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)
“You’re going to need something with bigger tires if you’re planning on living out here,” he says.
“Why would I need that when I’ve got you for a neighbor?” My tone is serious but I’m teasing.
That earns me a small huff of air.
He pulls into a long gravel drive leading to a metal-sided shop, big enough to house several pieces of machinery and a half dozen trucks. The rain thunders against the steel roof as we roll inside, the automatic doors sliding shut behind us.
He parks and climbs out.
I stay in the truck, watching him move—efficient, no-nonsense, hyperfocused, and in his element. He grabs a coiled strap from a wall hook and tosses it into the bed before getting back in.
“Five minutes, tops,” he says.
“Thank you,” I tell him, quieter now. I don’t think he appreciates my sense of humor, at least not when he’s in the middle of a rescue mission. “Seriously. Thank you.”
He doesn’t answer.
I study his profile—strong jaw, wet hair clinging to the nape of his neck, that same unreadable expression he always wears.
A couple of years ago, I got a flat on the interstate during rush hour in the midst of an eerily similar downpour. I called Nick several times, only he didn’t answer. When I texted him that I was stranded, he replied almost immediately with, “Sorry. Just got to the gym, babe. You’ll have to call AAA.”
I didn’t even have AAA.
In my moment of need today, Hunter was just . . . there.
He showed up. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t make me feel burdensome. Just did what needed to be done like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn’t even expect a thank-you.
I write about men like Hunter all the time—I had no idea they actually existed.
11
Hunter
With the fields finally dried out, we’ve been back to planting. Going on four days now with little to no sleep. I’m barely functioning. The tractor drones beneath me like a metronome. Constant. Steady. Loud enough to rattle my bones but not loud enough to drown out the thoughts crawling around in my head. Normally I find the noise comforting, like the low rumble of a distant freight train.
Today it’s obnoxious.
Doesn’t help that I’ve been in this seat since before the sun even considered showing up. My coffee’s cold. My back feels like it’s been wrung out and hung to dry. And I’ve eaten nothing but a stale, mystery protein bar I found under the jump seat. Glenda would lose her shit on me if she knew I forgot to pack something to eat. Ever since my mother passed several years ago, Glenda’s tried to carefully fill some of that void. Not that anyone could ever replace my mother. But Glenda’s pretty much the next best thing.
At this point in the planting season, I’m so sleep deprived it’s all I can do just to function most days. I’m in survival mode, which sometimes entails forgetting to pack lunch and being too stubborn to take a break, and I’m sure as hell not going to stop one of my farmhands to have them run me something. Glenda’s busy with my tax season bookwork and her grandkids. It wouldn’t be right bugging her either—plus any food she’d bring would come with a side of lecturing.
Sky’s turning that familiar grayish tint on the western horizon, just like it did last week when we got that sudden downpour. Rain’s coming. Again. And we’re starting to push into May, which means if I don’t get this stretch by the river done today, I’m screwed.
I lean forward and check the monitor. Another phantom sensor warning. Same one that’s been blinking since this morning and magically disappears the second I stop to check it.
I swear this machine’s got a sense of humor.
I scrub a hand down my face and glance out the window, just in time to catch a flash of movement along the river.
Tiny.
Fast.
Too close to the water.
I sit up straighter.
It’s the neighbor’s kid.
He’s down near the bend where the bank gets steep and slick. There’s a little wooden footbridge down there too, half-rotted and uneven. Rich was too lazy to ever tear it down. Kid’s holding a stick and swinging it like a sword, shouting something I can’t hear.
But that’s not what makes my stomach twist.
It’s how close he is to the edge. With all that rain we just had, the river’s higher than usual, and there’s a pretty strong current through this part. If he loses his footing . . .
I can almost see it happening before it does.
My stomach twists into the hardest knot.
Without another thought, I hit the brake.
The tractor lurches, jerking to a stop mid-row. I press my hand to the glass and squint as the kid hops down a muddy incline and disappears from view. It wasn’t an intentional fall either, it was quick, like he dropped off the face of the earth.