Page 14 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)

My dad moves behind his desk, sinking into his chair before running a hand through his beard, now thicker, full of greys, and much more unruly than when I last saw him a month ago while here to visit with Colt’s lawyer.

The lines around his eyes have deepened, the weariness unmistakable.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s all the construction and growth happening between the farmstead and distillery wearing him down, or the weight of his youngest child being gone for four years—something no amount of money or frustrated effort has been able to fix.

In a way, my dad and I grew up together.

He and my mom were just seventeen—barely more than kids themselves—when I was born. High school sweethearts turned teenage parents, trying to navigate a world they hadn’t even figured out yet. Raising me while they were still finding their own way couldn’t have been easy.

I understand that better than anyone now, repeating the cycle with Max.

I know those first few years had to be brutal. The stress, the exhaustion, the uncertainty of two teenagers suddenly responsible for a whole new life. But they had love . That much, I remember.

And I was lucky enough to see it.

Unlike my younger siblings, I still have pieces of those early days locked away in my memory—the way they looked at each other, the way my mom laughed at my dad’s terrible jokes, the way they always seemed to find their way back to each other, no matter how hard things got.

Before everything changed.

Before we lost her.

Mom died unexpectedly giving birth to Colt and Regan, and after that, nothing was ever the same. But even under the crushing weight of grief, of raising five kids on his own, my dad never stopped being Dad . And no matter how hard things got, one thing remained true—

They had been a team, and their children have carried that same spirit forward, doing whatever it takes for the family to succeed.

“I met with the lawyer last week,” he says, rubbing his temples. “He wants to talk to you while you’re in town.”

“I know. I plan on it. Said we could meet up while I visit Colt.”

He sighs, his hands falling to the desk heavily. “The lawyer thinks with the new footage from the bar security camera, we might have a chance at getting him out on parole for an early release. Something about submitting an appeal. But he thinks it’s likely that the charges will still stick.”

“Bullshit,” Cash growls, slamming his fists down on the desk.

Though Lawson is usually the calmest out of us, Cash comes in a close second with his perpetually annoying happiness.

But four years without Colt here has changed all of us.

“He’s fucking innocent. It was self-defense! The footage proves that!”

“Not quite self-defense,” I correct. “Defense of others, sure. But then the law brings up reasonableness of force, imminent threat, duty to retreat. And the woman said Colt swung at Fenley first. Claimed she wasn’t being hurt by him and he started the whole thing.”

“She lied,” Cash spits through clenched teeth.

“We know,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “We all know that, and the tapes contradict her statement which will only help us.”

But four years of fighting through the legal system, inching through the red tape, has me hesitating to believe in any sort of justice.

Colt’s case has been wrapped in politics from the start, and it didn’t help that the guy he knocked out was the sheriff’s son—who’s the mayor of Whitewood Creek’s best friend and Sunday night poker buddy.

When you’ve got that much power stacked against you, that’s how a five-year sentence for aggravated assault comes down, despite the truth being on your side.

And the fact that Colt had a juvenile record when sentencing?

Yeah, that didn’t help. It was mostly petty stuff—cow tipping, stealing a goat from a neighbor’s farm, joyriding—dumb stuff he did with his best friend Maverick, but it was enough to paint him as a troublemaker with a pattern that extended into his early twenties.

And when that reputation was dredged up, it created a storm that tore our family apart, sending him to prison and I’ve been fighting to get him out ever since.

“I’m meeting with his lawyer on Wednesday,” I say, trying to keep my frustration in check to calm my brother’s mood. “With this new evidence, we’ve got a shot at getting the appeal approved. He’s up for parole anyways.”

Cash pushes his chair back, standing with a clenched jaw and fire in his eyes. “I just want Colt home for the holidays, out of that hellhole.”

“We all do,” I reply, steady as ever because I’ve had to be. And I’ll continue to be for the people who are depending on me to keep it together and not fall apart.

Even if I want to.

He lets out a breath, then clasps my shoulder in a firm squeeze. “Good to have you back, even if it’s just for the week. Give Liam a squeeze from me. Hope to see him and Max soon. Love you, brother.”

“Love you too,” I say, returning the gesture as he heads out of the office, closing the door softly behind him.

Dad leans back in his chair, a warm smile breaking through the tension of our heated discussion.

“How’s Liam doing? I’d love to see my great-grandson sometime soon.”

“Good… great,” I answer, though the familiar ache of guilt that I’m not doing enough for him tightens deep in my chest.

I hate leaving him behind when I travel.

I know my brothers and sister would love to spend time with their great-nephew, and Dad would dote on him if he had the chance.

But the thought of someone recognizing us, snapping a photo of him, and dragging his innocent little face into the media circus keeps me from bringing him here.

It’s one of the biggest reasons I’ve delayed moving into politics as long as I have.

I’d thought that I could fight this thing brewing against my family and Colt without moving into a citizen facing role but after too many years at it, that hasn’t been the case.

I wanted Max to grow up. Have a chance at a normal life.

What I’d never anticipated was once I’d graduated from young, single father I’d be quickly promoted to young, single grandfather and find myself raising that grandson.

