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)
I reach for the little sunflower-covered notebook I bought a year ago and haven’t touched since. My grandma Betty always used to call me her “little sunflower.” She said sunflowers are resilient and stubborn, they bloom under harsh conditions, and they’re always reaching for the sun.
The pages are blank, but not for much longer.
Turns out I didn’t need sunflowers to inspire me . . . I needed him.
I flip to the first page, draw a breath, and begin to write.
Hunter—
I wasn’t going to write you.
I don’t even know you.
But you’ve been haunting my thoughts for hours now, like a song stuck in my head, and I’m finding myself deeply intrigued with the idea of you.
The way you stood there with your back straight, jaw tight, pretending not to notice me standing behind you, yet somehow I felt the intensity of your attention anyway . . . I don’t think I’ve ever felt more seen in complete silence.
Yet we’re complete strangers, and perhaps we always will be.
You’re not exactly warm and friendly. But if this town is my blank page, maybe you’re the margin. You intrigue me.
And you look like a story that demands to be told.
There’s something about you that makes me want to fill in all the blanks.
Anyway, I suppose it doesn’t matter because you’re never going to read this. All that matters is I’m writing again because of you. Maybe it’s not a novel, but it’s a start.
And honestly, I think I’m going to make a book out of you.
—Wren
5
Hunter
The soft whine of the planter mixes with the hum of the tractor Saturday morning as I crawl across the northern field, seeds sinking into warm spring soil like a promise. Sky’s holding steady—clouds thin and high. If the wind doesn’t kick up, I’ll make good time today.
I lean back in the cab, one hand on the wheel, the other on the armrest like usual, when my phone buzzes in the cup holder.
I check the screen, half expecting it to be Glenda, my part-time bookkeeper. It’s tax season, and she’s always got random questions for me as she prepares our files for the accountant.
Only it’s Rich Sanders.
About damn time.
Exhaling through my nose, I swipe to answer. “Rich.”
“McCrae.” His voice crackles through the headset like old vinyl. “Sorry. I’m down in Key Largo this week visiting an old Army buddy, but I got your message. You were wantin’ to know about some blond girl at my property?”
The question lands heavy despite his casual tone.
I grip the wheel a little tighter. “Saw her around yesterday. Figured maybe she was a niece or long-lost daughter or something.”
I try to keep it light, though I’m feeling heavier than a combine stuck in mud.
Rich chuffs. “Me? Nah. Never been married. Never had kids. You know that. Just a couple of knuckleheaded nephews out in California. That blonde’s the daughter of some guy I used to work with at the John Deere plant way back in the day. He said she wanted to move back home to do some writing, and I’ve been wanting to relocate down south, so I sold her the place.”
For a second, I say nothing. I just stare ahead at a horizon that blurs from sky blue to dirt brown. This must be the author the ladies at the coffee shop were talking about.
“You sold it,” I finally speak.
He pauses. “I did.”
My vision flashes red for a second, but I keep my voice steady.
How did I miss him moving out?
“We had an agreement, Rich.” My voice is flat, steeped in irritability. It’s early, my coffee’s yet to kick in, and I don’t have the energy to hide my extreme displeasure at this revelation.
“I know, McCrae. I know. But she came in with city money. Fancy author or something. Paid me twice what you would’ve.”
“I would’ve paid more if you’d have given me the chance.”
“She was ready. Quick close. No inspections. Sight unseen. Cash.” He exhales. “We both know you’re a hell of a negotiator. This was an easy sell. Easier than what you’d have put me through. You’re a businessman. Surely you get it. Hell, you’d have done the same in my shoes. I know it.”
While negotiating is an art I’ve managed to master after two decades of buying land, I wanted that parcel enough that I’d have swallowed my pride and done what I needed to do to close the deal.
I’m not sure what pisses me off more—Rich ripping off some unsuspecting woman or the fact that I’ve lost out on the last parcel of riverside farmland in all of Colton Valley, a parcel of land tied to a promise I’ll never be able to fulfill now thanks to this greedy jackass.
“You’ve got ten thousand acres, McCrae,” Rich says after a bout of silence, sighing at me like I’m some sore Monopoly loser. “What’s forty more to you?”