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)
But an author? Don’t think we’ve ever had one of those before.
Can’t recall the last time I cracked a book. Had to have been my university days, but at forty-two, college was a lifetime ago.
My phone rings, and I take the call over my headset.
“Truitt,” I answer.
“That planter at the Everly farm’s acting up again.” The frustration in my farmhand’s voice tells me this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen today. If we’re lucky, we get ten good planting days a season. It’s the second half of April, and thanks to all the rain we’ve had this month and the time it took for the fields to dry out, today’s our first one.
Not ideal.
“You check the vac pressure?” I ask. I’ve got two full-time guys—Cal and Truitt, each about a decade younger than me. Solid guys who aren’t afraid of the long days and even longer nights that come with this kind of job. Not everyone’s fortunate enough to have a good right-hand man, but me? I’m lucky enough to have two.
“Yep.” Truitt sighs. “Called the mechanic too. Still waiting to hear back.”
I picture him out in the field, pacing and muttering to himself, likely more upset about disappointing me than having to fix a broken planter during planting season. Truitt’s work ethic is rivaled only by his people-pleasing tendencies—at least when it comes to me.
Over the past ten years, I’ve become his boss, his best friend, his mentor, and his big brother all rolled into one. Letting me down is always the last thing he wants to do, but no matter how many times I remind him that this is farming and things happen, he still gets worked up when things don’t go according to plan.
I’ve never seen the point in letting these kinds of situations get the best of me. Not when I have more important things to focus on—like running my operation and buying more land. My guys always joke that I might as well be married to the place, that I’ve never needed a woman because farming is the “love of my life.”
They’re not wrong. They just don’t have all the backstory, and it’s not worth my energy to give it to them either. It’s none of their business, and I don’t see the point in mucking around in the past anyway. Doesn’t change anything.
“And you checked all the seed tubes?” I ask.
“Sure did.” His voice is flat. It’s Friday. The last thing either of us wanted was to deal with a breakdown, but machines don’t give a damn what day of the week it is.
“And you bled the lines?”
“Of course.” Even in his frustration, Truitt’s still respectful.
Cal would’ve answered me with something like “Got any more stupid questions for me, boss?”
“All right. Give me a few. I’ll head that way. We’ll figure this out,” I assure Truitt before ending the call.
I bring my tractor to a stop, then kill the engine before climbing out and trudging to the edge of the field where my truck is parked.
I’m pulling onto the road a few minutes later when a black Audi SUV blazes past me in a trail of gravel dust. No sound other than the tires crunching on the rocks. Must be electric. Electric cars and luxury imports are a rare sight in Colton Valley and an even rarer sight out here in the middle of farm country, where the miles between towns and houses stretch on forever.
When it zipped by a second ago, I caught a flash of pale blond hair, long and glossy, the kind that looks like it costs more than a month’s worth of diesel. Her taillights glow cherry red through the brown-gray dust, and she crawls to a stop when she reaches the bend in the road at the end of my section.
My stomach knots. Something about this feels disruptive.
I remain in my truck, my right boot jammed against the brake and my left hand gripping the top of the steering wheel, observing through squinted eyes.
Maybe she’s lost. It’s not uncommon for people to get turned around out here, especially if they’re not from the area. Willing to bet Blondie’s not local.
She’s parked in the road now, climbing out of the driver’s seat and walking toward the gate at the end of Rich Sanders’s place—the only parcel along the Colton Valley riverfront not owned by me. For eight long years, the man’s been claiming he’s going to retire and move south, and he promised he’d let me know when he’s ready to sell. But every year, he tells me “maybe next year.”
As someone who’s negotiated dozens of land deals, I know firsthand you can’t act desperate or you lose the upper hand. He knows I want it—he doesn’t know how badly I want it or why I want it—but he knows I’ll pay him cash, and that’s all he needs to know.