Page 9 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

Drinks, mingling with strangers, pretending I want to make new friends—it all sounds like torture.

Even the idea of playing pool or sitting in a noisy bar feels suffocating.

That bar is nothing but a minefield of memories I’d rather leave buried.

The thought of the clatter and chatter, the overwhelming hum of a crowd—it’s like a resounding gong in my head, one I’ll do anything to avoid.

She nods again, undeterred by my tone. “Well, if you change your mind or have any questions about what we’re doing here at the Boys and Girl’s Club, let me know.

We’d love to have you join us. All the volunteers are great people, and we use the time to support and encourage each other.

Plus, building relationships with the other volunteers might come in handy.

Sometimes people need to swap shifts or cover for each other’s littles.

It’s good to know who the right fit for Malachi might be if you ever need backup. ”

“Sure, I’ll keep that in mind.” I take another massive bite of the pizza slice I’ve been holding, hoping the act of chewing will signal the end of this conversation.

Maybe if she sees my mouth is full, she’ll stop talking.

I’m not meaning to be rude—I’m just not in the mood for whatever sunshine she’s here to sprinkle.

I don’t want to sit in some room with people I don’t know, sip beers, and force polite small talk. I want to be home, working on my property, surrounded by my family or in complete silence.

But even this pizza sucks. The crust is dry, the sauce too sweet. I chew on it anyway, rubbing my jaw thoughtfully as I take a closer look at her. Something about her unwavering happiness rubs against my frayed edges.

“You look familiar.”

She smiles wider. “I’m Reverend Emerson’s daughter, Lydia Emerson.”

“Ah, does the good man of faith know that his daughter likes to drink with heathens during the week?”

She laughs gently. “He does. Doesn’t prefer it, but I’m a grown woman who makes her own decisions now.”

I nod at that because I like a strong woman who doesn’t conform to societal or parental expectations. “Well, have a good night then, Lydia.”

She waves goodbye as I shove the rest of the slice of pizza into my mouth and swallow it down dry. I’m sure it’s good, the kids have practically devoured it, but to me, it tastes just like a bag of sand and sits in my gut even heavier.

I head out to the parking lot, climb into my truck and close the door with a heavy sigh, letting the stillness settle over me.

Day one with Malachi wasn’t terrible, but I can’t shake the feeling that an hour of UNO doesn’t accomplish much for either of us.

Maybe it’s supposed to be about building trust or something, but right now, it feels pointless.

There are a thousand other things I’d rather be doing—things I should be doing.

But here I am again, stuck doing something I don’t want to do.

Seems to be the theme of my life.

I glance down at the phone Troy bought me when I got out four days ago.

It’s shiny and new, unburdened by the contacts and memories of my old life.

Not that it matters—there’s no one from my past I care to reach out to.

Most people don’t even know I’m out, and I doubt they’d be eager to hang out with me if they did.

They’ve moved on, built lives. Marriage, kids, careers, new towns, and clean slates.

A lot changes between twenty-four and twenty-nine.

My eyes land on the sheet of paper sitting on the passenger seat.

It’s the list of instructions from my parole officer about scheduling my court appointed therapy sessions.

I let out another breath, leaning back in my seat and staring at the ceiling of the cab of the truck.

One more thing I have to do, one more hoop to jump through.

I dial the number written at the top for New Beginnings Counseling , an upbeat voice answers on the second ring.

“Hello! New Beginnings Counseling. How may I help you today?”

“I need to schedule a court appointed therapy session. My parole officer said I should ask for Liv Brown.”

I can hear paperwork flipping through the phone as the administrator rifles through her files. “Yes, is this Colton Marshall speaking?”

“Colt’s fine.”

“Okay, Colt, great. Your parole officer sent your files over ahead of time. Liv is our newest therapist, a student still in training but I can assure you that she’s wonderful to work with and has plenty of availability. When’s the soonest you can come in to see her?”

I want to tell her I’ve got nothing to do but build my house, show up for community service, check in with my parole officer, and clock in at the distillery—but I bite my tongue. No point in spelling out my mundane reality and the sooner that I get these started, the sooner they’ll be over.

“I can do tomorrow. Anytime.”

“Great! We’ll see you at eleven in the morning then. You’re all set.”

