Page 5 of The County Line
She places her hand in mine, giggling once more as we shake.
Looks like ex-felons are her thing.
I feel bad for the poor bastard she’s leaving at home while she’s out here working as an officer of the court, but who am I to judge? He’s probably a prick and deserves it. It’s been a long time since I’ve cared about what other people do with their lives.
Her voice drops an octave as she bats her lashes. “I’ll see you next Wednesday at eleven, Colton.”
Chapter 3 – Colt
I used to love the springtime in my hometown of Whitewood Creek, North Carolina.
Used to love when the mountains surrounding our family farm shifted from bare and gray to bursts of green, marking the start of chick season—the time each year when most of the eggs hatched on our thousand-acre farm. That shift in the air, the scent of damp earth, the sight of new life, it used to stir something deep in my chest.
Getting excited over a bunch of tiny, fuzzy chicks might sound soft, but their high-pitched cheeping and wobbly movements? Used to be downright fucking adorable. Once upon a time, the sight of them darting around filled me with a warmth I couldn’t get anywhere else.
Not that I ever admitted that to my brothers. Maybe my twin sister, Regan—she was the only one who believed me, without hesitation, when I told her what really happened that night on Bennington Drive. She never doubted my innocence. But she also never visited me. Not once. And that gutted me. Still, I hold on to hope that we’ll find our way back to each other.
Spring’s supposed to mean fresh starts. Maybe this one’s mine. God knows I need it. Lately, I haven’t even noticed the seasons changing. Haven’t found the words to tell my family that I feel like I’m still locked up. I’ve been so numb lately that nothing seems to stir me—not the seasons changing, not the laughter of my nieces and nephews, not the smell of the spring rain, not finally being on the outside of the state penitentiary, and certainly not a brood of baby chicks.
Four years in prison for something I shouldn’t have been convicted of. You’d think I’d be starving for this—life, freedom, anything that felt like mine again. But mostly, I just feel... nothing. Enthusiasm, hope, excitement, desire—they all feel like distant memories, way beyond my reach.
I’m supposed to be focusing on the family distillery now that I’m out. Leaving the egg farm and the new baby chicks to Cash, his strength and responsibility from before I’d been sent away, but damn if I won’t be sneaking in the barn tonight to pet the newborns to see if it can stir something inside of me. Holding them up to my cheek and nuzzling my face with their little fuzzy heads.
The thought alone is ridiculous—me, a grown man who’s seen the worst of the world, standing in the barn in the middle of the night, rubbing my face on baby chicks in some desperate attempt to feel alive again. Even that image doesn’t make me laugh.
And as for crying? I can’t even imagine what that would feel like anymore. What I would care about enough to cry.
Wind rushes through the open windows of my dad’s old red truck as I drive the short ten-mile stretch into town. The view outside blurs past—a patchwork of memories and familiarity.
This town hasn’t changed much, not since I left it behind all those years ago. It looks frozen in time, untouched, just like it was back then and I'm grateful for that. My family's changed enough. My oldest brother Troy's engaged to his fiancé, Georgia Cameron, a woman who visited me frequently at the end of my sentence. Beckham, Max and Liam, my nephews, are growing up. And there’s talk about growing and expanding our family businesses. Seeing the town is the exact way I left it? Well, it feels good to see some things have stayed the same. Waiting for me to come back.
This truck is one of those things. A relic of simpler days—no air conditioning, probably no airbags either. Hard to believe people survived like this before every vehicle came with a built-in navigation system. Before we all started relying on technology to tell us where to go, how to drive, when to stop.
Now everything’s digital, always connected, always tracking. A marvel of modern convenience, sure, but it makes you wonder. Call me paranoid, but when you’ve seen how the system can turn on you for doing the right thing—trying to help someone who couldn’t help themselves—you start questioningeverything. Not just the authorities, but the structures you used to trust.
Is all this tech really for our safety? Or is it just another way to keep us in line, make us weak?
After being controlled for so damn long—told where to go, how to act, even how to think—I’m looking forward to making my own decisions again. So, for now, I’m driving to the convenience store with the windows down, soaking up the crisp March air, when I should be at home, working on my house.
I might be the youngest in the Marshall crew, but I don’t act like it. I know how to go without. I don’t ask for much. Never have. Just a place to rest my head and some food in mystomach. Learned that both behind bars and growing up without a mother. The kind of mother who never even got the chance to hold me. Who died giving birth to me.
Now that I’m out—just a week removed from that iron grave—I’m determined to find my way back to the life I let slip through my fingers. To feel something—anything.
First on my list? The family’s homegrown whiskey. It’s no longer just a small-town secret. Thanks to my brother Lawson’s business sense, it’s stocked in major retailers, featured on menus in Charlotte, poised to expand even further.
Second, there’s the new brewery—Whitewood Creek Brewing Co. & Restaurant. A vision I dreamed up that my brother Cash brought to life while I was locked away. It’s more than just a business; it’s a showcase for our whiskey and new craft beer, paired with laid-back food and a breathtaking view that rivals anything else in Charlotte.
Then there are the chickens—the chicks and our egg farm’s older hens, retired from laying, but still cared for. They live out their final days in peace, a quiet reminder of simpler times and the value of life, even when it’s past its prime.
Next, my family. The people who stood by me, even when they didn’t fully understand my choices. They’ve supported, fought for, and encouraged me through the past four years. Maybe I’ll try sitting around the old dining room table, sharing stories and meals like we used to. Maybe that’ll help me feel whole again.
And finally, my home that I intend on building on the family property. My designs are humble, nothing like the places my brothers have built—Troy’s, with its sturdy charm from his twenties where Max spent the first years of his life before they moved to New York, or Lawson's modern farmhouse where helives with his ten year old son, Beckham, tucked all the way at the back of the property line.
No, this one’s going to be mine. And it’s where I’ll start piecing myself back together.
Regan and Cash are content staying in the main house with Dad—just the way he likes it. But me? I’ve always known I’d build my own place someday. And I knew exactly where I wanted it: by the creek that gave our town its name. The same creek that inspired our family’s whiskey, that ran through my dreams during those long nights in a concrete cell.
So, a few days after my release, I put my plan into motion. Took the paychecks my brothers had quietly deposited into my account while I was away. Insisted it was earned—from the design work I’d done for the brewery, the expansion plans I sketched for the distillery, the brand strategies I mapped out for Lawson. Even though I wasn’t here, they made sure I was still part of the team.
