Page 23 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

It’s been five days since I last saw Colt, and I’ve been deliberately avoiding him.?

I rescheduled our weekly parole check-in, needing time to untangle my thoughts about what he’d shared with me by the creek—information given off-duty and in confidence—and to decide what my responsibility was in handling it for Jenni.

Because I may have cautioned Colt about taking action, but I knew from the moment he told me about her, I’d be looking into her case.

I didn’t want Colt to get himself into trouble, driven by his need to protect her and falling into the same pattern of being burned for doing the right thing.

But I also couldn’t ignore the truth in his words.

If something was happening in her foster home, we have a duty to act.

We must protect her but the research into the claims made needs to be handled carefully.

Delicately. Not in the reckless, forceful way I knew that Colt’s instincts would push him toward.

And then there’s the guilt that I’ve been dealing with.

Guilt for questioning his intentions—for wondering why he cared so much about a girl he’d only met once—and for how my doubts might have made him feel. But mostly, it’s the nagging guilt that Colt did so much for Mav and me when we were kids, and we’ve never really repaid him for it.

I know he wouldn’t expect us to, but that doesn’t stop the thought from creeping in, a constant reminder of where I come from and how he helped us. Of the fact that I relied on him to escape things no kid should have to face.

And that’s why I’m done avoiding him.

Today, I’m going to the community center after work.

I’ll find Colt, finally meet Jenni face-to-face, and figure out where to go from there.

Maybe I can be a safe space for her, someone in authority that she can actually trust. Maybe I can help sort out what happens next for both her and Colt.

Besides, Lydia said they’re desperate for volunteers—and I owe her one.

But first, I have one quick stop to make.

The crunch of gravel under my tires fills the quiet inside my car as I turn onto the long, winding road leading to Whitewood Creek’s largest trailer park.

Three quick rights, and I’m staring at the off-white paneled trailer home where I grew up, its siding streaked with green mold that desperately needs a good power washing.

The weeds my dad had always left for Maverick and me to pull as punishment for leaving on the lights before going to school have now taken over entirely, snaking up the walls and curling around the windows, choking out the sunlight.

The sight of it fills my chest with a tight, hollow ache—a haunting reminder of the place I swore I’d never come back to but always seem to find my way toward.

But today, I’m only here for one reason: To see my big brother.

Maverick’s car is noticeably absent again, but my dad’s is in the driveway.

And despite my complete lack of interest in facing my father, a man I haven’t seen in over a decade and who hasn’t reached out to me once since I moved to Louisiana, I suck up my pride and close the door to my car, walking up the cracked, cement walkway to the screen door.

I knock on the plastic part of it since there’s no doorbell, listening as it rattles loudly like it’s been warped by the elements.

“Hello? Eddie? Are you home?” I call out, annoyed.

Some might call it disrespectful to address my father by his first name, but he’d never earned the title of dad in my eyes. He’s always been Edgar Patrick, and that’s all he’ll ever be to me. I have no intention of calling him anything else unless it’s absolutely necessary.

After a loud crash, some cussing, and the sound of someone fumbling around inside, the door finally creaks open.

My dad stumbles into view, his bloodshot eyes glazed over, still reeking of last night’s liquor.

Despite his obvious inebriation, he’s still an incredibly handsome older man.

In his early fifties, dark hair with salt and pepper at the edges, a matching beard, and bright blue eyes just like mine.

Mav looks just like him and it guts me to think that he might become him someday unless he gets his life straightened out.

He squints at me as if he’s trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.

“Molly?” he rasps, blinking hard if that’ll help him focus.

I force a polite, practiced smile and nod. “Hello, Eddie.”

He lets out a long sigh and shakes his head. “I don’t have any money.”

The words hit like a slap, and I can’t help but scoff. Of course, that’s his first assumption. Not a hello, not a what are you doing here? or even how have you been? —just straight to the idea that his only daughter, who he hasn’t seen in a decade, must be here looking for a handout.

The irony of it nearly makes me laugh. As if he’d ever had a dime to spare in his life, let alone one to offer me when I needed money for school, food, new clothing or shoes.

“I’m not here for money,” I say flatly, cutting straight to the point. There’s no sense in dragging this very unhappy reunion out. “I’m looking for Maverick.”

“What business you got with Maverick?”

Um… perhaps the fact that he’s my brother?

“No business, dad .” It pains me to say the word but maybe that’ll bring him back to the reality of who he’s speaking to. “I haven’t seen him since I moved back, and we were supposed to meet up for dinner at my house last week, but he ghosted me.”

He folds his arms over his chest, leveling me with a cool stare. “Dinner at your house? What, you got a new place now? The trailer ain’t good enough for you?”

I roll my eyes because now it feels like the roles have reversed. A few seconds ago, he thought I was asking for money, now he’s going to try to shake me down instead of answering my damn questions. “I’m renting it, and it’s a duplex. Hardly high living.”

“Think you can spare your dear old dad some money then?”

“No. I don’t have any,” I repeat his words back to him, growing more annoyed.

He scoffs. “I know that’s not true. Heard you got a job with the police department here.

You must be getting paid well by that new chief.

For all the shit I did for you as a kid, fed you, clothed you, gave you a safe place to sleep, the least you can do is kick your old man a couple dollars to get a bite to eat. ”

The bitter taste of bile creeps up my throat.

So, he knew I was back in town—he just didn’t bother to reach out.

