“Okay, Colt, great. Your parole officer sent your files over ahead of time. Liv is our newest therapist, a student still in training but I can assure you that she’s wonderful to work with and hasplenty of availability. When’s the soonest you can come in to see her?”
I want to tell her I’ve got nothing to do but build my house, show up for community service, check in with my parole officer, and clock in at the distillery—but I bite my tongue. No point in spelling out my mundane reality and the sooner that I get these started, the sooner they’ll be over.
“I can do tomorrow. Anytime.”
“Great! We’ll see you at eleven in the morning then. You’re all set.”
I hang up and jam the worn key into the ignition. The truck sputters and struggles like it’s as tired as I feel. One good pump of the gas pedal, and it finally roars to life. The short drive home winds through dirt roads flanked by rows of peach trees, their blossoms blushing in the golden light of the setting sun. As the colors streak across the sky, I find myself wondering what the hell I’m going to say to a therapist tomorrow.
What’s the point in digging up the past when it’s already buried me?
Whitewood Creek has always been home, with its simple charm and small-town quirks. Sure, it has its share of problems—corrupt politicians and an ex-sheriff who’d make a good villain in a Western movie—but ever since my brother Troy became governor of North Carolina, those folks have backed off from messing with our family or retired, and things have gotten better.
I roll the windows down, letting the warm air brush across my face like a whisper of better days. Nostalgia creeps in, heavy and bittersweet. It’s not just the place I missed during those years I was locked up—it’s the version of myself that existed beforeeverything went sideways. The person I was. The life I had. The years that I’ll never get back.
It’s a short drive to our family’s egg farm, and when I turn on to that dirt road, I instantly let out a breath of relief. No more looking over my shoulder as if someone’s going to catch me and accuse me of being out for the wrong reasons, or make up lies.
Whitewood Creek Farmsteadhas always been my safe haven. In our family for three centuries, our main business is the egg farm. A sustainable, and ethical farm that caters to providing the majority of the non-GMO, all organic, free range, pasture raised eggs on the shelves of grocery stores across the United States.
Our farm is successful because its standards for humane practices towards the chickens are simply unmatched. When the hens ‘age out’ of egg laying, we keep them, allowing them to slip into a peaceful retirement on our property.
We’re a no-kill farm and it’s something that we’re all proud of and has brought us notoriety all over social media. And while most poultry farms reek of the chicken manure for miles surrounding them, our great-great-great-great grandfather built the barns and facilities near the back of the property, up against the picturesque blue ridge mountains so that down winds would take the stench in the opposite direction of our homes. Couple that with state of the art ventilation my dad installed before I was born, and well, it’s some of the cleanest air you could breathe in the country.
Ten years ago, when I was just eighteen, our growing popularity inspired my older brother Lawson and I to launch Whitewood Creek Distillery. It quickly became a staple, putting our family name on the map with our homemade whiskey. I jumped in with both feet, eager to learn the ropes and contribute right out of high school.
Over the years, I’ve poured myself into the business—literally and figuratively. This year, I worked on the designs for our first brewery and restaurant that’s opening in Charlotte, while Cash brought them to life. Even from behind bars, I helped craft our signature organic, non-GMO, farm-to-pint beer using grains we grew on-site.
The distillery and now the brewery are more than just businesses—they’re a lifeline, a source of pride that kept me going through four long years in prison. Cash visited me weekly without fail, checking in on designs and updates. Lawson dropped by when he wasn’t traveling for sales or handling business deals, and Troy, busy as he was, always made time to encourage me during his work trips south.
It's never been just about the businesses—it’s always been about family. Everyone pulling together to make whatever new dreams we create a reality. And soon, I’ll finally get to see this one with my own eyes.
Getting released doesn’t mean the conviction is erased—it’s still there, stamped on my record for life. That limits my options, shutting the door on most “normal” jobs. But that doesn’t bother me at all. I never wanted a nine-to-five. I’ve always been better with my hands, and even before I went to prison, I knew my place was here—on our property, running the distillery and checking in on the chicks.
I drive past the main house where I grew up and then make a left before pushing deeper into the property, past the trees and into a section that’s still wild with overgrown bushes, weeds and tall trees. The road opens up to a small clearing that meets the creek, its’ water rushing along the edge of our land, just as it always has. Steady like the blood that’s coursing through my veins.
Whitewood Creek.
I’ve always known this is where I’d build a house someday and maybe in the future, I’ll raise my kids here. As I park the truck, a smile tugs at my lips, already imagining it. The materials I picked up yesterday from the hardware store are scattered across the grass, but that’s tomorrow’s task.
Right now, I’ve got nothing but time.
Tonight, I’ll sleep under the stars, sprawled out on the grass, with the mountains looming above me. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this free, and I plan to savor every moment of it.
Chapter 7 – Molly
Whitewood Creek Farmstead and Egg Farm is easily one of the most magical places I’ve ever set foot on.? Nestled against the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina and surrounded by endless stretches of land, it’s a serene haven for chickens and the heart of Whitewood Creek Distillery, where the Marshalls craft their own spirits.
Tiny green shoots peek out of the soil, promising towering cornstalks in a few months. The setting sun dips behind the mountains, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink that seem to reflect off the floral-covered peaks. My chest tightens at the sight of seeing it for the first time in a decade, overwhelmed by the bittersweet beauty of it all.
When I left town, I never thought I’d come back. Yet now that I’m here, I realize just how much I missed this place and its breathtaking scenery—even if the memories it holds aren’t always kind. Maybe it isn’t Whitewood Creek that I miss but the Marshall property because that’s the one place that’s always felt like home.
Turning down the long, winding road that leads to the Marshalls’ home, I smile at how little has changed since I left. The old log-cabin-style home comes into view, and sure enough, Regan is already on the front porch where she still lives waiting for me.
She stands when she sees me, brushing her hands down her tattered Levi’s shorts before giving me a hesitant wave. I know she’s nervous about facing Colt—worried that he’s mad or disappointed in her. Maybe he is. But I also know that helping these two find their way back to each other feels like the right thing to do. Growing up, Regan and Colt were inseparable, just like me and Maverick. Watching them drift apart feels wrong, like something essential is out of balance in the universe. If I can be the bridge between them, I will.
Sometimes, even broken connections deserve a chance to heal.
“Hi,” she says rushing towards me and flinging her arms around my neck before stepping back and wringing her hands together nervously.
