Chapter 5 Back in the Dirt
Back in the Dirt
DYLAN
The morning sun breaks through the clouds, sharp and bright after yesterday’s rain. The fields glisten, mud clinging thick to the ruts in the lane. I know better than to wear anything but rubber boots in weather like this. Madison, of course, didn’t get the memo.
She’s ten paces ahead of me, balancing on the edge of the path like it’s a catwalk.
Her sleek city-cowboy boots don’t last five steps before the heel sinks into muck.
She squeals, yanks at her foot, and the boot stays buried while she stumbles forward in socked feet.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Need a hand?” I call, more smirk than sympathy.
She spins on me, hair whipping, mud streaked across the hem of her jeans.
“I’ve got it.” She braces on the fence post and tugs, finally wrenching the boot free with a loud schlop that sprays mud in a perfect arc—right across her blouse.
Her glare could cut steel. My chest shakes with a laugh I barely choke down.
She soldiers on toward the chicken coop, muttering under her breath.
I follow, slower, watching as she swings the latch open.
The second the door cracks, feathers explode like confetti.
The hens pour out in a frenzy, wings flapping, squawks rising.
Madison shrieks and flails as one particularly determined hen makes a beeline for her hair.
She takes off running, arms pin-wheeling, the chicken hot on her heels. I lean against the fence, laughter spilling free, echoing across the yard. She’s a mess—mud-streaked, hair wild, screeching at a five-pound hen—and still she refuses to give up. There’s something almost admirable in the chaos.
Almost.
***
The racket draws attention faster than I’d like.
By the time Madison corrals the last hen—if you can call flailing and stumbling a method—three neighbors have gathered along the fence line.
Old Mrs. Hardy from down the road, arms crossed and apron still dusted with flour, shakes her head like she’s watching a train wreck.
Young Tom Jenkins leans on his bike, grinning like he’s discovered free entertainment.
Even Ed Wilson, who hardly leaves his barn, is perched on the fence rail, chewing straw and enjoying the show.
“City girl’s got her hands full,” Ed drawls, nodding toward Madison as she lunges for a runaway hen and misses by a mile.
“She’ll never last a week,” Mrs. Hardy mutters, not even lowering her voice.
Madison hears it. I can tell by the way her shoulders stiffen, even as she forces a laugh and tries again.
Mud clings to her jeans, feathers to her hair, but she straightens every time she falls, brushing herself off like she’s staging a comeback.
Her smile is tight, practiced—the kind you flash when you know people are waiting to see you fail.
My gut twists. I’ve lived here my whole life. I know what small-town gossip can do, how quick folks decide who belongs and who doesn’t. Madison’s fighting more than chickens. She’s fighting the weight of every sideways glance and whispered word.
I cross my arms, leaning against the fence. Part of me wants to laugh along with the crowd.
The other part… the other part isn’t laughing at all.
***
I push off the fence with a sigh, ignoring the chuckles of the onlookers. Madison’s chasing hens in circles, arms flapping like she’s trying to take flight herself. She’s got grit, I’ll give her that, but at this rate she’ll be at it until sundown.
“Move,” I mutter, stepping past her. She opens her mouth—probably to argue—but I’m already in the coop, clapping my hands and guiding the birds back with practiced ease.
A few flaps, a quick reach, and I’ve got the last one tucked under my arm.
Its indignant squawk cuts through the yard as I latch the door.
The fence-line audience groans like the show’s been cut short. Tom pedals off, still laughing. Mrs. Hardy shakes her head and heads back down the road. Ed spits out his straw and mutters something I don’t catch before sauntering away.
I glance at Madison. She’s standing there, panting, hair full of feathers, blouse smeared with mud. Her eyes spark with humiliation—and stubborn pride. “I had it under control,” she says between breaths.
“Sure you did.” I set the chicken down. “Next time, maybe wear higher boots.”
Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t back down. “Next time, maybe don’t assume I can’t handle it.”
I fight a smile. She’s ridiculous.
But the way she’s standing there, mud-streaked and unyielding,
I can’t help but respect her a little.
***
She looks like a disaster, all messed up and muddy, but not defeated. She straightens her spine and meets my gaze with the same fire I remember from years ago. The kind that says she’ll claw her way through anything rather than admit defeat.
Most people would’ve quit already. Packed up, gone inside, sworn off chickens forever. But Madison? She wipes mud from her cheek with the back of her hand, squares her shoulders, and bends to pick up the scattered feed bucket like she’s starting round two.
Something shifts in my chest, sharp and unexpected.
I admire her grit, even if she has no clue what she’s doing.
She’s out of her depth, drowning in feathers and mud, but she refuses to let the town - or me - see her break.
That stubborn streak I used to call arrogance looks a whole lot more like courage from where I’m standing now.
I shove my hands in my pockets, scowling at the ground before I give too much away.
The truth is, watching her keep going despite every bit of humiliation makes me want to root for her.
Makes me wonder if Ray saw this in her all along.
***
She finally wrestles the feed bucket from the mud, cheeks burning, feathers still sticking stubbornly to her hair. For the first time all morning, I don’t laugh. I follow her gaze when she glances toward the fields beyond the house. My heart skips.
