Chapter 13 Hunter
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.
“No need. Emotions were high.”
She observes me for a second, like she’s expecting me to elaborate, but that’s all she’s getting. I’m not the type to drag things out. A man does what needs doing, and if he’s got anything left after that, he gets on with his day. No need to complicate things.
“It’s lunchtime,” I say, motioning toward the dish. “You hungry?”
Her face lights with a small, surprised smile. “Sure.”
That canned chili sits heavy in my stomach, but I’m not in the business of being rude, so I grab two plates from the cabinet—real ones, not paper—and forks from the drawer.
She helps dish it up. The sauce is thick and a little too wet, and something about the smell tells me she got generous with the seasoned salt.
We sit across from each other at my table—oak, heavy, hand built. It hasn’t seen a meal with company in years. At least not a woman my age. Glenda, my sixty-year-old bookkeeper, doesn’t count. She’s more family than anything, and even she knows better than to bring me food.
I don’t like being doted on, but more than that, I don’t like the feeling of owing someone.
I take a bite.
It’s . . . not great.
Oversalted. The rice is half mush, half crunch. The chicken’s dry and chewy like it’s been re-cooked three times or worse—from a can.
I keep chewing as Wren studies me.
I don’t say a word.
She doesn’t either, just picks at her plate and pretends not to notice how slow I’m eating.
“So.” I clear my throat. “How’d you end up with Rich Sanders’s place anyway?”
She stops pushing the food around with her fork and glances up with raised brows.
“Rich knew my stepdad. They used to work together at the John Deere plant back in the day. My mom mentioned I was looking for a place—somewhere quiet with land. He said he’d been thinking of moving south.
I saw the photos and it was perfect. I made him a cash offer—one he couldn’t refuse—and now here we are. ”
I’d love to know what she paid, but it’s none of my business, and it’ll be on the assessor page soon enough.
“Did you even look at any other properties?” I ask.
“Didn’t need to.” She doesn’t miss a beat.
“How do you know you paid a fair price?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Things are only worth whatever someone’s willing to pay for it.”
“Guess it must’ve been worth to you whatever you paid for it” is all I manage to say as I choke down another bite of casserole.
“You don’t sound like you mean that.”
How she picked up on the contempt in my voice is beyond me.
I’m normally better than that at hiding my true feelings.
I’ve never worn them on my sleeve, my face, or any place else they’d be exposed to the world.
My father always said a man should never show his cards unless he wants to be taken advantage of.
“For the last eight years, Sanders has been promising he’d sell the place to me. Said it was mine when the time came. Would never put it in writing, but we shook on it. We had an understanding. At least, I thought we did.”
Her mouth parts a little. “Oh.”
I nod once, take another bite of the salt-bomb chicken.
“It’s just forty acres and a little house.” Her voice is soft, laced with an unspoken apology. “Was it really that important to you? Don’t you have thousands of acres already?”
“Yes and yes. But it’s not worth explaining. You bought the piece. It is what it is now, I suppose.”
Her eyes flash. “Explain. I want to know.”
There it is again—that spark. That low flame behind her words that tells me she’s not the type to let things lie just because I say so.
I exhale, leaning back in my chair. “That parcel was the last piece of riverfront ground in the county. If I’d gotten it, I wouldn’t have had another neighbor for five miles in any direction. That kind of space? That kind of quiet? That’s peace to me. That’s freedom.”
It’s not the whole story, but it’s as much as I care to share right now.
There’s a knowingness behind her sapphire eyes. Like she’s watching me, seeing past every word. Like she knows there’s more and she’s just waiting me out.
This woman makes me feel like goddamned cellophane under a microscope. No one’s ever made me feel that way before.
“So you enjoy being alone,” she says.
I nod. “I do.”
Her full lips press together then bunch at one side, like she’s trying to decide whether she believes me. “No one actually likes being alone. Some people tell themselves they do. But we’re not meant to be alone.”
I don’t respond. Because maybe she’s right.
I once imagined a scenario in which I die alone and no one finds my body for weeks. The thought of it depressed me until I reminded myself that if I were dead, I wouldn’t be around to care anyway.
“As a species, I mean,” she explains. “By design, we’re social. Being together, pairing up, it’s a survival mechanism. Sure, the media and society romanticizes it, but having a partner serves many purposes.”
I let her words marinate, though I’m not sure where she’s going with this.
I scratch the side of my temple with my knuckle. “And you’re a romance writer?”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Pretty sure the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”
“Two things can be true, you know.” She tilts her pretty face, staring me down like she’s got some kind of agenda to peel back my layers one by one.
“We can accept that being with someone can serve a functional purpose, and we can also accept that it’s okay to desire things like love and romance and happy endings and companionship. ”
I take another bite. This one intentionally too big. I’d rather choke down this rubbery chicken mush than dignify that with a response—because she might be right, but it doesn’t change how I feel.
It’s easier to be alone.
She picks at her food a little longer before setting her fork down. “Where’d you grow up?”
I blink, surprised she’s changing the subject. “Here.”
“In Colton Valley?”
“About five miles east of town. Went to the Colombia-Newville high school, then went to Iowa State for ag business. My parents passed shortly after graduation. Took over their operation when I was twenty-four.”
She rests her chin against her palm. “And you’ve just . . . stayed? Ever since?”
“Where else would I have gone?” I look around at the room, the furniture. “I find comfort in the familiar, in the things I know. So much of life is unpredictable and out of our control. You can leave home,” I add, “but home can never leave you.”
“That’s kind of poetic.” She flashes me a quick smile that makes my stomach do some stupid somersault thing.
I kick myself for saying the kind of thing I’d usually keep to myself. No one gives a shit about anyone’s philosophical ramblings, especially not mine.
The clock on the wall ticks loud in the silence between us.
“I went to Iowa State too,” she says. “How old are you? Maybe we were there at the same time.”
“Forty-two.” It’s been a long time since anyone’s asked me my age. Saying it out loud hits me like a quick shove to the chest—not because I care about my age, but because it’s a reminder of how quickly the years pass when you’re not paying them much attention.
“I’ll be thirty-nine this summer.” She sits straighter, a hint of excitement in her tone. “I bet we walked by each other on campus a hundred times and didn’t even know it.”
“You majored in ag studies too?” I tease. I push my chair back and grab our plates. “I should get back to the shop. Clean off some equipment before the next window opens.”
She stands too. “Of course. I’ll let you get back to work.”
I walk her to the door. She lingers for half a second on the threshold, peering up at me through a fringe of curled lashes that make her look a hair younger than her thirty-nine years.
“Thanks for eating my cooking,” she says. “Even if it was terrible.”
“Best chicken rice casserole I’ve ever had in my life.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” She lifts a brow and we exchange a look that, for a sliver of a moment, makes me feel like I’ve known her for years, not weeks. “In case you didn’t know that.”
I smirk, sniffing a laugh before I can stop myself. It doesn’t feel bad. Smiling. Honestly can’t recall the last time I did before she came around. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
With that, Wren turns and struts back to her SUV, hair lifting in the breeze, the hem of her sundress catching around her legs with each step, braid bouncing against her back.
And I stand, idling a minute longer than I should, watching her go.
There’s something different about this woman.
She pushes against me. Doesn’t just accept the scraps I offer. Doesn’t seem scared of me either. Most people find me intimidating. They respect me, but they never test my limits—personally, professionally, or otherwise.
And I don’t know yet if that’s going to be a good thing . . .
Or the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.