Never Tell. Karen Young
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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 out of the Chronicle’s Sunday edition. He glanced up at Hank. “Give me a hint. How is this related to Mom’s birthday?”
“I’ve heard Lily mention this artist, Erica Stewart,” Hank said, paging through to find the article. “She designs quilts and stuff and she’s good. I bet Lily would appreciate something from her shop. You’ve been traveling between those two jobs day in and day out. Not twenty minutes out of your way to detour over to the Village and choose something.”
Theresa had risen to stand at Hunter’s elbow and study the article. “Hmm, anything in that shop’ll be pricey, count on it.”
“He can afford to spend some money on his mother,” Hank said testily.
“I’m not arguing that,” Theresa said, then pointed to an item in the window. “You want my opinion, go for one of the jackets. The quilts are probably gorgeous, but not exactly Lillian’s style. Now, if those jackets are as elegant as they appear in this picture, I think she’d be thrilled to get one.”
“I’ll check it out.” Hunter got up, taking the Zest article with him. He was relieved not to have to spend time he didn’t have browsing in the Galleria. Clapping a hand on Hank’s shoulder, he moved toward the door. “Thanks. I appreciate it, Hank.” Passing the sideboard, he took a couple of apples from a bowl and headed for the door to get his hat.
Once out of the house, he took a deep breath and followed the path leading to the barn. The air was sweet, the sky was already as blue as only a Texas sky can be and the birds were singing. The sun, high now on the east horizon, had burned off traces of morning mist. A perfect day for what he had in mind. Near the barn, Cisco, one of the two regular ranch hands on the payroll, was climbing onto the seat of a tractor hooked up to a trailer loaded with hay bales. Hunter raised his hand in greeting as Cisco headed out to pasture.
The noise faded as Hunter entered the barn. Taking in the familiar smells of hay, horses and manure, he welcomed the hush. A soft whicker came from the first stall. Jasper, an Appaloosa stallion Hunter had bought a year ago, lifted his head and flicked his ears back in recognition. Hunter pulled one of the apples out of his jacket pocket.
“Hey, boy. Ready for a ride?” Standing outside the stall, he fed the apple to the horse, rubbed him behind the ears, then reached for a bridle hanging on a hook. Jasper crunched the crisp apple and blew out a soft, gentle sound, stamping a foot. Hunter grinned, recognizing impatience as he slipped the bridle into place. “Looking forward to a good workout, huh? Well, me, too. Just let me get that saddle and we’re outta here, buddy.”
The gear was in the tack room at the rear of the barn. As soon as he saddled up, Hunter planned to spend the next few hours skirting the perimeter of the ranch. Cisco and Earl were paid to see that the fences were in good shape, but Hunter liked to check himself from time to time. After the week he’d endured, he looked forward to a few hours to himself.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
Hunter turned with the saddle in his hands. Kelly Colson stood in the doorway. Blue-eyed, slim as a boy in boot-cut jeans and a baseball hat on her auburn head, she looked more like a teenager than a thirty-three-year-old veterinarian. “I thought you’d be sleeping in this morning,” he told her, hefting the saddle onto his shoulder.
She stepped aside to let him pass. “Is that why you didn’t call me?”
“I drove in early. Hank hit me at the door with paperwork. I only escaped ten minutes ago.” He hadn’t thought to call her, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “You’re up early, too.”
“I never went to bed,” she said. “Tom Erickson called around midnight. His prize bull got out and was hit broadside by a teenager in a pickup. I didn’t get away until a few minutes ago. I spotted your car as I was passing on my way home.”
“Not