Page 7 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

Colt Marshall…

The first time my heart fell for Colt Marshall, I was eleven years old, half-frozen, and standing on his back porch in the middle of a snowstorm.

Not that I’m special in that regard—half the town has fallen for Colt Marshall at one point or another. And really, who could blame them?

Hazel eyes that shift like autumn leaves.

Light brown hair that used to fall just a little too long over his forehead.

A bad-boy edge wrapped around something softer—something deeper—that he only let a rare few see.

A cinnamon swirl of trouble and charm, capped off with a wicked, heart-stealing smile.

That night, during the brutal snowstorm of 2007, our little North Carolina town was paralyzed.

Roads were closed, businesses shuttered, and school was out indefinitely.

My dad, with his raging gambling problem and infamous stinginess when it came to anything worthwhile, was nowhere to be found—probably placing bets on how many inches we’d get.

Meanwhile, Maverick and I were left to fend for ourselves in our drafty trailer at Whitewood Creek Mobile Park.

The wind had howled against the thin, single-paned windows, the chill seeping into every corner of our bedroom.

Maverick did his best to shield me from the cold so I could sleep, dressing me in two layers of winter coats, but by the fourth time he checked our tiny, sputtering space heater, he knew we couldn’t stay.

Hypothermia wasn’t worth waiting for Dad to come home.

And even if he did, he wouldn't do anything about it.

Bundled up as best as we could, we trudged across town in the blinding snow, my toes going numb faster than we could get to our destination.

Maverick held my hand, leading me through the whiteout until we reached the Marshall family’s farmhouse—more specifically, his new best friend Colt Marshall’s home.

That night changed everything for us. Colt had opened the back door, and from then on, the Marshall home became a haven for us.

For the next seven years, whenever Dad’s unsavory friends came around or the trailer got too cold to bear, we’d sneak across town to Whitewood Creek Farm.

Colt would let us crash on his bedroom floor and by morning time, we’d slip out before his dad or siblings woke up, pretending like nothing had happened.

Though I don’t think they’d have minded.

Even after I became close friends with Colt’s twin sister Regan, I could never bring myself to explain everything Maverick and I were going through—or how much her brother had protected us.

She knew about my rough home life and that I spent time with Colt, but she didn’t know the depth of it.

Colt had been more than a friend to us. He was our protector, never making us feel bad for needing a safe place to sleep.

I shake my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips as memories of those days resurface—days I haven’t allowed myself to think about in nearly a decade.

At eighteen, I ran. Straight out of Whitewood Creek, chasing a dream of California and the Los Angeles Police Department—chasing the idea of a whole new me. But dreams take detours and with limited bus fare, mine led to the Louisiana State Police.

Now, ten years later, with a failed marriage and a successful divorce behind me, I’m back in Whitewood Creek.

I can’t quite figure out why I returned, how I ended up here, or what I plan to do next.

Something about this town still feels like a tether, pulling me back to unfinished business, unresolved questions, and maybe even a chance to start over.

When I'd married Jordan, I thought it'd be for life.

But life has always had a way of surprising me.

“Just the shears today?” the cashier asks, glancing at the long trimmers I’ve placed on the counter.

Though I’m finally old enough and earning plenty to afford renting a duplex in town, lawn care isn’t included in those payments. That means I’m stuck dealing with the unruly hedges in the front yard—thick, overgrown bushes that block the only natural light into my half of my new home.

“Yes,” I reply, offering a quick smile.

The cashier smiles back, rings up the shears, and places them in a bag. Then, with a little wink, she adds, “It’s good to see you back in town, Molly.”

Is it good to be back?

I’m not so sure yet.

I return her smile politely with a nod then reach for the bag, pausing as a bright rack full of gummy worms catches my eye.

“Oh, do you mind adding a bag of those?”

She glances next to her and then shrugs, ringing up the candy and handing them to me. “Strange, the last guy who was in here said the same thing. No one’s bought those worms in weeks.”

A sharp pang cuts through my chest, realizing Colt must have had the same thought I did when he saw them.

Those candies weren’t just a snack—they were our snack.

The ones we’d take down to the creek that winds through his family’s land, where he and Maverick would wade into the water, trying to catch crayfish with their bare hands.

I’d stretch out on the bank, pretending to focus on my homework while secretly stealing glances at Colt—at the way his broad, farm-strong back flexed under the sun, at the golden flecks in his hazel eyes when the light hit just right.

The candy tastes like simpler times. Like summer afternoons and bare feet in the grass. Like feeling safe. Like belonging .

I take the bag from her with a smile. “Wow. What a coincidence.”

The short drive to my duplex is like everything else in Whitewood Creek—scenic, picturesque, idyllic.

At least on the surface. But if you’ve lived here long enough, you know where the cracks start to show.

The places the mayor tries to keep hidden, the quiet struggles that don’t make it on to the postcard version of town.

Even so, Whitewood Creek has held on to its small-town charm. People still wave when they pass by, still show up when you need them. It’s the kind of place where doors stay unlocked, where folks offer a helping hand without being asked.

I smile as I watch out the window as the scenery whizzes by.

My thoughts drift back to Colt easily as I recall his surprise at seeing me.

He’s different now—bigger, stronger, the sharp angles of his face even more defined.

The buzz cut and tattoos make him look tougher, more hardened.

