in permanently. Hell, your old man wouldn’t have even noticed or cared that you were gone.”

I shake my head, unwilling to hear the words coming out of his mouth.

Sure, I know, deep down, what he’s saying is true.

But the part where he wanted to save us?

The part about asking his dad to help us out?

That cuts too deep. Because I would’ve loved to be part of the Marshall family permanently.

They were a family that ate dinner together every night, showed up at every sports game and event, provided a safe place to land, and had a legacy of thriving businesses, clear career paths, and a support system that stretches far beyond North Carolina.

If I’d had that, maybe I wouldn’t have run away at eighteen to New Orleans, desperate for escape.

Maybe I wouldn’t have packed my bags in the dead of night, heart pounding as I left a note for Maverick, telling him goodbye.

I remember the sound of my suitcase wheels dragging over the gravel, the faint flicker of a streetlamp as I waited at the edge of town for the 5:45 a.m. bus.

My fingers were shaking so badly I dropped my ticket twice before I could even climb the steps and didn’t dare turn around because I thought I was headed straight for freedom.

Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen for the first man who offered me attention and a shred of security, only to realize too late that he’d manipulated me just like my dad had.

Maybe I wouldn’t have a deep father wound I can’t seem to heal from, a brother who never answers my calls, and an ex-husband who lingers like a ghost in my memories.

“Don’t say that” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of his words.

It’s not that I don’t want him to tell me how much he regrets not doing more, but because I feel like he’d already done too much for us, and I’ve been trying to think of how to repay him ever since.

I look down at the dirt underneath my boots and try to do everything to avoid his eyes.

There’s a long pause. The kind of silence that stretches tight, like a rope pulled between us.

I can feel his gaze on me, but I can’t meet it.

Not yet. My hands curl into fists at my sides—not in anger, but in frustration.

At him. At myself. At the distance the years have carved into both our lives.

Then I feel movement. He steps closer, his boots crunching against the gravel.

When I finally glance up, he's dropped to his knees in front of me, one hand braced against the ground like he's anchoring himself the other firmly on my knee. His touch sends a rush of warmth from me, and it takes everything inside of me not to launch myself into his arms and when I meet his gaze, shit. It’s full of tortured regret.

The night wraps around us like a heavy coat, muffling the world until all I can hear is the sound of his voice and the thud of my heartbeat.

“Maybe if I’d pushed harder,” he says, voice rough, “you wouldn’t have run off to Louisiana thinking that was your only way out.

Maybe Maverick wouldn’t be God-knows-where, still tangled up with your dad.

So yeah, if I’m going all in to protect a twelve-year-old girl from getting trapped by the wrong people, it’s not just about what got me sent to prison.

It’s about making up for not fighting harder for you and Maverick when it mattered. ”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words won’t come. They clog up somewhere between my heart and throat, too big, too messy, too honest.

He stares at me like he’s waiting—hoping—I’ll say something. That I’ll let him off the hook. That I’ll give him permission to chase this ghost of redemption he’s clinging to. But I can’t.

Because I want to tell him not everything is his fault.

That we were already broken long before he found us.

That he gave us more than anyone else ever had.

That I remember the sandwiches he’d sneak us after school, the blanket he left on our porch that winter, the way he used to sit on the edge of the playground with Maverick when he got too angry to be around other kids and was his calming anchor.

That we were all just kids trying to figure things out in a world made for adults.

But before I can speak, Colt curses, “Dammit, Molly.” Then he stands abruptly, the movement jerking me from my spiraling thoughts. He doesn’t say another word. Just stalks back toward his RV, each step kicking up dust and emotion in equal measure. The door creaks open, then slams shut behind him.

The sound echoes across the lot like a gunshot. Final. Loud. Lonely.

I’m left seated there, stunned and hollow, drowning in everything I never said.

The night is quiet again. Still. Except now it feels different and colder. The wind picks up, brushing against my arms, and I wrap them around myself. I stare at the RV, watching for movement, half-hoping he’ll come back out, half-hoping he won’t.

There’s a part of me that wants to follow him.

To knock on the door and tell him he didn’t fail us.

That he can’t fix the past, no matter how hard he tries and that I’m worried about Jenni too.

But I also know Colt. If he handles this situation his way—charging in, fists up and emotions blazing—he’ll tear everything apart, including himself.

And I don’t want to lose him.

Not again.