Page 5 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

Troy, Lawson, and Cash offered to help, and I know they’ll show up when I’m ready.

That’s how we operate. When it comes to the farm, the distillery, or anything our family needs, we pull our weight—no keeping score, just shared work and earned rewards.

But Troy’s new role as North Carolina’s governor has him swamped and in Raleigh most of the time.

His wife Georgia’s busy with her new pregnancy and planning their upcoming wedding, and Lawson’s splitting his time between managing Beckham’s busy schedule and weeks on the road to grow our family businesses.

So really, it’s just me, Regan, Cash, and Dad. And I’m good with that.

I hop out of the truck, clicking my tongue. Roxy, my old black lab, trots to my side—slower now, stiff in the joints, but still loyal as ever.

I nod at the cashier—a face that seems vaguely familiar—as I start down the aisles, scanning for what I need.

Most of the tools are already back at home.

Cash took care of the pavers and mortar, so I just need a measuring tape, some sandbags, and a wheelbarrow.

I find the wheelbarrow first and then toss the other items into it before steering toward the checkout.

The cashier slowly begins to ring up the items. I can feel her eyeing me curiously while I do everything not to meet her gaze.

“Can you add these on?” I ask, gesturing toward a bag of gummy worms hanging on a hook near the counter.

She grabs a bag and adds it to my order, still looking at me.

Maybe she recognizes me from years ago—the younger Colton.

But that version of me is long gone. I’m different now: tattoos I didn’t have before, a bulkier build from years of working out, and a face hardened by time.

I don’t mean to look angry and unapproachable, but after years of wearing the same grim expression, it feels impossible to change.

the muscles in my face are trained into a menacing glare.

“That all?” she asks. I nod, pay, and toss the bag into the wheelbarrow before heading for the door.

I click my tongue again. “Come on, Roxy. Let’s go home.

” She wags her tail eagerly and follows me as we exit.

Most stores around here are pet-friendly, and even if they weren’t, she’s the gentlest dog I’ve ever met.

Dad gave her to me when I was a teenager, hoping she’d keep me out of trouble.

And for a while, she did—until I taught her how to tiptoe when we’d sneak out and how not to bark when I snuck back in after nights out partying with Maverick.

Drunk, laughing, stupid... Roxy never ratted me out once.

She’s always been the most loyal thing in my life and the first thing I wanted to see when I got home from prison.

But even a few good head scratches and kisses from her didn’t stir anything inside of me. I’m still feeling… hollow.

I wheel the cart up to the back of my truck, setting down my bags before unlatching the tailgate.

Tossing the smaller items into the bed, I brace myself to lift the bulk of the wheelbarrow.

It’s awkward and heavy, and I have to adjust my grip twice before I finally manage to hoist it over the lip and slide it into place where I know it’ll be secure.

As I work, Roxy whimpers. Her ears flick forward, gaze shifting toward the parking lot’s edge.

Something’s off.

“What is it, girl?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder as I secure the last strap to keep everything in place for the short drive home.

Since I’m restricted to traveling for work and court appointed appointments only, I’m also nervous about the possibility of running into someone I shouldn’t at the convenience store.

I told myself I could justify this being work related, but uneasiness settles in my stomach as Roxy’s ears continue to flick back and forth.

She whines again, low and insistent, and before I can hop down, she bolts.

“Aw, hell nah.”

She’s never been one to run. Roxy’s the kind of dog who sticks by my side no matter what.

And while she’s never bitten anyone before, I can’t be sure whoever she’s charging towards knows that.

I’ve got enough on my plate with two months of parole left to serve.

Trouble is the one thing I can’t afford.

I swing over the side of the truck bed, my boots hitting the gravel with a thud that I feel all the way in my knees, and then take off in a sprint after her. “Roxy, get back here!” I shout out.

But then, I see her. Just a few feet away. She’s squirming, wagging her tail furiously as she jumps up on someone—a woman. A beautiful one. She’s licking her face, circling her legs, her old body’s practically vibrating with pure joy and excitement.

Roxy’s never acted like this with anyone outside of my family. She knows better than to jump on people, let alone a stranger and definitely not a woman. But the woman she’s pawing at isn’t just anyone.

Tight black jeans with rips, a low-cut blue shirt hugging curves I remember being much smaller, and a smile I’d know anywhere.

Molly Patrick.

My childhood best friend’s little sister and a woman who’s consumed my thoughts for years…