Chapter 2 The WILL
The WILL
DYLAN
The grandfather clock in Jenkins’s office ticks like a hammer against my skull.
Each clang collides with the rumble of thunder beyond the window.
The smell of old leather, damp wool, and rain drifting through the cracked pane presses down on the room.
I’ve sat here before—leases, contracts, handshakes that spelled another season working Ray Wilkes’s land.
But this time, the air feels heavier. Ray is gone.
And I’m sitting shoulder to shoulder with Madison Wilkes, of all people.
I angle my knee away from her, trying to carve out space. She still carries that city perfume, sharp under the rainwater, jarring in a room of dust and wood polish. My jaw tightens. If I breathe too deep, I’ll remember things I swore I buried.
Jenkins clears his throat and opens a folder. His voice is steady, formal. “We’re here to execute the last WILL and testament of Raymond Wilkes. Raymond valued both of you, which is why you are both named.”
Both. The word stings. Uncle Ray wasn’t blood, but my family has farmed his acres for years.
We turned the soil, filled the silos. Every spring, I walked those fields with him, listening to stories about my father and the first Carter hands who broke ground there.
If I thought about it too long, he felt more like kin than landlord.
Jenkins adjusts his glasses. “To my niece, Madison Wilkes, I leave half ownership of Wilkes Farm and Estate. To Dylan Carter, I leave the other half.”
Even half-expected, the words land hard. My chest tightens, not with shock but with weight. Half ownership. Not just a lease. Not another season. This land—Ray’s land—is mine now. Ours.
Beside me, Madison stiffens. I don’t need to look to picture her eyes wide, her mouth parted in that stubborn mix of outrage and disbelief.
She didn’t grow up walking these fields until her back gave out.
She grew up chasing skylines and likes. And now she owns half of what I’ve spent my life preparing for.
Jenkins keeps talking. “The condition is this: you must co-manage the property together for six months. If either of you withdraws before the term ends, the property reverts to the county for auction.”
Six months. My throat knots. Six months with Madison Wilkes. The girl who left without goodbye. The woman who breezed in today like a storm in heels and hashtags. She doesn’t know the first thing about running a farm.
I keep my expression flat. Inside, grief for Ray tangles with fury at the mess he’s left me in. He trusted me to keep this land alive. And he trusted her.
Balance, Jenkins says, like that explains anything. Maybe Ray thought her business sense could match my calloused hands. Maybe he thought throwing us together would force something to grow. All I feel is the floor tilting beneath me.
I finally turn my head. She looks at me like I’m the last person she’d choose. I’m thinking the same damn thing.
This is going to be hell.
***
Madison shifts in her chair, the leather creaking. Lips pressed tight. I know that look—it means an explosion’s coming. That’s what she does—she storms, she flares, she leaves scorched earth in her wake.
Jenkins shuffles the papers. “Raymond wanted it clear—this is not symbolic. It is a working agreement. Equal say in operations, expenses, and management decisions. Nothing moves forward without both signatures.”
There it is. The knife twist. Equal say. I picture her weighing in on crop rotations or equipment repairs, manicured nails tapping on her phone while I’m knee-deep in mud. The thought makes my stomach knot.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her inhale, steadying herself. Insulted? Overwhelmed? Hard to tell. Ray once told me Madison had grit hidden under the polish. I laughed then. I’m not laughing now.
My hands tighten on my knees, callouses scraping denim. “And if one of us walks?” The words rasp harsher than I mean.
Jenkins glances up. “Then the farm reverts to county auction. Raymond was adamant.”
A cold weight settles in my chest. County auction. Outsiders with deep pockets could swoop in, turn Ray’s land into something unrecognizable. I won’t let that happen. Not after everything we poured into these fields. Not after every promise I made him.
I glance at Madison. She’s staring at Jenkins, eyes wide but fierce, already calculating angles. She won’t back down. Different reasons, same result. She’ll fight for this farm, even if she doesn’t know how.
