Chapter 11 Hunter
Hunter
With the fields finally dried out, we’ve been back to planting.
Going on four days now with little to no sleep.
I’m barely functioning. The tractor drones beneath me like a metronome.
Constant. Steady. Loud enough to rattle my bones but not loud enough to drown out the thoughts crawling around in my head.
Normally I find the noise comforting, like the low rumble of a distant freight train.
Today it’s obnoxious.
Doesn’t help that I’ve been in this seat since before the sun even considered showing up.
My coffee’s cold. My back feels like it’s been wrung out and hung to dry.
And I’ve eaten nothing but a stale, mystery protein bar I found under the jump seat.
Glenda would lose her shit on me if she knew I forgot to pack something to eat.
Ever since my mother passed several years ago, Glenda’s tried to carefully fill some of that void.
Not that anyone could ever replace my mother.
But Glenda’s pretty much the next best thing.
At this point in the planting season, I’m so sleep deprived it’s all I can do just to function most days.
I’m in survival mode, which sometimes entails forgetting to pack lunch and being too stubborn to take a break, and I’m sure as hell not going to stop one of my farmhands to have them run me something.
Glenda’s busy with my tax season bookwork and her grandkids.
It wouldn’t be right bugging her either—plus any food she’d bring would come with a side of lecturing.
Sky’s turning that familiar grayish tint on the western horizon, just like it did last week when we got that sudden downpour. Rain’s coming. Again. And we’re starting to push into May, which means if I don’t get this stretch by the river done today, I’m screwed.
I lean forward and check the monitor. Another phantom sensor warning. Same one that’s been blinking since this morning and magically disappears the second I stop to check it.
I swear this machine’s got a sense of humor.
I scrub a hand down my face and glance out the window, just in time to catch a flash of movement along the river.
Tiny.
Fast.
Too close to the water.
I sit up straighter.
It’s the neighbor’s kid.
He’s down near the bend where the bank gets steep and slick. There’s a little wooden footbridge down there too, half-rotted and uneven. Rich was too lazy to ever tear it down. Kid’s holding a stick and swinging it like a sword, shouting something I can’t hear.
But that’s not what makes my stomach twist.
It’s how close he is to the edge. With all that rain we just had, the river’s higher than usual, and there’s a pretty strong current through this part. If he loses his footing . . .
I can almost see it happening before it does.
My stomach twists into the hardest knot.
Without another thought, I hit the brake.
The tractor lurches, jerking to a stop mid-row. I press my hand to the glass and squint as the kid hops down a muddy incline and disappears from view. It wasn’t an intentional fall either, it was quick, like he dropped off the face of the earth.
I listen for a scream, a splash, anything, but it’d be impossible to hear any of that over the engine noise.
Suddenly, I’m not in the cab anymore. I’m in another memory. One with a similar scream and that same riverbank and cold water.
My vision goes dark for half a second—a flashback I haven’t watched in ages.
Then I snap out of it.
Door flies open before I even register reaching for it. Boots hit the dirt hard. I’m sprinting. Lungs on fire. Heart pounding. My hat flies off somewhere behind me.
By the time I get to the river, the kid’s grasping at a broken tree branch, struggling to pull himself out—sputtering, soaked, water rushing over his head every couple seconds. By the time he hooks his arms around it, it breaks off, leaving him flailing for something else to grab onto.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath before jumping into the chest-high icy water and yanking him the rest of the way up by the armpits. By the time we’re back on dry land, we’re both heaving, shivering, and gasping for air. “What the hell were you doing out here?”
His teeth chatter. “I—I slipped.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I snap. “Damn near gave me a heart attack.”
He blinks up at me with wide, scared eyes. He’s not hurt. Just cold and muddy. But still. He could’ve . . .
No.
I refuse to finish that thought.
Behind me, a slamming screen door cuts through the static in my head.
“Atticus?! Oh my god—what happened?!” Wren races toward us.
I wait, hands on my hips, jaw tight, pulse still hammering, chest on fire.