I hang up and jam the worn key into the ignition.

The truck sputters and struggles like it’s as tired as I feel.

One good pump of the gas pedal, and it finally roars to life.

The short drive home winds through dirt roads flanked by rows of peach trees, their blossoms blushing in the golden light of the setting sun.

As the colors streak across the sky, I find myself wondering what the hell I’m going to say to a therapist tomorrow.

What’s the point in digging up the past when it’s already buried me?

Whitewood Creek has always been home, with its simple charm and small-town quirks.

Sure, it has its share of problems—corrupt politicians and an ex-sheriff who’d make a good villain in a Western movie—but ever since my brother Troy became governor of North Carolina, those folks have backed off from messing with our family or retired, and things have gotten better.

I roll the windows down, letting the warm air brush across my face like a whisper of better days.

Nostalgia creeps in, heavy and bittersweet.

It’s not just the place I missed during those years I was locked up—it’s the version of myself that existed before everything went sideways.

The person I was. The life I had. The years that I’ll never get back.

It’s a short drive to our family’s egg farm, and when I turn on to that dirt road, I instantly let out a breath of relief. No more looking over my shoulder as if someone’s going to catch me and accuse me of being out for the wrong reasons, or make up lies.

Whitewood Creek Farmstead has always been my safe haven.

In our family for three centuries, our main business is the egg farm.

A sustainable, and ethical farm that caters to providing the majority of the non-GMO, all organic, free range, pasture raised eggs on the shelves of grocery stores across the United States.

Our farm is successful because its standards for humane practices towards the chickens are simply unmatched. When the hens ‘age out’ of egg laying, we keep them, allowing them to slip into a peaceful retirement on our property.

We’re a no-kill farm and it’s something that we’re all proud of and has brought us notoriety all over social media.

And while most poultry farms reek of the chicken manure for miles surrounding them, our great-great-great-great grandfather built the barns and facilities near the back of the property, up against the picturesque blue ridge mountains so that down winds would take the stench in the opposite direction of our homes.

Couple that with state of the art ventilation my dad installed before I was born, and well, it’s some of the cleanest air you could breathe in the country.

Ten years ago, when I was just eighteen, our growing popularity inspired my older brother Lawson and I to launch Whitewood Creek Distillery.

It quickly became a staple, putting our family name on the map with our homemade whiskey.

I jumped in with both feet, eager to learn the ropes and contribute right out of high school.

Over the years, I’ve poured myself into the business—literally and figuratively.

This year, I worked on the designs for our first brewery and restaurant that’s opening in Charlotte, while Cash brought them to life.

Even from behind bars, I helped craft our signature organic, non-GMO, farm-to-pint beer using grains we grew on-site.

The distillery and now the brewery are more than just businesses—they’re a lifeline, a source of pride that kept me going through four long years in prison.

Cash visited me weekly without fail, checking in on designs and updates.

Lawson dropped by when he wasn’t traveling for sales or handling business deals, and Troy, busy as he was, always made time to encourage me during his work trips south.

It's never been just about the businesses—it’s always been about family. Everyone pulling together to make whatever new dreams we create a reality. And soon, I’ll finally get to see this one with my own eyes.

Getting released doesn’t mean the conviction is erased—it’s still there, stamped on my record for life.

That limits my options, shutting the door on most “normal” jobs.

But that doesn’t bother me at all. I never wanted a nine-to-five.

I’ve always been better with my hands, and even before I went to prison, I knew my place was here—on our property, running the distillery and checking in on the chicks.

I drive past the main house where I grew up and then make a left before pushing deeper into the property, past the trees and into a section that’s still wild with overgrown bushes, weeds and tall trees.

The road opens up to a small clearing that meets the creek, its’ water rushing along the edge of our land, just as it always has.

Steady like the blood that’s coursing through my veins.

Whitewood Creek.

I’ve always known this is where I’d build a house someday and maybe in the future, I’ll raise my kids here. As I park the truck, a smile tugs at my lips, already imagining it. The materials I picked up yesterday from the hardware store are scattered across the grass, but that’s tomorrow’s task.

Right now, I’ve got nothing but time.

Tonight, I’ll sleep under the stars, sprawled out on the grass, with the mountains looming above me. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this free, and I plan to savor every moment of it.