Figures. Classic Eddie. He never showed up for me when I was a kid, and he sure as hell isn’t about to start now.

Meanwhile, the Marshalls were the ones who stepped in and did all the things a real family should’ve done for Mav and me.

They fed us, looked out for us, gave us a place to feel safe.

Eddie? He could barely keep food in the fridge. We survived on school lunches and spent more nights than I can count sleeping on Colt’s floor because it was safer than our own house—safer than risking who our dad might bring home that night.

He didn’t raise me. He gave me trust issues the size of Texas and a deep-rooted fear of charming men who know exactly what to say and none of it they mean.

“I don’t owe you anything,” I snap, glaring at him. “If you see Maverick, tell him to call me.” I spin on my heel, stepping off the rickety porch, but before I can escape his hand shoots out, catching my arm and yanking me back so hard I nearly fall onto the single concrete step below.

His grip is vice-like, fingers digging into my bicep as his bloodshot eyes narrow. There’s a flicker of something darker in them now. He looks much more sober and less confused. “You ungrateful little brat,” he snarls, his voice low and venomous.

“Let me go,” I hiss, keeping my tone steady even as my pulse races. My closest weapon is in the glove compartment of my car—twenty feet away. I don’t think he’d try anything, but it’s been a decade since I saw him, and I have no idea how much further down the spiral he’s fallen since I left.

After a tense moment, he jerks my arm free, but not before twisting it painfully.

The pressure where his fingers squeezed lingers, and I already know it’ll bruise.

I flex my hand subtly, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me wince.

I won’t let him think he’s hurt me—not physically, and certainly not emotionally.

“Take care now, Molly!” he shouts over my shoulder with a dark laugh.

I walk slowly and confidently to my car but inside all I want to do is run and cry.

As soon as I’m through the door, I lock it behind me and blow out a shaky breath.

I’ve faced plenty of high-stress situations in my career.

I’ve been shot at. I survived domestic violence at the hands of my ex-husband—a man who cheated on me relentlessly and hit me for sport near the end.

But none of that compares to the cold, hateful look in my father’s eyes today.

That might just be the worst thing I’ve ever faced.

I decide not to let him see me sweat. I keep my composure until I’m safely out of the trailer park, out of sight.

Only then do I finally pull over, my hands trembling as tears spill down my cheeks.

I try to steady my breathing, but my mind races, dragging me back to the last time a man had laid his hands on me in anger.

Jordan .

He’d been one of the first officers that I’d shadowed after graduating from the police academy and been sworn into the Baton Rouge Police Department.

Handsome, charming, with a megawatt smile and a way of making me feel seen.

His dark brown hair was always cropped short, military-style, and his full lips carried compliments like they were second nature.

There was a hunger in his gaze that I mistook for admiration, and he played his part well. Courting me with flowers, chocolates and dates, showing me the city I desperately wanted to call home—a place where I could land safely and feel protected.

For four years, he gave me exactly that, including a picture-perfect marriage. Until it all fell apart.

It started with him being caught with another officer—a female recruit fresh out of training. He was placed on parole for violating department policy, and that’s when the cracks began to show. I forgave him, convinced myself that everyone makes mistakes. But his resentment towards me simmered.

He’d glare at me when I came home from a shift while he laid on the couch, a look full of loathing that made my skin crawl. And I quickly learned the department protected its own. His seniority ensured that no matter what he did, they would always side with him.

The cheating didn’t stop when his probation ended.

If anything, it got worse. This time, it was shameless, right out in the open, almost to prove to me that he was above the law - moral and legal.

I was humiliated, embarrassed in front of my colleagues and community, but I stayed.

In the career and in the marriage. For two more years, I endured it.

Until the verbal abuse reached a boiling point, and one night, after a long and grueling shift, he hit me with a closed fist.

The first time, I was in shock. I told myself it was a one-off, a mistake born out of exhaustion and frustration. He apologized profusely, and I let it go, wanting so badly to believe that was the end of it. That this wouldn’t be the end of our marriage.

But it wasn’t.

The second time came with threats: If you ever leave me, I’ll ruin your career and your life. You’ll never be an officer for any other precinct again.

And maybe he could’ve. But the thought of staying and letting him break me completely was worse. Ruin me if I stay. Ruin me if I leave. I chose to leave.

So, I left that second time, determined to end things before they got worse. I filed for divorce, packed up, and hid out in a tiny town in Georgia where I knew he’d never think to look. I stayed there until the papers were finalized and only returned to Whitewood Creek after everything was done.

Now, sitting in my car with my arm still aching from my father’s grip, all I can do is spiral.

Is this on me? Do I have a thing for men who look strong enough to save me but end up walking away when it matters most?

Have I been carrying some low-key crush on Colt all these years just because he protected me back then when no one else did?

Maybe I’m just wired to fall for the guys with the savior complexes—the ones who swoop in all brave and good intentions, only to leave me wrecked when the shine wears off.

The tears on my cheeks have dried, but the pit in my stomach?

Still twisting like a knot. I wish I had answers.

I wish I could trust myself to make better choices, to not keep getting pulled into the same painful patterns.

But right now, all I’ve got is the weight of disappointment, the ghosts of the men who let me down, and the one man I’ve spent my whole damn life hoping wouldn’t.

Then I crack open the door, desperate for air, lean out—and puke straight onto the asphalt.