She’s barefoot and wild-eyed, her long braid half unraveled.
“He fell in the damn river,” I say. “I warned you about that current. What the hell was he doing down here alone?”
Normally I wouldn’t talk like this to a woman or in front of a kid. But I’m going off no sleep. My mental bandwidth is low. I’m running on fumes. Editing my words requires more energy than I can spare right now.
Her eyes cut to mine, sharp and instantly defensive. “He was playing in the backyard. I went inside for two minutes.”
“Two minutes is all it takes. You live on the river. You don’t let a four-year-old run off unsupervised.”
“You think I meant for this to happen?” Her brows are furrowed and she’s got one hand clamped over her heart. There’s anger directed at me but a hint of disappointment in her eyes—almost like she let herself down too. “You think I don’t already feel sick to my stomach right now?”
Same . . .
“You should keep a better eye on your kid.” I tighten the distance between us, though not intentionally. Something about her draws me in every time.
She steps closer to me, matching my energy, I assume.
“I really don’t appreciate your tone right now.” She cocks an eyebrow, not backing down.
“My tone? I just saved your kid from drowning.”
If she only knew . . .
“Have you seen that current? And all that rain we’ve been getting has the river higher than usual.” I rub my dirt-stained hands along my brows. Is this conversation actually happening or am I imagining it? I’m so sleep deprived I could be hallucinating. “You sure you’re cut out for country life?”
“I went inside for two minutes,” she says again. “God forbid a single mother has to use the bathroom. Ugh, I knew I should’ve put that leash on him. What was I thinking?”
Now she’s being sarcastic—which both infuriates me and turns me on in a way I wasn’t expecting.
We’re standing inches apart, close enough I can smell the stress and hand soap on her skin. Her chest rises and falls fast, eyes flashing like the lightning rolling in behind us. So much for getting these last riverside acres done tonight.
“Do you have kids?” she asks.
“You’ve been in my house. Does it look like I have kids?” I match her attitude.
“I’m just saying, you try being a single parent and juggling it all. This is truly my worst nightmare and while I appreciate your help, there’s no need to make me feel worse than I already do.”
Okay. Maybe that’s fair.
“Look. I’m exhausted,” I say, still clipped. “I’ve been in a tractor for fourteen hours a day for the last four days. Haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept. My nerves are shot. And seeing him fall in that water . . .”
Her expression softens, but her arms remain crossed and her posture is still rigid.
“You could’ve just said you were scared,” she says. “Would’ve gone a lot further than trying to make me feel like a horrible mother.”
I stare at her, jaw tightening as I’m unable to find the right words. She’s not wrong. But damn if it doesn’t piss me off to be told.
She gathers her soaking-wet kid in her arms and turns toward the house without another word. I hate that he saw that exchange. He’s probably too young to understand we were both just worried about him.
Halfway between me and the back door, she tosses one more look my way, though I can’t interpret it. I mistook this woman for being soft and helpless, but she’s got some bite to her; a little kick.
I don’t hate it either.
Sure wish I did.
“Thank you,” she calls out, though the expression on her face reads pissed.
I stand there, soaked in sweat and river air and something else I can’t name.
No one talks to me like that.
No one has ever talked to me like that.
And I should be mad.
I want to be mad.
But all I feel is this low, simmering heat in my chest—a sensation I don’t know what to do with.
She’s good with her words, with expressing how she feels.
Guess that’s why she’s the writer and I’m the dirt farmer.
Lightning cracks the sky open, followed by a rumble of thunder and the soft padding of raindrops that grow thicker by the second. I trudge back to my planter, contending with the fact that the rest of the night’s a bust.
Rain cuts loose right above me.
I get the tractor out of the field before it gets stuck, and then I make my way to the shop to busy myself with work because there’s always work to be done.
God knows I need the sleep, but something tells me even as exhausted as I am, I’d probably just lie in bed and think about . . . her.
And there’s nothing productive about that.