Chapter 4 The Farmhouse Pact
The Farmhouse Pact
MADISON
The next morning I agree to catch a ride with Dylan to the farm.
The gravel crunches under his tires as we turn down the rutted lane.
When the farmhouse comes into view, my breath snags.
Paint peels in tired curls, the porch sags toward the earth, one shutter flaps and knocks a slow, hollow rhythm in the wind.
Beyond, fields lie untended—rows gone fuzzy at the edges where weeds creep in, fences leaning as if they’re tired of standing guard.
Matthews truck is already in the yard.
Dylan parks. I step out carefully, in ‘city’ boots according to Dylan, sinking into the softened ground until the gravel finds me again. The house looks like it’s holding its breath—like it’s waiting to see if we’re the kind who show up or the kind who turn around.
***
MATTHEW
The barn is dimly lit, the scent of hay and aged wood surrounds me as I lean against a familiar beam. This place, a sanctuary of memories, feels like the only space where I can let my guard down.
I find comfort in a faded photograph—a snapshot of Ray in his younger days, leaning casually on the fence, a grin wide and reassuring. Holding it is like a ritual that links me to the past. Our past; Madison, Dylan, me, and our connection with Ray.
"Ray, you always saw things clearer than the rest of us. You had this way of looking at land and people and knowing what they could be, not just what they were. I wonder if you knew how much I clung to that clear vision of yours.
Your vision for me when I was starting the Mill helped me more than you'll ever know. Out here, it's just me and your echoes, trying to make sense of what you left us to do.
You gave half the farm to Dylan because you saw his potential, his work ethic. You knew he’d fight for it like his life depended on it. And you gave the other half to my sister, not because she needed it, but because you trusted she’d bring a piece of herself worth more than gold.
Keeping the farm isn’t just about soil or profit—it’s about you, Ray. It’s about not letting you down. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure Madison and Dylan think the same.”
Matthew places the photograph between the pages of Ray’s old ledger, a silent promise to uphold more than just a legacy. Standing straighter, he breathes in the silence, fortified by it. He steps back into the barn’s embrace with a new confidence echoing his resolve.
***
Matthew comes out the barn and joins us at the gate.
He takes it all in without a word, jaw ticking, hands on his hips in that way that always meant he was taking stock before he spoke a hard truth.
“This,” he says finally, voice even, “is bigger than your pride.” His gaze pins us both—Dylan first, then me.
“Bigger than whatever you two think about each other’s lives.
It’s Ray’s place. Don’t make it a battlefield. ”
Dylan unlatches the gate. The hinges protest with a rusted screech. He looks past me toward the barn roof that dips like a broken wing. “Watch your step,” he mutters.
I do. But I also look up. I try to see what Ray saw when he walked out on this porch—the porch light glowing, harvest dinners spilling into laughter, summers that lingered long after the sun went down.
It hurts. Grief comes sharp and sudden, catching me under the ribs.
Ray deserved better than this neglect. Maybe we all did.
Inside, the air is musty, the kind that clings to wood left unpainted too long. We step into the kitchen, boots creaking on floorboards that protest under the weight of memory.
Jenkins’s folder under my arm contains Ray’s WILL, pages marked with clauses that feel heavier than the sagging beams above us.
Dylan and I take chairs across from each other, like opponents at a match neither of us wants to lose.
Matthew drops into the third chair, arms folded, the referee who knows he might have to blow the whistle at any second.
Matthew flips the folder open and runs a finger down the page.
"Six months of joint management, equal say in all decisions," he reads aloud, tone flat.
"If either of you walks before that term, the land reverts to county auction." Dylan’s jaw works as if he’s grinding stone.
My stomach knots—six months suddenly feels like six lifetimes.
Matthew clears his throat. "Veto power over expenses beyond a set limit. Safety and animal care decisions automatic yes. If you deadlock, it waits till the next meeting unless it’s urgent."
Clause by clause, Matthew helped us review the contents of Ray’s WILL.
At the end, Matthew looks at each of us.
"Ray wanted fairness. Balance. Not a tug-of-war.
