Never Tell. Karen Young

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СКАЧАТЬ thinking if we offered enough, he’d probably let us buy it. ’Course, he’d want an arm and a leg per acre. His wife’s the one holding out for leasing.”

      Hunter leaned against the table, smiling. “Thinking you can afford to pay an arm and a leg?”

      “Thinking we both can,” Hank said.

      Hunter studied the older man, knowing that if and when a deal was done, it would be to the advantage of McCabe and Colson no matter how grasping Billings’s wife was. Hank had keen business instincts. He and Bart McCabe, who’d been a pilot, had started up an air-cargo business back in the sixties and it was thriving at the time of Bart’s death. When Lillian remarried, Hank bought out her share and continued to run it with truly phenomenal success until about eight years ago. Then he’d surprised everyone by announcing his retirement. That was the year his daughter, Kelly, was accepted into the veterinary program at Texas A&M. Hank set her up in an apartment in College Station and moved into the ranch house after enlarging it enough so that Hunter wouldn’t feel crowded when he dropped in. It was after his retirement that he’d developed a keen interest in the lucrative crop, and it was not long afterward that he’d decided to get into growing pecans in a big way. In five years, he had more than a thousand trees in varying degrees of maturity and varieties. He’d taken to the role of planter enthusiastically and was now highly regarded in that field.

      “Just let me know what you decide,” Hunter said, and pushed away from the table. “Now, can we have breakfast? I’m starved.”

      He could smell bacon frying. Theresa, the ranch’s longtime housekeeper and cook—and surrogate mother to Hunter—would have a mouthwatering spread waiting. Heading for the kitchen, he glanced around the place with a sense of homecoming. It was clearly a masculine abode decorated with a strong Western influence. The man-size furniture was upholstered in leather, the end tables were wrought iron and wood, the chandelier was made of a wagon wheel and deer antlers, and over all lay the smell of cigar smoke and lemon wax. The place was orderly and spotless, no thanks to Hank or Hunter. Theresa ran a tight ship.

      She was stirring something on the stove when they entered the kitchen, but she paused to hug Hunter. “It’s about time,” she said, inspecting his face with the familiarity of one who’d changed his diapers. She was a tiny woman with hair as black now as it had been when Hunter was three. Her bones felt as frail as a bird’s, but he knew she was as tough as a pine knot. Theresa was always up and about at daylight, and if she ever sat down during the day, no one ever saw it.

      He swung her off her feet and kissed her soundly before setting her down to inspect what she was cooking. “Whatever it is, bring it on. I’ve been saving up for this.”

      “Sausage gravy for your biscuits,” she told him, giving him a shove toward the table. “Scrambled eggs and bacon are on the table. Sit down and get started. Hank, leave him alone until he’s done with his breakfast. You know he’s not about to dispute your plans, so give him a minute to eat in peace.”

      “He can listen while I fill him in on the details.” Hank reached for a folder and opened it before Hunter took a seat.

      “Do me a favor,” Hunter said, heaping his plate. “Skip the details. Just hit the high points.”

      With a sigh, Hank closed the file and picked up his coffee. He watched Hunter tackle the food, then gave him the bottom line. After stating the costs, he added, “I’m considering some new hybrids recently developed at A&M. I figure I can plant at least five hundred trees on the land.”

      Hunter paused, buttering a biscuit. “Are you sure you want to take on the responsibility? You know I can’t get up here except on weekends, plus you’re supposed to be retired. Adding five hundred trees to what you’ve already got isn’t my idea of retirement.”

      “You let me worry about that. Best thing about growing pecans,” he said, taking a sip of coffee, “it’s not labor intensive like, say cotton or corn, crops like that. ’Course, we won’t get any return on these trees for years yet, but when they do come in, they’ll be cash in the pockets of your kids…if you ever have any.”

      Tucking into his breakfast, Hunter chewed slowly. He knew Hank believed it was time he settled down with a wife. And here lately Hunter had found himself thinking the same thing. If he’d been asked when he was in his mid-twenties whether or not in ten years he’d still be unmarried, he would have dismissed the possibility out of hand. Of course he’d eventually marry and have kids. Most of his friends had done exactly that. One by one, he’d watched them find the “right” woman and head happily for the altar. It hadn’t happened for Hunter. He’d had relationships—even some lasting a few years. He’d just never felt compelled to marry. He now figured he wouldn’t ever experience the crash-and-burn-type passion like his friends had, and was resigned to settling for something else. There was a lot to be said for being with a woman who shared the same goals.

      “And speaking of family,” Hank went on after failing to get a response from Hunter, “you didn’t forget Lily’s birthday, did you?”

      Hunter’s knife and fork clinked against his plate. “Damn, I guess I did.” Frowning, he glanced at the date on his watch face. “Today’s the third. I’ve got a couple of days. It’s the sixth, isn’t it?”

      “You should know your mother’s birthday, Hunt. Yeah, it’s the sixth. And I had a feeling you’d forget.”

      Theresa reached to remove an empty platter from the table. “Maybe if you weren’t so ready to remind him,” she said, “he’d get in the habit of remembering on his own.”

      “And maybe he wouldn’t,” Hank said.

      “I guess we’ll never know.” Ignoring Hank’s grumpy look, she spoke to Hunter. “I told him you had a calendar at work. You’d eventually see it and go out and buy her something nice. It might be a day or two late, but it would happen.”

      Hunter nursed the last of his coffee and wisely said nothing. Taking sides between Hank and Theresa would be inviting trouble. The truth was that Hank had nailed it, saying he’d probably forget if he wasn’t reminded. Theresa was right, too, saying sooner or later he’d realize it and get his mother a gift.

      Hank stood up. “Bottom line, you haven’t done it yet. You’ll be at work tomorrow morning up to your ass in alligators and last thing on your mind’ll be shopping for Lily’s birthday. Lucky for you, half the job’s done. Wait here.”

      Clueless, Hunter looked at Theresa as Hank left the kitchen, but she only shrugged with a who-knows expression. Both knew what it was that drove Hank to remind him of his mother’s birthday, and it wasn’t to prevent Hunter forgetting it. It was Hank’s own partiality for “Lily,” as he called her. It had been plain to Hunter for a long time that Hank had a soft spot for Lillian. Both Hank and Bart McCabe had been married forty years ago when they went into business together. But when Marguerite Colson died of cancer, Hank’s interest in Lillian grew beyond friendship. She’d remarried by then, but as a boy, Hunter had often pretended that Hank, and not Morton Trask, was his stepfather. He definitely felt more of a kinship to Hank than he ever had to Morton.

      “Take a look at this.” Hank was back, shoving a section of newspaper at him.

      Front and center on the Zest magazine was a photo of a woman doing something in the window of what appeared to be one of those trendy little shops in the Village. Hunter’s interest in the newspaper was usually confined to the sports section first and the front page next. Zest covered arts and theater stuff and he often skipped it. It was always the first thing his mother pulled СКАЧАТЬ