Chapter 14 Breaking Point
Breaking Point
MADISON
Gravel crunches under my boots as I cross the yard, and the farmhouse looms like a dare. I told myself I was done, but here I am again because the WILL and Ray’s name won’t let me ghost this place. Not yet.
As I turn the door knob, Dylan is leaning against the kitchen sink, damp hair pushed back, hands braced on the counter like he’s holding himself up. His gaze flicks to my suitcase, then finally to me. The quiet between us is heavier than the rain.
“We need to talk,” I say, slipping past him. My palms are cold; my throat tastes like old pennies.
Matthew follows, a steady force at my back.
We land around the kitchen table because that’s where all the wars in this house get fought. The folder with Ray’s WILL sits between us, tabs like teeth. I open it and lay the pages out, because facts are safer than feelings and ink doesn’t flinch when you raise your voice.
***
“Clause Three,” I read, even though my voice shakes. “Co-management for six consecutive months. Major decisions require both signatures.” I lift my eyes to Dylan. “That means you don’t get to make me the mascot while you run the plays.”
He leans back, jaw hard. “And it means you don’t get to rebrand a working farm into a photo op because it looks good on a feed.”
“Say ‘feed’ like it’s a dirty word one more time,” I snap, heat climbing my neck. “Ray understood that story sells product. He wrote it in the margin—‘let her think in growth curves.’ You just refuse to read it.”
Color touches Dylan’s cheekbones. “I read what keeps calves fed and tractors running.”
“Both things can be true,” Matthew cuts in, palms flat on the table. His gaze moves between us, sharp and exhausted. “Roof, fences, well. Sponsors, pre-sold weekends, cash flow. Stop pretending this is one-sided.”
But the old wound is open now, and I can’t leave it alone.
“You’ve never respected my work,” I say softly, the words heavier than a shout.
“In high school, it was ‘superficial.’ Later, ‘not real.’ I built something from nothing, Dylan. Six figures. A team. A brand. Yet, you let people decide I’m a fraud because silence costs you less than defending me. ”
His mouth presses into a thin line, a muscle jumping in his jaw. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll apologize. He doesn’t.
***
Dylan’s voice comes out low, rough-edged. “You leave when things get hard. You did then. You’re doing it now.”
The words land like gravel. “I left because staying made me small,” I fire back. “Because every time I tried to show you who I was, you looked away. And now when the town points fingers, you look away again.”
Matthew moves like he’s about to pace a groove into the floor.
“Enough. Both of you. Ray didn’t put your names on this because you’re the same.
He did it because you’re different and the farm needs both.
” He jabs a finger at the pages. “Five weeks until the first review. Either we show progress or Jenkins shortens the leash. If one of you walks, auction. I will not watch the lower orchard get bulldozed for condos because you’re both too proud to talk. ”
My eyes sting; I blink hard. Pride tastes a lot like fear when you’re swallowing it.
***
The kitchen feels too bright, the overhead light humming like a nerve. Dylan scrubs a hand over his face. “Madison—” My name on his tongue shivers through me.
He looks wrecked. It would be so easy to step into that look, to admit our unexpected kiss rewired me. To tell him how small the town made me feel and how much smaller his silence made me feel. I open my mouth—
—and close it again. Because if I hand him the truth, I need to believe he’ll hold it. And right now, I don’t.
“We have to be practical,” I say instead, pushing the folder toward him. “Roof bids. Fence crews. Dates for fall retreats.”
His eyes search mine. Something honest rises—too slow. It dies on his tongue, and what replaces it is stubborn. “Get your dates. I’ll handle the fields.”
The space between us stretches thin as wire. One good tug, and it’ll snap.
***
On the porch, the night smells like wet hay and ozone. Matthew hangs back while I carry my suitcase back down the steps. “You sure about leaving tonight?” he asks, voice low.
“No.” Honesty tastes like rain. “But if I stay, I’ll say something I can’t take back.”
He nods, keys dangling from his finger. “Then don’t make tonight the last word.”
We slide into his truck. I keep my hands busy—texting my assistant to pause the content calendar, drafting a note to my sponsor rep about pivoting from city launches to rural partnerships, scribbling a few lines in my notebook labeled Retreats.
Lanterns in the maple alley. Bread ovens on the patio.
A harvest gala that reintroduces this place to the state.
“You’re working,” Matthew says, not a question.
“I’m planning.” I point my pen at him. “If we do this, it can’t just be fence posts and invoices. It has to be a story people want to step into.”
His mouth lifts, reluctant and fond. “Tell me.”
So I do. The pop-up suppers and sunrise yoga in the hay meadow.
The sponsor list I can call tomorrow. The way Dylan’s family mill could grind flour for the bakery workshops, how we’d feature local vendors at every retreat.
My voice steadies as the picture fills in.
It’s the first time all day I feel like I can breathe.
“You think it’ll work?” I ask, too soft.
“I think you’re the only one who could make it work like this,” he says. Then, quieter: “And I think you should be the one to tell him.”
The pen stalls. “Not yet.”
“Maddie—”
“Not yet,” I repeat, sharper. “He had a chance to back me in front of this town, and he didn’t take it. I’m not handing him my dream gift-wrapped so he can decide if it’s real.”
Matthew exhales, a rough sound. “Fine. Go to the city. Catch your breath. But don’t confuse time with giving up.”
I stare at the silhouette of the farmhouse through the rear view mirror. One upstairs window glows. I don’t know if Dylan’s behind it. I don’t look long enough to find out.
***
Matthew drops me at his place to grab the things I left there, then drives me to the last train of the day. The station smells like old coffee and diesel; the fluorescent lights hum like the kitchen did. He hefts my suitcase onto the curb and waits while I pull my hoodie tighter.
“You call me when you land,” he says.
“I’ll text.” My voice wobbles; I steady it. “And I’ll email that deck to you tomorrow—the sponsors, the calendar, the gala. I want your notes.”
He grins. “Look at you, delegating.” His smile fades. “You sure you don’t want me to talk to him?”
I picture Dylan’s face when I said not yet. The ache that followed. “If you do, tell him the same thing I told him.” I square my shoulders. “Show me. Don’t promise me.”
The train rolls in. I step up, turn back. Matthew’s hands are in his pockets, eyes bright and proud and worried all at once. I blow him a kiss; he rolls his eyes like we’re kids again.
I take a seat by the window. The town slides past in smears of orange sodium light—feed store, diner, the bakery where Carrie pretends she’s just grabbing a coffee.
The last thing I see is the WILKES mailbox, rain-slick and stubborn.
I press my palm to the glass like I can keep it from disappearing.
***
My phone pings just as the train pulls out of the station: Unknown Number—a photo of the farmhouse porch lit up like a stage, rain still glittering on the rails. No text. Just the porch. Just home.
My chest tightens. I don’t know if Dylan sent it—if it’s his way of saying stay without words—or if it’s some small-town number trying to twist the knife. I set the phone face down on my thigh and breathe.
City lights will catch me when the night spits me out. Tomorrow I’ll build a pitch deck, make sponsor calls, and prove—again—that I can turn nothing into something. I’ll plan a harvest gala that makes this farm more than a headline.
But as the dark unspools and the town shrinks to memory, one truth keeps pace beside the train: I can build a brand from scratch. I can design a retreat. I can sell a story. What I don’t know—what terrifies me—is whether the man I left on that porch is willing to fight for any of it.
I close my eyes against the window’s chill and let the road carry me away from him—for now.
***