" His eyes soften, and for a moment, I see my brother—not just the mediator.
"Don’t forget, he believed you both could carry this. Together."
Dylan leans forward, elbows on the scarred table. "Then we’d better figure out how not to tear it apart first." I swallow, pen scratching notes onto the margin of my planner, and the three of us sit in that kitchen—grief, pride, and possibility spread out between us like the ink on Ray’s WILL.
***
DYLAN
The land is a mess, but it’s not lost. I can see what needs doing the way some folks see blueprints—straight lines where fence has to go, bracing where posts have rotted, new tin over the barn to stop the leaks.
I picture a tractor planting in dark, clean rows.
I can hear engines again—steady, sure. We’ve turned worse ground around on the Carter side.
This place still has a pulse if we dig deep and push.
I plant my palm on the porch rail. Flakes of paint dust my skin. “We start with fences,” I say, scanning the west pasture. “Posts sunk two feet, brace and a half on corners, pull new wire. That barn roof gets patched before the next rain. We can’t keep losing hay to rot.”
Matthew nods once. “You’ll need a crew—at least for the first push.
I can spare two guys tomorrow morning.” He pauses, eyes shifting toward the peeling porch boards as if weighing ghosts.
“Listen up, I want you both to know I understand why Ray would choose Madison to breathe life back into the place, he knew I'm stretched thin with the mill and our own acreage.
Ray wanted to keep at least part of the farm in the family.
Madison has the business chops. It makes sense.
And y'all know I'll back you up. Right? I want this farm standing again as much as either of you.” His eyes flick to me, and then to Madison.
Madison’s heels click behind us as she moves onto the porch, and the sound doesn’t belong here but somehow it does—like a challenge, like a metronome keeping time we’ve all forgotten.
She’s looking at the house the way investors look at a pitch deck: seeing more than what is, seeing what could be if someone tells the story right.
“Ray talked about this place like it was family,” I say before I can stop myself. “Said he kept a lightbulb in the porch fixture even after the wiring went bad, just to remember the glow.” I clear my throat and tug my cap lower. “We’ll get it lit again.”
Matthew’s hand lands on my shoulder, brief and solid. “Then let’s make a plan that doesn’t bleed cash or sanity by week two.”
***
Dylan and Matthew are counting posts and beams. I count something else—eyes.
People. Guests. Followers. I see the porch scrubbed clean, strung with lights that hum at dusk.
Long tables down the lawn with herbs in mismatched jars, a chalkboard sign that reads Wilkes Farm Supper—tonight’s menu sourced within 50 miles.
A Saturday morning farmstand with coffee and cinnamon rolls.
Sunday sunrise yoga by the maples, cowbells low in the distance.
And a weekend retreat package that sells out months in advance because it promises something people in my world ache for—quiet they can post about later.
My fingers trace the rail’s rough edge. “This house is content,” I say, and both men look at me like I’ve spoken Martian.
“Not fake. Authentic. We don’t hide the age; we honor it.
We give people experiences they want to talk about—harvest dinners, canning classes, a behind-the-scenes of actual farm life.
We make it bookable. We make it beautiful.
Sponsors will want in—kitchenware, outdoor lighting, seed partnerships with a sustainability angle. I can place it all.”
Matthew’s brows draw together, but not in dismissal. He’s running numbers in his head; I can see it. “You’re saying the story pays for the lumber.”
“Yes,” I say. “The story is the lumber.”
Dylan exhales like he’s been asked to swallow a stone. “You want to turn Ray’s place into a stage.”
I meet his eyes. “I want to turn it into a future.”
***
DYLAN
“It doesn’t matter how pretty the porch looks if the fields don’t produce,” I say. “Seed, fuel, veterinary bills—none of that’s paid in likes. You can’t feed cattle a caption.”
Madison steps closer, rain misting her hair. “And it doesn’t matter how perfectly straight your rows are if we can’t pay the note or keep the county from auctioning off the place in six months. People’s attention is currency, Dylan. We leverage it, or we lose.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You can’t hashtag your way out of a drought.”
“And you can’t plow your way out of a balance sheet that doesn’t add up,” she snaps back. “We do both. Or we’re done before we start.”