So, I keep Liam safe in the Hamptons, away from the city, away from the spotlight that comes with being related to me and now, safely with Georgia.

It doesn’t mean I don’t have intense guilt about it all.

“I’m thinking of bringing him down to visit for the election in a month,” I say, though I wasn’t planning on it originally.

My dad sighs and sits back, raking a hand through his hair as if he doesn’t like that answer but he lets it go. “And how’s my grandson, Max?”

I swallow and pause, mostly because I know where this conversation is headed.

My dad, providing me with another lecture on why I should have never moved him to New York when he was ten years old.

Trust me, I tried everything to steer him away from repeating my mistakes—having a kid way too young with the wrong person—but he went and did it anyway.

That’s the thing about kids, you can try to show them what you did wrong, think you’re setting them up for success as you explain the way they should behave, but no amount of involved parenting or careful coaching can stop them from making their own choices.

At some point, they become their own people which means they are responsible for their own decisions and the consequences of those.

I still love him more than anything, and our bond is strong, but I get why he’s always on the move.

Why he felt he needed to finish school on a different continent.

Being a father at twenty steals your youth and he’d expressed how unprepared he felt, not wanting to let Liam down.

I’m proud of him for staying in his life, even if it’s from afar for now.

I know he’ll come back some day and I’m grateful I have the means to take care of him in the meantime.

“He’s still finishing up school in London. Should be done in the next month. I’m not sure what he’ll decide to do next.”

My dad shakes his head, rubbing his beard again like he always does.

He’s a good man. Loves his kids. Loves his grandkids and great grandkid but sometimes, he treats me different from the rest of his children.

He’s always had different expectations for me, even as a kid and I suppose that’s part of why I’ve worked so hard to make him proud.

I often wonder if his disappointment in me started when I told him I’d gotten my girlfriend pregnant so young.

Maybe he feels like he let me down in the same way I feel misplaced guilt for letting Max down.

“Max always loved growing up here in Whitewood Creek. I can’t help but think moving him to New York City twelve years ago might’ve been what sent him off the rails.”

I flex my jaw.

Clench my fists underneath his desk.

There it is.

I’m grown enough to make my own choices about my son, but also, I’m sure there’s a thread of truth to that which makes it sting even worse.

It’s just another layer of guilt weighing on me, wondering if I’m screwing things up for my son and grandson, while trying to fix everything at the same time.

It’s like spinning on a hamster wheel. I have no idea of what I’m doing even matters.

“He’s a good kid. He’s focused on his degree. I’d hardly consider that ‘ going off the rails. ’ Plus, he said he’d be back for the holidays to visit. And if the election goes smoothly, I’ll be living permanently here then, too.”

Dad stands up, smiling as he outstretches his hand to me.

I match his stance and shake it. “You’re right, he is a great kid.

Your home’s still standing. Regan goes in and cleans it every other week to be sure the dust doesn’t settle.

We’d love to have you, Max, and Liam all together living in it again.

The last piece of the family finally coming home once we get our Colt back.

We’re proud of you, son. Truly. Even if your siblings and I give you grief sometimes, we believe in you.

Whether you win this election or not, we’re getting Colt out, and we’re opening this brewery.

The people of Whitewood Creek stand with us, whether the local government does. ”

I nod because he’s right. If there’s one thing about Whitewood Creek, we protect and support our own.

“So, did you find a replacement for Eleanor yet?”

“Yeah,” I say, shifting on my feet. “The new Governor of Florida recommended someone. She nannied for their family over the past five years.”

He raises a brow. “Is she a sweet, old lady like Eleanor?”

I shake my head, knowing he’s about to dig until he gets something on Georgia, so I figure I’ll give him the bare minimum.

“Her name is Georgia Cameron.”

He raises a brow.

I sigh. “She’s twenty-eight.”

His eyebrow arches higher and I feel like I’m sixteen-years old again telling him about my high school girlfriend, not forty-two.

“Oh, you got a young one.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re making it sound like I hired a minor. She’s smart, highly qualified, and I’m sure Liam will take to her quickly.”

“And you? Have you taken to her too?”

I shake my head. “I’ve spent maybe seven total hours around her, most of that while locked in my bedroom, packing for this trip.”

I leave out the part about meeting her months ago in a steam room where she accidentally sat on me naked and the fact that I have been unable to stop obsessively thinking about that. The way her body felt against mine, how she stood there—confident but flustered—surrounded by steam.

She might not have seen much at her five-foot-three height, but from where I was sitting, the view was clear. It’s a view I can’t quite shake. And now, she’s going to be sleeping in the bedroom down the hall from mine and bonding with my grandson.

“Mhm. Well maybe try to spend a little more time around her when you get back,” my dad mutters in that all-knowing tone like he thinks there’s more to my relationship with Georgia than I’m letting on.

“She’s an employee, Dad. I’m running for Governor to turn this state’s politics upside down. You think I’m gonna risk all of that for some young woman? Let alone my grandson’s nanny? You’re crazy.”

“Ain’t nothing ever been risked if it’s for the right one...”