Page 42 of Where the Blacktop Ends (Whitewood Creek Farm #1)
Regan’s laughter lingers as we make our way to a souped-up golf cart parked behind the main house.
? The crunch of gravel under my boots stills my racing thoughts at Troy’s words.
Growing up on a ranch, I’m no stranger to riding anything—4-wheelers, ATVs, tractors, horses—you name it, I’ve ridden or driven it.
My twin cousins, Cody and Wilder, once stole an old golf cart from a nearby golf course, slapped on some monster truck tires, and tore around Ashwood Ranch, kicking up mud everywhere.
Eventually it tipped over and almost broke Wilder’s arm which is when my uncle Nash took it away.
So, when Regan gestures for me to climb into her modified cart, it doesn’t even faze me.
“Hang on!” she yells, slamming the vehicle into drive.
We zip off, bouncing down the dirt roads that weave through the property like a labyrinth.
The path looks just wide enough for trucks to deliver goods deeper into the farmstead but not wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other at the same time.
The pavement quickly gives way to gravel, then dirt as cornstalks and fruit trees whiz by.
Finally, Regan pulls up to the front of the first building that has a single sign blowing in the breeze indicating it’s the Whitewood Creek Egg Farmstead .
The first thing I notice is how peaceful everything feels down here.
The road, now flanked by tall grasses, winds downward toward two large structures—a modern barn and a massive open-air facility beside it.
We hop out of the cart and follow a path between the buildings, which opens into vast fenced pastures.
Chickens scatter across the fields, their feathers catching the golden light of the late October sun.
Brown, red and black, their colors make a beautiful tapestry across the hill.
In the distance, I spot clusters of baby chicks darting around with the boundless energy that only the young have.
There’s no industrial noise here, no overwhelming stench like the chicken farms I remember from Texas. The earthy smell of chicken manure blends with the natural surroundings, softening the usual assault on the senses.
“Our great-great-grandfather designed the original barn with proper ventilation to keep the smell manageable,” Regan explains beside me. “Chickens usually stink more than any other animal.”
“I’m surprised how fresh it smells here,” I admit.
She smiles, her blue eyes bright in the fading daylight.
The peacefulness of the scene tugs at something inside me, stirring up memories of my home in Texas and causing me to miss it for just a moment.
The only sounds are the soft clucks of the hens, the flutter of wings, and the breeze rustling through the grass.
It’s a calm I hadn’t realized I’d missed until now.
We turn back to walk towards the modern structure and pass a few wooden signs proudly displaying phrases like Pasture-Raised, Organic Feed Only, and No-Kill Facility.
“The chickens can move in and out freely through this back section as they please. It allows them to constantly have access to the freshest grass, bugs, and clean air.” She points at the open-air doors on the side of the largest building and the hens who are clucking peacefully as they move inside.
“It’s a sanctuary,” I respond.
She laughs. “It is. Like a little chicken heaven. We all love spending time here. Sometimes, I catch Cash in here brushing their feathers and talking to them. But don’t tell him I told you that,” she winks, and I laugh, imagining the outgoing brother I just met sneaking off to pet his chickens at night.
“If I were a chicken, this is where I’d want to live.”
She grins. “I’m glad you see it that way. Come on, let me show you the inside next.”
Inside the main living space light filters in through high, wide windows, casting everything in a warm, calming glow.
A few staff members are tending to the birds, some collecting freshly laid eggs with care, others checking feed bins filled with a mix of grains and organic supplements.
I see bags labeled with things like Non-GMO Corn and Alfalfa Meal and the whole facility looks spotless.
Further back, there’s an area sectioned off for the older chickens.
Instead of being discarded or processed once their egg-laying slows down, they roam freely, pecking at the grass or lounging under the shade of a tree until they pass away of old age.
It’s a reminder of the facility’s philosophy that Troy filled me in on the flight over— they give their eggs, we give them a nice retirement and a peaceful end of life.
I can’t help but admire the way it all comes together—natural, humane, and sustainable. It feels like stepping back in time, to a way of farming that respects both the land and the animals and allows nature to just… be.
“What do you think?” Regan asks proudly as she rounds me to the edge of the building where a few folding chairs are set up.
“It’s incredible. You manage this yourself?”
She nods. “When Colt was home, he ran the distillery, and Cash ran the egg farm. I floated between the two. With him gone…” her voice trails off and a sadness washes over her expression as her eyes slightly glaze.
I nod. “Troy filled me in. I’m so sorry.”
She turns her head slightly, locking eyes with me again. “Normally, I’d say I’m surprised that you know. He’s a pretty private guy, but honestly, I can tell he treats you differently.”
I swallow. “Differently? How?”
“Well, I can see that you’re not just Liam’s nanny. He talks about you with a lot of respect and warmth. I like to think I know Troy better than anyone. There’s a fourteen-year age gap between us, so growing up, he was more like a father to me than our actual dad.”
“He shared that with me…”
She nods. “After Max’s mom left, Troy just kept moving forward without looking back.
He became both a single father to Max and a bonus one to his siblings.
He never treated anyone differently. That’s who he is.
He carries everyone on his back like it’s nothing, but I see the weight of it.
I see what it’s cost him. So, yeah, I’m just glad he has you now. ”
“Has me?”
She smiles knowingly. “You might not realize it yet, and maybe he hasn’t outright said it, but he’s got you. And he’s not going to let you go.”
I pause, recalling something Troy had said: that he wouldn’t sleep with me because once he did, he’d never let me go. “I’m not sure about that,” I reply slowly. “He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to go there. Besides, he’s about to run for governor. What would I even do if he won?”
Regan leans back, her brows furrowing as if I’m missing something obvious. “Move here with him, of course.”
Like that’s the easiest decision in the world. The idea of being the governor of North Carolina’s hidden affair—his “nanny” that he’s sleeping with—makes my stomach churn. If the paparazzi or press ever found out about me and Troy… the scandal would crush him.
I chew on my lip nervously. “I’m not sure that’s what the future governor of North Carolina wants.”
Regan waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, please. People trust politicians more when they’re married. It’s practically a rule.”
Marriage ?
Is that what Troy is thinking about?
That word tightens something in my chest. Troy never married Max’s mother, but I’m guessing that had more to do with her than him. Maybe he’s marriage adverse. I’m certainly not, but I’ve only known the guy for a month unless you count the first time we met.
“I think you’re misunderstanding our relationship…”
She chuckles softly. “You’ll see. Troy doesn’t do anything without a plan.
Every move he makes is calculated, thought out from every angle.
If he’s brought you here, it’s because he’s serious about you.
He wants us to meet you so that we accept you.
You’re it for him. He doesn’t care what anyone else thinks.
Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already planning to propose. ”
She gives my arm a reassuring pat before hopping up. “The length of time has never mattered to Troy, when he knows something, he’s all in because he knows. Come on, let’s head back to the golf cart and I’ll take you to see the distillery.”
I follow her silently, but my mind is spinning. I have no idea what Troy’s thinking or where I stand with him. All I know is that I want to be more to him—and we need to talk.