“Enough,” Matthew cuts in, voice low but edged.
He turns to me first. “You’re right about the fences and the roof.
Nonnegotiable. Operations need a lead, and you’re it.
” He pivots to Madison before I can enjoy the win.
“You’re also right that the money has to come from somewhere fast. No bank will float a dream.
We need pre-booked events, partnerships, and a marketing calendar. That’s you.”
He faces us both again, the human version of a stop sign at an intersection with no lights.
“If you two spend your energy trying to prove the other wrong, this place dies. Ray didn’t ask you to agree—he asked you to co-manage.
So here’s how it goes: Dylan, you run farm ops.
Madison, you run business and branding. You both get veto power on expenses over a set number. ”
“Five grand,” I say.
“Ten,” Dylan counters.
“Nine,” Matthew decides. “Weekly check-ins, Friday mornings, both present. Shared spreadsheet. If you deadlock, it waits till the next meeting unless it’s safety or animal welfare. Non-negotiables go through me until you two prove you can pick up the phone before you draw blood.”
He looks between us. “Pick your hill to die on, or pick the porch light you want lit by winter. But pick together.”
The rain on the tin awning keeps time with my pulse. Dylan’s glare softens into something like reluctant respect—or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Either way, Matthew’s thrown the rope over the post. We can pull in the same direction or hang ourselves with it.
***
I pull my notebook from my tote, flip to a clean page, and write in big block letters: PACT.
“Farm Operations: Dylan,” I say as my pen moves. “Budget oversight: shared. Safety and animal care: automatic yes.” I glance up. “Branding & Business: Madison. Deliverables this month—one soft-launch supper, a market day stand, and a sponsor pitch deck.”
“Fence line: west pasture,” Dylan says, surprising me with how quickly he plays along. “Barn roof: patched within two weeks. Equipment: borrow a post driver from the mill until we see cash flow.” He looks at Matthew. “I’ll take those two hands you offered.”
Matthew nods. “I’ll also call Jenkins about liability waivers for events.” His eyes cut to me. “And you’re going to need permits if you’re feeding more than family on this lawn.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say, already adding a column labeled Permits/Insurance and another labeled Sponsors.
My mind races—with names, with angles, with the way a before-and-after reel could go viral if we time it right.
“I want weekly photo documentation. Nothing staged. Real work. People respond to that.”
Dylan huffs. “So you want me on camera while I’m knee-deep in mud.”
“Yes,” I say, and can’t help the small smile. “It’ll do wonders for your grumpy brand.”
His mouth almost, almost tilts. “You’re impossible.”
“Practical,” I correct. Then, because the air between us suddenly feels too warm, I hold the notebook out. “We both sign. It’s not a contract, but it’s a start.”
He studies me for a heartbeat, then takes the pen. His signature is bold, decisive. I add mine beneath it, hand steady even though my insides feel like high wire. Matthew’s fingertip taps the page when we’re done, the quiet approval of a foreman who’s seen crews rise and fold.
***
MATTHEW
They’re still bristling—same posture, same pride, just pointed in a slightly different direction now. The PACT sits between them on Madison’s notebook like a truce flag we all know could catch fire the second the wind shifts.
I look at the house. I see Ray on that porch in a threadbare sweater, coffee steaming, sun burning a path up over the maples.
He wanted this place to live after him. He bet on the two people most likely to fight each other to the floor and then carry one another home when it counted. Brave or foolish—I can’t tell yet.
What I do know is this: if they fail, the county gets a bargain and our town loses a heartbeat. If they hurt each other in the process, I lose my best friend or my sister—or both. I’m not letting that happen.
“Tomorrow,” Dylan says, and Madison lifts her chin like a dare.
They don’t look at me, but they don’t have to. I’m in this now—referee, backup crew, last line before the cliff.
The wind gusts, slamming the loose shutter. It sounds like a warning. I fix the hinge with my palm and feel the whole frame shiver under the pressure.
“Don’t drop this,” I tell the wood—then them. “Either of you.”
The silence that follows isn’t peace. It’s a countdown.
***