I bury my face in it, letting the memories swirl around me, unsolicited but comforting.
This is the man I’ve crushed on since I was a little girl. And somehow, despite everything, that feeling is still alive, burning quietly in the background. For now, I decide to let it be enough. But I know whatever’s been reignited, isn’t over yet.
Chapter 22 – Colt
“So, are you excited to finally see the place?” my brother Cash asks me from the front passenger seat of the truck.
“Yeah,” I grunt, staring out the passenger window as the scenery changes. Trees blur into houses, and houses give way to towering skyscrapers as we near the city of Charlotte, North Carolina.
Excited doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about finally seeing the brewery—my brewery—the project that I poured four years of blood, sweat, and dreams into while stuck in the hellhole of prison.
But I don’t say that out loud to my brothers. I don’t have to. They already know what this place means to me.
Getting here wasn’t simple. The judge had to grant me special permission to travel, and I had to make damn sure this visit was justified as a work trip. The last thing I need is someone calling the cops or questioning my adherence to the parole requirements. I’m getting closer to the end now, that moment where I’ll no longer be watched closely by the state and can travel as much as I want.
As we drive, I wonder what it’ll feel like to see the place in person for the first time. It’s our family’s new brewery that I’ve been dreaming about since I was eighteen years old. A place designed to host special events, showcase our family’s products, and solidify the Marshall name in North Carolina as a dynasty not to mess with. Will it live up to the vision I’ve held onto all these years? Will it feel like I belong here?
I think it will. The strange sensation in my stomach makes me think so.
Lawson navigates the highways with ease, the city sprawling out around us before giving way to side streets where we’ve decided to make our flagship location. My brothers are chatting in the front seat, Cash going on about sales stats that he knows nothing about and the baby chickens that he’s obsessed with while Lawson responds with his usual sharp analysis and annoyed growl, but I barely register their words. My focus is locked on the approaching moment.
The truck slows and rolls into a private driveway off to the side of the storefront. My throat tightens as I spot the hand-painted sign hanging from the wooden frame over the entrance—Whitewood Creek Brewery—framed by blooming dogwood trees and string lights that twinkle in the afternoon sun.
When we pull up, I take a deep breath before stepping out of the car. The exterior is simple yet striking—sturdy wooden beams frame the sign bearing our family’s logo, perfectly aligned with the rest of the Whitewood Creek Farmstead brand. It’s Lawson’s design, of course, clean, to the point, and polished to reflect the rest of our branding, but it’s what’s inside that steals my breath.
I step through the doors, and the space unfolds before me. Reclaimed wood ceilings stretch overhead, warm and rustic. Rose-gold accents glint under the soft light, and the originalflooring we brought in—refinished from the first barn my grandfather built decades ago—grounds the place in history.
The open-concept layout feels expansive but welcoming, with enough room for over a hundred guests, a stage for live bands, and even space for us to bring in games. Long wooden tables and mismatched vintage chairs create a space that feels lived-in and loved already. Exposed copper piping lines the walls behind the bar, a nod to our distillery roots.
It’s perfect, better than I imagined during those nights in a cold cell when all I had were sketches, prayers and hopes.
My brothers hang back, letting me soak it all in. They don’t say a word, just watch as I take slow steps through the place that’s as much theirs as it is mine.
I run my fingertips across the edge of the bar. The grain in the wood tells a story of what we’re trying to convey. Rough, imperfect, reborn, a lot like how I’m feeling right now.
Pushing open the large barn doors at the back, I step outside and stop in my tracks. The outdoor area is a revelation. You’d never guess you were in the heart of a bustling metropolis. Thick, lush greenery surrounds the space, creating a private oasis. The bushes and a couple trees buffer the city noise, wrapping everything in a cocoon of stillness. It feels like a sanctuary—a world away from where I’ve been and everything I’ve been through.
There are string lights already hung above a wide wooden patio, and a fire pit surrounded by Adirondack chairs—some handmade by Cash back on our farm and transported here a few weeks ago. There's a small herb garden on the side, fresh rosemary, lavender, mint, something Regan helped plant that we’ll be able to infuse into the food and drinks that we’reoffering. This feels like more than another business for us, it feels like our legacy.
For the first time in a long time, I let myself feel the weight of it. Not just pride, but relief. Hope. This is what I’ve worked for. This is where it all begins again. A new business, a new start, a new life.
A small, hand-built pond with a tiny man-made dock rests in the center of it all, perfect for my idea of hosting smaller, private events for guests who want an outdoor ceremony in the heart of the city, a rarity in Charlotte.
It’s perfect. Everything I imagined—and somehow more. And yet, the first thought that strikes me isn’t pride or relief that Cash got my vision. It’s Molly. I want her to see this. To know that I’ve been working on something bigger than myself. To show her that even while locked away, I was dreaming. This isn’t just a job or a paycheck anymore, it’s my passion, my salvation, my life. I can’t wait to bring in the spirits from the distillery that I manage and see this place filled with families, laughter and clinking glasses. I want her to be proud of me and I want her to enjoy this view too.
“What do you think?” Cash’s voice pulls me back to the moment. He steps beside me, his tone casual, but I catch the hint of anticipation in his question. “Did I get it right little brother?”
I nod, my eyes sweeping over the space one more time. “Yeah, you nailed it.”
A grin stretches across his face as Lawson approaches, tablet in hand, typing away like always.
“The grand opening’s set to be a private event. We’ve got a solid guest list—social media influencers from Charlotte, new staff members, and a few industry contacts. The chef we’ve hired is world-renowned. Used to run a farm-to-table spot down inTexas. Georgia vouched for him, and we’ll have lots of menu items that include our eggs from the family farm.”
“Sounds good,” I say, though my mind is still half-lost in the moment.
“Most of the RSVPs are in. Our brand’s catching fire, especially after those social media posts about the farm went viral that Regan created. Sales for the distillery haven’t hit that level yet, but this event could change everything. It’ll show people that the Marshall name isn’t just about eggs or sustainability—it’s about excellence across the board.”
“Agreed,” I reply, my voice steady. Who knows where this could lead us. It’s been the egg farm and distillery for so long, maybe we’ll branch into other industries and businesses next.
