Chapter 17 Hunter
Hunter
Rain’s still clinging to the air like a stubborn houseguest that doesn’t know when to leave. Makes the shop smell like damp concrete and oil spills. Familiar. Steady. Nostalgic. Everything I’ve ever known.
Cal’s ass is parked on a stack of five-gallon buckets, work boots propped on the axle of a stripped-down cultivator.
Truitt leans against the workbench, fiddling with the same damn pocketknife he’s been pretending to need for the past ten minutes.
I’m perched on the edge of my rolling stool, oil-stained hands wrapped around a thermos of black coffee that tastes more like burnt toast than caffeine, but it does the job.
Too wet to plant. Too early to call it a day.
We’ve already greased tractors and planters, fueled equipment, and replaced bearings. We’re always grateful for a little forced respite during planting season, but now we’re just three bored men who don’t know what to do with themselves when they’re not busy being busy.
It’s a dangerous combination.
“You know what I hate?” Cal says, squinting at the ceiling like he’s searching for divine support. “Spring forecasts. They tease you into thinking you’ve got a good run coming, and then they shit all over your schedule like a lactose-intolerant toddler on a dairy binge.”
Truitt snorts, his smile stretching as wide as his face and his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Damn, man. Too vivid.”
Cal smirks, satisfied to get a rise out of his easier-going colleague.
Cal’s got this cocky swagger to him—wiry, sharp-eyed, and always two steps ahead of everyone in the room.
Mouthier than a jackrabbit on espresso, but there isn’t a single piece of equipment he can’t fix.
Saved me more times than I can count. I hired him straight out of high school, and he showed up the next day like he’d been born with a wrench in one hand and a chip on his shoulder.
“Should be back in the field by tomorrow, I’d think?
” Truitt says, wiping his palms down the front of his dusty jeans like he’s hoping to wring the rain out of the air.
He’s the quieter of the two. Slightly softer around the edges.
Loyal to a fault. I’ve never seen anyone work harder or care more.
It’s like he owes the ground something and he’s determined to pay it back in sweat.
“If we’re lucky. Ground’s holding water like a damn sponge,” I tell him. “We’ll know more in a couple days.”
Truitt nods and goes back to pretending that stupid pocketknife is going to solve all our problems.
Silence stretches between the sounds of a fly buzzing near the window and the distant rumble of a semi down on 49.
“You’ve been off your game lately, boss,” Cal says, leveling me with that look of his—the one that’s half amusement, half challenge. “Distracted. You’re missing stuff. Like yesterday? You called me ‘Truitt.’ Twice.”
Truitt chuckles. “Yeah. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I was starting to wonder if we should both just answer to my name now.”
“Hell, why not?” Cal shrugs. “I mean, he’s the nice one. I’m the pretty one. We’re both damn good at our jobs. Between us, you’ve got a full-functioning adult male.”
“Go sweep the shop.” I ignore their banter, sipping my coffee.
Cal chuffs, elbowing Truitt before leaning close. “He’s not denying it, though.”
Truitt leans forward, expression more somber now. “Seriously. You all right, boss? You’re probably just antsy not being in the field. We all are.”
That’d be the easy answer, but it’s not the truth.
Because the truth is . . . I’m antsy because she’s in my head.
Every damn second of the day, Wren Jensen invades my every thought.
That knowing half smile.
The stubborn tilt of her chin when she’s challenging me.
The intoxicating scent of her hair when she sat too close last night, pouring me that second glass of wine on her porch.
While I’ve been planting corn and beans, she’s planted herself inside me and started taking root without permission—like a weed I can’t control.
Only she’s not a weed.
She’s more like a pretty flower—the ones that grow like weeds. I think of the sunflowers my mother used to love. She had a whole garden of ’em when I was a kid. They made her happy, the way they always tilted toward the light and grew in any kind of condition.
My mind wanders to the way Wren looked when I pulled up, all curled up in that swing with a book in her lap, her bare feet tucked under her like she’s always belonged here.
It’s distracting as hell, knowing she’s half a mile away from me every night.
“Maybe he’s got a woman.” Cal lifts his brows like he’s about to make a joke out of it, and I suppose it would be funny as hell to them, seeing me focused on anything other than my operation.
“I mean, that’d explain everything. Grumpier than usual.
Little bags under the eyes. Walking around like he hasn’t slept in a week.
Women will do that to ya if you’re not careful. ”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t you have a boom to work on or something?”
Cal throws up his hands. “Just saying. You’ve got that dazed look about you. Like a man who’s either falling for someone or trying like hell not to.”
I don’t answer.
I just know that the second I saw her hauling that glass dish up my porch steps, I forgot how to breathe.
She’s got this way about her—soft edges, sharp tongue, eyes that see more than they should.
She doesn’t just walk into a room, she settles into it.
Fills it. Makes it warmer. Turns heads and probably doesn’t even realize it.
There’s an aura around her, something I’ve never noticed in anyone else.
That said, I never wanted company up on that hill. Didn’t want a neighbor. Sure as hell didn’t want a woman complicating my simple little life. And yet now, when things go quiet, when the machines shut down and the world pauses for a beat—she’s the only thing I can think about.
Wren Jensen.
Her name’s like a song stuck on repeat, one I can’t get out of my head no matter how hard I try.