Page 13 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)
And beyond that, stretching across the land like the heartbeat of it all, lies the farm—the sprawling coops filled with chickens and the distillery twenty miles further.
My great-great-grandfather designed the farm with the North Carolina, mountain breeze in mind, ensuring the wind carries the scent away from the property, preserving what little sanity anyone living here might have and bumping up against the beautiful, Blue Ridge Mountains that line base of our property and provide a stunning backdrop for the seasons.
“Here you are, sir,” the driver says as he pulls in front of a weathered railroad tie that works as a makeshift parking space in front of our family home.
I scan the rest of the dirt lot and notice just Cash and my dad’s cars are here today. At least this way, I won’t have everyone jumping on me at once.
I thank him, slip a generous tip, and grab my overnight bag from the backseat.
Although I’m only here for five days, I’ve kept my packing minimal.
Aside from the pressed suit neatly sealed in its protective bag and a couple pairs of Wrangler jeans I reserve solely for trips home, I travel light—just the way I prefer it.
Get in, get out.
My plan is straightforward: take care of campaign business, meet with Colt, and return to New York with minimal complications.
At least, that’s what I hope will happen.
I barely make it to the front steps before the door swings open, revealing my younger sister, Regan.
It’s been almost a year since I last saw her—too long, but with election season looming, my visits have become fewer and farther between.
These days, when I do make it home, it’s usually a whirlwind trip, less than twenty-four hours, just long enough to handle political commitments and meet with Colt and his lawyer before catching the next flight back.
Regan’s wild, dark auburn hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head, stray curls escaping in every direction. Her bright blue eyes gleam as she takes me in, mischief already dancing in her expression.
I set my bag down at my feet and fold my arms across my chest, waiting.
At twenty-eight, she reminds me a lot of the nanny I just hired—sharp, quick-witted, and always ready with a smart remark when it suits her.
But unlike Georgia, I’ve known Regan since she was a baby, practically helped raise her.
She listens when I speak, respects me enough to trust my judgment, even if she doesn’t always like it.
Not that it stops her from giving me hell every chance she gets. Just like her brothers do on occasion.
She finally breaks the silence, steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck tightly just like she did when she was a kid, and I used to carry her all around our property like a little baby koala.
“Shit Troy, I wasn’t expecting you to be here today. Thought I was looking at a ghost. I’ve missed you.”
I chuckle. “Hey Regan. I've missed you too.” Because other than Liam, she’s the only person in my world who can turn my heart of stone to soft.
We pull back and smile at each other as I take her in. Her once carefree eyes are still there, hidden behind a dark fringe of long bangs now, but it’s evident that the last four years have taken their toll on her—on all of us. I can sense how much she’s been keeping inside.
Recently, Regan stepped up to manage the egg farm business so that Cash could dedicate himself fully to the distillery while Colt’s away.
I know they’ve been struggling and need more help, Regan often complaining in our family group text about how much of her time is consumed by the farm leaving little space for a social life.
But my family has been burned in the past and is hesitant to hand over management responsibilities to just anyone.
The few employees we have are part-time workers who handle the grunt work, but the day-to-day operations and management ultimately fall to my three siblings, and our father with Colt and I gone.
“Are you here to see Colt?” she asks, her eyes full of hope and pain.
“Here to meet with a labor union from Charlotte and a few city council members. But yeah, I’m going to see him on Friday. Try to get the latest update from his lawyer and check-in on him.”
She nods as she thinks, before turning her body to the side and allowing me into our home. “Dad met with his lawyer last week and it didn’t seem like there was much change. I have to warn you, dad isn’t doing very well.”
I clench my jaw and nod because none of us are doing well. “He in his office?”
She nods. “Yeah, I’m just here to grab some lunch before I head back to the egg farm. Molting season so we’re short on staff. Cash’s been pulling overtime with construction at the brewery, so things have been crazy while I help him out with the distillery too.”
“How are things coming along?”
She shrugs, avoiding eye contact for a moment before forcing a smile. It’s a valiant attempt to seem convincing, but after ten years in politics and my experience as a lawyer, I can see straight through her tough facade.
“It’s been a lot, but we’re managing. Record profits this year from our whiskey sales at the big-name grocery chains means we’re pulling extra hours. Plus, the attention we’ve been getting on social media—thanks to Gen Z—has made sales skyrocket. We’re all feeling a bit burned out.”
I nod, mentally adding Regan and my brother’s exhaustion to the growing list of burdens I’m quietly carrying for everyone in my life.
“Just another month, hopefully,” I say, resting a hand on her shoulder. She nods back and turns to leave.
As she walks away my eyes drift over the interior of our old farmhouse.
Built in the 1800s, it’s been remodeled three times—each time by Cash, my middle brother, who’s always innovating and transforming our properties.
Working on the family home was how he learned how to construct and deconstruct.
My dad would give him a room that he was allowed to tear apart and then rebuild and him and Colt would go at it.
It kept them out of trouble, mostly, and taught them how to work their anger out with their hands on materials versus people.
Cash is also the one who built the Whitewood Creek distillery and is currently constructing the brewery based on Colt’s vision and designs.
It’s our newest family venture, a brewery and restaurant that will sell our beer and whiskey.
Our plans are to open it in late springtime in the city of Charlotte.
That is, assuming everything goes my way, and we get the approvals we need.
I head down the narrow back hallway to my dad’s office where he’s spent the last forty-two years of his life. The door is closed, so I take a deep breath, bracing myself for what I’m about to face. With one long exhale, I knock.
“Come in!” my dad’s deep voice booms from inside. I open the door to find him leaned back in his chair, with Cash sitting across from him, wearing his trademark shit-eating grin, fingers steepled in front of him.
“What’s up, city slicker,” Cash says, jumping up to pull me into a hug. At thirty-two-years-old, he’s just as obnoxious as he was at ten except much taller now and rivaling me in strength. I hug him back.
“Didn’t think you’d tear yourself away from your lavish New York life to slum it with us in the boondocks,” he teases, his grin widening.
The jab hits harder than I’d like to admit. He knows damn well I’m not galivanting around the city living the high life while the family’s buried in work back at the farm. But Cash has always known exactly how to push mine, and everyone else in our family’s, buttons.
“Good to see you too, Cash,” I shoot back, forcing a smile. “Don’t you have a distillery to manage? And a brewery to build?”
He waves me off, all nonchalant. “Everything’s running smoothly. Record sales in our retail division. We’re on track for a spring opening of the restaurant and brewery, just waiting on those outstanding permits to clear. You ready to put that fancy law degree and big name of yours to use?”
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” I say, puffing out my chest a little. He knows full well this isn’t the only reason that I’m here.
My dad stands from behind his desk, his smile softening the tension between us.
“Leave him alone, Cash. You know why he’s here and what he’s been doing for the family. Just one more month, and hopefully we can put this all behind us. Now, have a seat, son.”
I sink into the chair next to Cash, who kicks his dusty, worn-out boots onto Dad’s desk. It’s been a while since I’ve worn anything but my stuffy suits, as Cash would call them, and at times, I miss the ease of a good pair of work boots, a tattered t-shirt and a classic pair of well-worn Wranglers.
I don’t have much time before I need to slip back into my other life—the one where I’m Troy Marshall, political consultant and not yet announced candidate for governor of the state.
Meeting with lobbyists, shaking hands, kissing babies, and flashing fake smiles for the cameras.
But first, I need to focus on what truly matters. My family.
“So,” I say, cutting to the chase. “Give me the latest on Colt.”