Chapter 5 Hunter
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?”
“It’s not about the number.” I don’t elaborate. He’s been around here long enough. He knows exactly what it’s about.
He clears his throat. “Look, I get it. I do. But you would’ve torn the house down. That place? My grandfather built it with his bare hands. I couldn’t stomach seeing it flattened and turned into soybeans.”
If it were any other piece of property, he’d be right.
I would’ve leveled it.
Same as I’ve done with every farm I’ve ever bought.
Land’s more valuable when it works.
An empty house taking up fertile soil isn’t just an eyesore, it’s a liability, an expense.
But this is different.
The house would’ve stayed, just like I promised someone years ago.
“You should meet her,” he says. “Seems nice. Polite. Said she grew up around here. Can’t remember her name now. But her stepdad’s Will Cunningham. You know him?”
I don’t dignify his stupid question with a response.
Everyone knows Will.
You can’t be living in Colton Valley and not know Will Cunningham.
He’s done some trucking for me during harvest when I’ve been short on help.
I knew he had children and he’d mention them from time to time, but I never paid much attention to the details as it was irrelevant to me.
He’d ramble on about something, and I’d always change the subject back to work because time is money and he was on the clock. My clock.
“You seen her yet? Heard she’s quite the looker,” Rich adds, chuckling. “Won’t be long before someone swoops in and snatches that one right up.”
I grimace.
Never understood guys like Rich when it comes to women. The way they talk like women are game to be caught. Display pieces. Prey. Trophies. It’s dehumanizing, and it makes us seem like brain-dead Neanderthals with one thing on our mind.
Sure, beauty catches the eye.
But it also makes idiotic men do idiotic things.
That’s all it’s good for.
“You should introduce yourself,” Rich pushes once more, as if he’s hoping to bandage the damage by playing matchmaker, “now that you’re neighbors.”
“Gotta get back to work,” I tell him, steering the tractor toward the next row.
“All right, all right. I know you’re upset with me, McCrae, but it’ll all be fine. You take care now.”
I end what’s likely our final call ever without saying goodbye.
The weight of this news settles around me like a suffocating second skin.
The last forty acres of farmable riverfront land in the county.
A neighbor I didn’t want.
A promise I’ll never get to keep.
No peace. No privacy.
Just me and some city blonde for miles and miles.