Me? I’ll fight because it’s in my blood. Which means six months of battle ahead.
***
Jenkins drones on, but all I hear is blood rushing in my ears, tangled with the steady drum of rain. Equal authority. Six months. Auction if we fail. The words clang like loose bolts in my skull.
Madison finally speaks. “So let me get this straight—we have to agree on everything? Budgets, repairs, planting, sales?” She leans forward, eyes flashing. “What if we can’t?”
Her tone twists something in me—half irritation, half grudging respect. At least she isn’t pretending.
Jenkins steeples his fingers. “Then nothing moves forward. That was Raymond’s stipulation. Full cooperation, or not at all.”
I rub the back of my neck, bitter laughter threatening. Cooperation with Madison?
She plans hashtags. I plan yield per acre. Oil and water.
She exhales sharply, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
I bite. “You think this is some kind of game? A six-month getaway to boost your brand?”
My voice cuts low. “This is real work, Madison. Work you don’t know the first damn thing about.”
Her head whips toward me, eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare stand there and act like I don’t belong, like Ray didn’t trust me enough to put me in this WILL.”
The air between us snaps tight. Grief edges into my anger. Ray trusted her, too.
Maybe he saw something I can’t. But all I feel is her glare and the sinking certainty we’ll tear each other apart before we save an acre.
Jenkins clears his throat louder. “I suggest you both remember whose wishes we’re honoring.”
I drag my gaze away, fists clenched. Fine. Six months. Ray’s way. But I know—we’re heading straight into war.
***
Jenkins leans forward, eyes flicking between us like he’s refereeing. “Raymond also requested you begin management immediately. There will be no delay.”
Madison’s head jerks. “Immediately? As in—when?”
“Tomorrow,” Jenkins says smoothly. “The fall planting cycle is critical. The sooner you work together, the better the chances.”
Tomorrow. The word lands like a punch. My family always lived by planting cycles. Madison probably thought she had time to ease in, time to figure out how to wedge farm boots into her designer closet.
Her mouth opens, then closes, uncharacteristically silent. I almost smirk, but grind my teeth instead. Ray really set us up.
“Fine,” I say. “Tomorrow. I’ll be there at dawn. Fences down on the east pasture, barn roof needs patching.”
She glares, sharp as steel. “You don’t get to bark orders, Dylan. This is a partnership.”
“Then start acting like it,” I snap. “Because the farm won’t wait for you.”
Thunder rattles the windows. Inside, the air is just as charged. Jenkins exhales, closing the folder with a thud. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow you begin.”
Settled. Not even close.
Ray didn’t just tie us to a farm.
He lit a fuse.
***
Silence follows, thick enough to choke. Madison straightens, chin tipped like she’s posing for cameras instead of covering nerves. I used to think it was arrogance. Now I wonder if it’s armor.
Jenkins slides the folder across. “You’ll need to sign acknowledgment forms today, but I want you to take this entire WILL and read it thoroughly. If you have any questions about it, you know how to reach me.”
Madison snatches the pen first, fingers trembling just enough to notice. She signs with a flourish, shoves the papers at me like a dare.
I don’t back down. My name carves into the page, bold and final. Dylan Carter. It feels heavier, like Ray’s ghost is watching.
When I set the pen down, Madison’s eyes lock with mine. Fire blazes there, and the old pull stirs in my chest. I shove it down. This isn’t about her. This is about Ray. About the farm.
Jenkins gathers the papers with a nod. “Good. Tomorrow marks the beginning. Rest up.”
Rest. As if.
I stand, chair screeching, Madison rising a beat later. We glance at Matthew without words.
The storm outside booms again, rattling the windows like cannon fire.
As we walk out shoulder to shoulder—but not side by side—the weight of what just happened presses deep.
Six months.
A farm on the line.
Madison Wilkes at my hip.
It feels less like inheritance and more like walking into battle.
***