The land’s a wreck—ragged lines, weeds choking out good soil, puddles where drainage failed.
To her, it probably looks like a mess. To me, it looks like a ghost. Like the future I once planned here but never saw through.
Ray and I used to talk about running this ground side by side, making it something bigger, something better.
But life had other plans. And when he passed, all that promise went with him.
My hand grips the porch rail until my knuckles pale.
I don’t even realize Matthew’s come up behind me until I feel his eyes on me too.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches, and in his silence I know he understands.
He’s seen me carry this weight for years.
He knows how much of me is still buried in these fields.
Madison notices, too.
Her expression softens, confusion mixing with something like sympathy.
She doesn’t ask, but the questions are in her eyes: what did this place take from you? What broke you here?
***
MADISON
The silence stretches, thick with things unspoken. Dylan doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move, just keeps his eyes fixed on the fields like if he stares hard enough, the past might right itself. There’s a shadow in his posture I’ve never noticed before—a heaviness that doesn’t come from work alone.
I hug the feed bucket to my chest, mud dripping down my arms, and for the first time since I arrived, my frustration wavers.
I came here ready to prove myself, ready to fight him at every turn.
But right now, all I can think about is the way his shoulders slump, the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding back more than words.
Something happened here.
Something that scarred him deeper than fences falling or barns rotting. And I can’t shake the thought: what tragedy hardened Dylan Carter? What loss carved that grief into him?
The question lingers, heavier than the mud on my clothes.
I don’t have the answer yet, but I know one thing—I want to find out.
***
Matthew comes striding into the yard just as Madison sets the feed bucket down with a huff.
His boots crunch over gravel, his eyes flicking between us like he’s trying to decide who needs scolding more.
“Heard the commotion all the way down the lane,” he says dryly. “Guess the chickens won this round.”
Madison plants her hands on her hips. “Totally had it handled. Dylan just ruined my strategy.” Her sass almost convinces me—almost.
Matthew chuckles, but then his gaze sharpens on me. “Funny, isn’t it? Watching my little sister flail around in the mud while you lean on the fence.” The protective edge in his voice is as familiar as the fields themselves.
I lift a brow. “I stepped in. Birds are back where they belong.”
“Yeah, after half the county got a free show.” He shakes his head, but there’s humor hiding in his exasperation. Madison rolls her eyes and mutters something about small-town entertainment.
We drift toward the coop together, the three of us like shadows of who we used to be—siblings in everything but blood.
For a moment, I’m back in high school, sneaking sodas from Ray’s fridge with Matthew, Madison trailing behind insisting she could keep up.
Only now the weight of years, grief, and responsibility sits heavy on all of us.
Matthew nudges the chicken coop door with his boot. “Do I need to say it again? Place needs fixing. You two willing to stop bickering long enough to help?”
Madison groans dramatically, but she grabs a hammer from the shed. I can’t fight the smirk tugging at my mouth. She’s messy, stubborn, and way out of her depth—but she’s still here, trying.
As we set to work, the banter continues, Matthew ribbing his sister, Madison firing back, me grumbling in between.
But beneath the jokes runs something unspoken: Matthew’s warning to me, Madison’s determination to prove herself, and my own uneasy hope that maybe—just maybe—we can rebuild more than just a chicken coop.
***
MADISON
By the time we’re done hammering the last crooked board into place, my arms are trembling from effort I’m not used to.
Sweat trickles down my neck despite the cool breeze.
I swat at a strand of hair clinging to my face, smearing mud across my cheek like war paint.
The coop looks rough, but at least it’s standing.
The chickens cluck inside, indignant but contained.
Matthew eyes my handiwork skeptically. “Better than I expected,” he admits. His voice carries that older-brother edge, the one that makes me want to prove him wrong just to watch his expression change.
“High praise from you,” I shoot back, propping my hands on my hips. “Maybe I should add ‘professional carpenter’ to my blog bio.”
Dylan snorts. “Sure. Put up a picture of that board you bent the nails into. Sponsors will line up.”
I glare, but there’s no real heat. The banter feels different now—less like war, more like sparring partners figuring out their rhythm. Still, I can’t shake the heat in my chest when Dylan’s gaze lingers, softer than his words.
***
We put the tools away, but the silence after the laughter feels heavier than it should. Matthew lingers near the shed, his arms folded. He’s watching me like he’s trying to solve an equation that doesn’t add up.
“Ray wanted this place cared for,” he says finally. “Not turned into a circus.”
The words are meant for both of us, but his eyes pin me. The unspoken part: Don’t screw this up—with the farm or with her.
“I know what Ray wanted,” I say, sharper than I intend. I take a breath, force my voice down. “I’m trying.”
Madison leans on the fence, hair tangled, blouse ruined, but chin high. “We both are.”
Something shifts in Matthew’s expression. Not approval, not yet, but maybe the first crack in the wall he’s built between us. He pushes away from the shed and heads toward the house without another word.
I watch him go, then glance at Madison.
She’s still standing there, stubborn as ever, mud and feathers clinging like a badge of honor.
And damn if my chest doesn’t tighten at the sight.
***