Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
She passes by Hunter’s table, gives him a little wave and a friendly smile. “Good morning, Hunter.”
He offers a respectful nod, lifting his ball cap. “Morning, Mrs. Harrison.”
She continues toward the counter, orders something in a paper cup, then turns to scan for a place to sit, eyeing an empty table in the middle of the shop. Except on her way to take a seat, her tote catches the edge of a nearby booth, and the coffee sloshes violently before the lid pops clean off, splattering across the floor in a hot arc. It lands with a series of wet, soft plops against the tile, a few brown droplets kissing the hem of her olive green polyester pants.
“Oh, my . . . clumsy old me,” she says with an embarrassed chuckle, her hand clenching at her blouse as every eye in the place homes in on her.
Hunter’s already moving.
Not a word. Just stands, grabs a stack of napkins from the condiment bar, and kneels beside her with the practiced quiet of someone who doesn’t hesitate to do what needs to be done regardless of the task.
“Now quit that.” She crouches down and swats at his hand. “I made the mess. I’ll clean it up.”
“You’ll burn your fingers,” he says with a practiced sort of calm confidence, like a man who doesn’t take no for an answer.
She sighs and lets him take over, stepping aside while he dabs the worst of the spill, then sets the ruined cup on the edge of a table.
“I’ll get you a new one,” he says before walking back to the counter.
A minute later, Hunter brings the fresh cup back, places it in front of Mrs. Harrison, who meets him with an appreciative smile as she pats his arm like he’s just changed her whole day.
“You’re too good to me,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Thank you.”
He returns to his table in silence, refusing to make a big deal out of her praise, and retrieves his coffee cup, tipping it back to swallow the last drops before tossing it in the trash. A glance toward the door, and he’s heading out—the bell over the entrance barely jingling as it swings shut behind him.
My mouth opens with a half-formed thought, question, greeting—but he’s already outside. I was hoping he’d stay, that I could say hello, maybe introduce myself and ask him more about that grass-fed beef thing—any excuse to get him talking.
I turn in my chair just in time to catch sight of a big white truck backing out of a spot and easing down the street, Hunter behind the wheel.
No music.
No fanfare.
Just diesel and distance.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say to the elderly woman. “Do you know that guy? The one who cleaned up your coffee?”
“Oh.” She perks up, batting her mascara-caked lashes. “That’s Hunter McCrae. Lovely man. I just adore him,” Mrs. Harrison says, her dainty palm pressed against her chest. “When my Orville had open heart surgery a few years back, Hunter planted over two hundred acres for us. Saved our farm. Wouldn’t accept a dollar for it either. But that’s the kind of man he is. I knew his parents when they were still alive. He’s a good one, that Hunter. They don’t make ’em like him anymore.”
A good man who wants nothing to do with anyone?
A good man who walks around like he’s pissed off at the world?
Questions dance on the tip of my tongue—questions I have no right to ask.
“And what’s your name, miss? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” Mrs. Harrison says.
“Wren Jensen,” I tell her. “I actually grew up here . . . just moved back with my son. We bought a little place by the river.”
Her thin gray brows knit. “By the river, you say? Hunter owns all the riverfront property in town. Well, except Rich Sanders’s place. You didn’t buy Rich’s place, did you?”
My throat tightens, though I don’t know why. It’s the way she says it, maybe. Like I did something bad.
“Actually yes, that’s the place,” I say.
Her face hardens into a wince for a moment, her lips pressing flat like she’s biting her tongue. Without saying a word, she’s got me under the impression I’ve done something bad, that I’ve committed some kind of Colton Valley faux pas.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be seeing a lot more of Hunter,” she says with a forced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “He’s your neighbor.”
I think of the white truck at the top of my driveway the other day, how he sped off before I could make it outside.
“You said he owns all the riverfront property around here?” I ask.
She nods. “In all of Jasperville County. I always thought he was going to buy Rich’s place . . . it’s quite odd that he didn’t.”
“What do you mean?” I can’t help but ask. The Sanders property is small. Only forty little acres, five of which aren’t even farmable. If Hunter owns that much land, surely he wouldn’t care about my little place?