Chapter 1 Hunter
Hunter
The tractor hums beneath me like a living beast, all steel and muscle and diesel breath.
I’ve been out here since before sunup, dropping blades into dirt that smells like home and every decision—good and bad—I’ve ever made.
Autosteer’s doing most of the work, but I sit up straight, one hand on the armrest, the other on the throttle.
I’ve never been good at sitting still for too long.
I glance down at the monitor. Eighteen point three acres an hour. Not bad. If the rain holds off and nothing breaks, I might get this north section done by nightfall.
Sky’s a little darker than I’d like today, so I won’t hold my breath.
I take a swig of lukewarm coffee and scan the rolling hills of the horizon.
The ladies at the coffee shop this morning were buzzing about some writer who grew up around here who’s now moving back.
I didn’t catch her name, but they sure seemed excited.
Based on all the stars in their eyes, a guy would’ve thought they were discussing a local celebrity.
Can’t blame them, though. We don’t get much for excitement around here, so every little thing quickly becomes the talk of the town.
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.
I’ve negotiated dozens of deals over the years, and I’m used to playing the long game, except we’re going on eight years of this now and it’s getting ridiculous.
I’m a patient man, but lately mine’s running paper thin.
I want that land.
I have to have it.
I scratch at my temple as she fusses with the rusty orange cattle gate at the end of the dirt driveway that leads to Rich’s farmhouse. It takes her a second or two, but she finally figures out the latch, swings the gate wide, and returns to her Audi.
I bet she’s a real estate agent.
But that doesn’t make sense. Rich said he’d sell to me, that we’d do a private party deal. I even promised to give him 10 percent above market value in an attempt to eliminate any competition.
In twenty years, I’ve amassed nearly ten thousand acres of farm ground.
My personal home rests on a secluded piece of four hundred of those acres, my house sitting at the top of the hill overlooking it all.
It’s a million-dollar view—best one in the county.
Trees. River. Rolling hills. Stars for days on a clear night.
Privacy on top of privacy. The ultimate luxury.
No neighbors for a solid five miles in any direction.
The freedom to let people into—or keep them out of—your world is priceless.
It’s a piece of ground that’s mine and mine alone, space to think and breathe and be alone and unbothered with my thoughts at the end of a long day.
It’s my fortress of solitude—minus having Rich as a neighbor.
But more than that, I’ve got personal ties to that property, to that house and those grounds and that section of river. I made a promise to someone a lifetime ago, someone near and dear to me, and I’ll be damned if I break it.
Blondie disappears down Rich’s driveway.
I don’t usually make a habit of being nosy—in this town you don’t have to because everyone talks to everyone and things always trickle down eventually. But that woman’s definitely not from around here, and she’s sniffing around my land.
Pulling out onto the road, I take a right and head to Rich’s.
Only, the second I do, Truitt sends me a panicked text asking if I’m on my way yet.
I am.
Just not in the direction I should be headed.