They were stories, warnings, shields etched into his skin—covering his arms, hands, and knuckles.

Every inch of skin that was exposed seemed to be covered.

But his hazel eyes? They’re the same. Warm and familiar, pulling me back to the boy I once knew.

He’d always been handsome, but now? Now he’s the kind of good-looking that steals your breath, that makes people stop and stare.

I wonder if being home feels like freedom to him—or just another kind of confinement. If prison left scars deeper than the ones I can see.

And why didn’t Regan tell me he was home?

I pull into the narrow driveway of the duplex I share with my elusive neighbors, who are as strange as they are private.

Every time I’ve tried to introduce myself, they’ve darted inside like I’m carrying the plague.

I think there are two of them, but occasionally a third person comes and goes.

It’s hard to say for sure. Their beat up van is home when I leave for work in the morning and when I come home at night.

I try not think about what it is that they’re doing next door.

I note that Regan’s car is already parked in the driveway, but she isn’t inside it.

“How the—? How the hell did you get in here?” I ask, dropping my bag of shears on to the front steps as I enter the home. Half the gummy worms I’d bought are already gone, their crinkly bag hanging loosely between two fingers.

Regan shrugs, smirking as she reaches out and plucks one from the bag. She pops it into her mouth with a grin as she carefully paints another coat of sage green on the trim of my living room wall. “I have four brothers, and did you forget how we used to break into homes when we were younger?”

I nod because that’s explanation enough.

“Well, thanks for getting started without me. It’s already looking good.” My eyes scan what she’s done and how the green brings life to this room.

“Thanks!” she chirps with a smile before planting her hands on her hips.

“So… Were you ever going to tell me that Colt was back?” The words tumble out, edged with a hint of frustration.

It was, without a doubt, the shock of my life.

Sure, I’ve always admired him, but it’s been years since I’ve thought about him.

He’d always held a special place in my heart and my memories, but seeing him today?

It was like a punch to the gut I didn’t know I needed.

He’d always had a wild streak like Maverick, but he’d been the smarter one out of their duet. The one who I never thought would get in serious trouble. Prison has clearly changed him, forged him into something new.

I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this.

He’s my brother’s best friend, my best friend Regan's twin brother, and a convicted felon. And I’m supposed to be the law-abiding one, sworn to protect and serve.

It’s a web too tangled to even attempt to unravel.

Besides, he’s always treated me like I was a fragile kid that he needed to protect, not as equals.

But that didn’t stop me from checking out his ass when he walked away with Roxy today.

Regan shrugs, her expression annoyingly casual. “It was a last-minute decision. He wasn’t supposed to be released until April, but the date got pushed up.”

“Are you not…I don’t know, excited? Wouldn't you rather be catching up with him than painting right now?” I stretch out the bag of gummy worms to her again as she takes another, popping it in her mouth absentmindedly as she stares out the window of my new home.

“I think he hates me." She puffs out a deep breath.

I step back, furrowing my brows at my tiny, fiery friend.

Regan and I have known each other for two decades, even though we’ve spent the last one apart.

She'd been shy and a bit reserved when we were younger, but after coming back from college, she’d broken out of her tight shell.

Something had shifted inside of her, she’d shared.

She'd found herself out from under living with her four brothers and father on the family farm.

“That’s not true. It’d be impossible for him to hate you.”

She shakes her head, dipping her brush back into the paint and returning to the steady strokes against the wall. “I wouldn’t blame him if he did. I mean, I didn’t visit him. Not even once. Four and a half years in prison, and I couldn’t bring myself to see him in those conditions.”

Her confession hangs heavy in the air, and I watch as the brush she’s using glides back and forth. The old, dingy gray paint covered in scratch marks slowly disappears under a bright, cheerful new color.

I don’t want to make her feel worse, but Colt isn’t just her brother—he’s her twin.

They’ve been inseparable since birth, the kind of siblings who shared every secret.

Even if I'd been in town during that time, I’d have made an effort to visit him.

Especially for what I’d heard was a wrongful conviction.

“Not even once?” I ask, softly.

Regan slams the brush down, hard. Paint splatters across the drop cloth like an inkblot test of her guilt. “Sorry,” she mutters as she wipes her forehead with her sleeve.

“It’s okay. Really, it’s fine,” I assure her quickly.

Regan isn’t someone who gets upset easily. She’s always been the upbeat one in every room, the kind of person whose joy is contagious. She used to make up holidays for us to celebrate. Silly ones like walk backwards day, and try something new and scary, day.

Seeing her like this? It’s jarring. I step closer, wrapping my arms around her tightly and brushing her dark, auburn hair with my hand.

“He doesn’t hate you, Regan. I promise. But you do need to talk to him.

I’ve worked with formerly incarcerated people before, and the thing they need most is to feel like they’ve got people in their corner.

He needs you—your friendship, your trust. Especially now. ”

She nods against my shoulder, her thick hair brushing against my face as she exhales a heavy sigh, her entire body sinking into the hug. “I know. I will. But... will you come with me? He’s always liked you a lot. Maybe you can break the ice. I don’t even know where to start.”

I pull back, giving her a soft smile. “Of course. We’ll go together. Tomorrow. I’ll be the warm-up act, and you can swoop in and steal the show.”

Regan laughs, her usual brightness flickering back to life. “Okay. Now let’s make this ugly house green already.”