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 uncap my pen and take the deepest breath I can muster.
Hunter—
You saved my son today.
I would thank you but I don’t think there are enough thank-yous in the world to show you how much that meant to me nor do I think you’d want to hear that.
You keep doing that. Saving me. Saving us. And the strangest part is I’ve never been someone who needs saving.
Despite writing dozens upon dozens of books that center around the classic fantasy of being rescued . . . I’ve always worn my hyperindependence like a badge of honor. Relying on someone felt like a detriment to my soul, an affront to everything I’ve ever built myself up to be. A terrifying reality I never wanted to know.
But then you show up—mud-covered, stormy-eyed, furious—and now I kind of want to be saved.
I don’t even know from what.
Exhaustion? Uncertainty? Myself?
I hope I never need saving again, but if I do, I kind of hope you’re the one who does it.
—Wren
I cap my pen and set it down, watching the ink dry. It feels good to write again. Not just pretend writing or word counts in a Word doc, but this. Raw. Unfiltered. Personal.
I push the chair back and stand, stretching my lower back side to side.
And then I remember something else.
Something small. Offhand. Something I almost missed.
He said he hadn’t eaten.
He’d been in the tractor fourteen hours, four days in a row. No lunch. No dinner. Nothing but diesel fumes and dirt and whatever’s left of that banged-up body of his. With those long legs, broad shoulders, and a mentally and physically demanding job, he needs to eat something.
I think of him alone up there in that big house on that big hill—and no one to come home to. No one waiting to greet him with a smile when he walks in at the end of the day in his ripped jeans and dirty boots. No one to pluck the cap off his head, ruffle the dust out of his hair, and throw their arms around him.
No one to make sure he’s fed.
No one peering up at him through sleepy eyes, waiting to hear about his day.
No one to say you don’t have to do this all by yourself.
I chew the inside of my cheek and glance toward the kitchen.
Tomorrow, I’ll cook something—or I’ll try, anyway.
I’ll pack it up and bring it out to the field.
I’ll say thank you with more than words.
He saved my son.
The least I can do is feed the man.
13
Hunter
The rain came hard last night and stuck around just long enough to turn most of my remaining unplanted acres into a damn sponge.
It’s a tortuous thing, being forced to sit still. I’m used to the blur of planting season—work sunrise to midnight, eat when you remember, sleep when you can. But now I’ve got hours on my hands and nothing to throw them at. Nothing I want to throw them at anyway. I’d much rather be planting. This time of year, my chest is heavy with unease that only lifts once the final seed goes into the ground.
Heading to the shop, I sharpen every blade I own, reorganize the tool wall, change the oil in the grain truck, order a few parts, and clean out the back seat of my pickup just for the hell of it.
And when all that’s done, I head to the house and heat up a can of chili, debating whether I should bother with a bowl or just eat it straight out of the tin.
I choose the latter. Less dishes to deal with, not that I don’t have the time today.
I’m rinsing a spoon when I hear the crunch of tires.
I glance up.
Black SUV.
Wren.
She’s walking up the front steps a second later, hands full, messy blond braid slung over one shoulder, cheeks pink from the cold wind this last system brought with it.
She’s holding something—glass dish. Foil on top.
I dry my hands on a dish towel and open the door before she can knock.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless. I must’ve caught her off guard, but to be fair, she caught me off guard too. No one just shows up here. Not without calling first. Not even my hired men. “I brought you something. Just . . . as a thank-you. For yesterday.”
I nod for her to come in, stepping aside.
She walks past me, leaving a trail of perfume behind her, something citrusy and warm, like summer snuck in early. She puts the dish on my kitchen island and peels back the foil.
“Chicken and rice casserole.” She bites her lower lip, trying to fight a smile. “Or, it’s supposed to be. I was going to bring it out to the field, but I didn’t see any tractors. Figured you got rained out.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Also, I’m sorry for snapping at you last night.” Her eyes flick to mine and her smile fades away. I find myself almost missing it the second it’s gone.