Winterkill. P.H. Turner
were mine. I want to be a success for my late wife, Emily. I still miss her after all these years.” He trailed off.
I was shocked. Young for a widower. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Thanks. Took some time to get used to going on without her.”
We slipped into a booth at the end of the bar. The bartender cocked his head at Hunter who answered, “Bourbon neat. What do you want?”
“Vodka martini, please.”
Hunter covered my hand with his. “Did I do okay today?”
“Yes, you gave me a good interview.” I slipped my hand out from under his.
“What other stories are you working on?” He asked.
“Sam Jordan lost his herd to brucellosis.”
He thrust his face so close to mine that I could smell the bourbon on his breath. “Terrible loss for Sam. He’d been breeding that herd for years. Good thing he has his vet practice to support him. He’s been trying to rent out his place.”
“He did. I am the renter. How do cattle get brucellosis?”
He took a long slow drink of bourbon. “Buffalo,” he spat out. “Jake Spooner runs a couple of hundred head of buffalo right across the back fence line from you.” Hunter’s shoulders bunched up under his ears.
“You angry about that?” I asked.
“Hell yes. My ranch shares a fence line with Spooner’s goddamn buffalo herd. His buffalo better not spread disease to my cattle. Sam lost six hundred head of Angus cattle. Years of work gone in one afternoon.”
“Is the infection in the dirt? Because Jake leased that land from Sam and is raising cattle on it.”
“That irony is rich! Spooner profits from Sam’s loss. No, a cow can’t get brucellosis from dirt. Brucellosis is spread from body fluids.” Hunter bit out his words. “Let me give you something for your story, Sawyer. This is cattle country.” He was stabbing the air between us with his forefinger. “People in America eat beef, not buffalo.” His shoulders lowered. “I can teach you the cattle business.” His fingers curled around mine. “Could be fun, too.”
He’d be a good source. Side benefit—he was easy to look at. “Why is Jake ranching buffalo?”
“Spooner’s trying to put buffalo meat in every grocery store. He’ll fail.” Hunter slammed his empty glass on the table. He released a pent up breath and smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. “I came to this bar to share a drink with an interesting woman. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay. Tell me about your ranch.”
“The Bar-A is my favorite subject. I have four sections of the most beautiful grazing land you ever saw. Up on the north end is a ridgeline with a good view of the high country. We ought to ride up there sometime. You can see all the way out east onto the plains.” He gave my hand a quick squeeze. “You know why it’s called the Bar-A?”
“No...” His hand felt warm and solid. He twined his fingers with mine.
“After my wife, Emily. Her maiden name was Alston. She would’ve been so happy there on the ranch. Emily died before I bought the place, but she would have loved this land.”
“I’m sorry for your pain.”
He gently ran his fingertips down my jaw. “Hope you never have to feel it. You bring out a man’s thoughts. Not many women make a warm place where a man can bare his soul.” He leaned back into the leather bench. “I’ve got a thousand head of Angus on the ranch. That’s my main business. But, I’m trying my hand with producing cashmere.”
Wow, the guy put the e in ego. “I didn’t think cattle ranchers did much sheep ranching.”
“That’s goats, city slicker, not sheep.” He laughed. He had a great smile that lit up his face. “Cashmere goats produce your cashmere sweaters. He’s a hardy little animal from the steppes of Mongolia, so our winters are no problem for them. They do real well on the tufts of dry grass in the winter until spring rains come.”
“Have you sheared them yet?”
“Yeah, my shearers come up from Mexico every spring. They’re a family business, traveling around the west shearing. I made a nice little bundle off the fiber.”
“I’ve never seen a cashmere goat.”
“I can fix that.” He smiled again showing those attractive crinkles around his mouth. “You grow up on a ranch?”
“No, I’m a city girl. But my Dad taught me to ride and how to shoot a .22 rifle by pinging cans in a pasture. When I got good enough, he bought me a .410 shotgun and took me dove hunting.”
“I got a windmill tank that draws the dove on fall evenings. We could hunt out there. I marinate the breasts, then grill them. Does your whole family hunt?”
“I’m an only child. My parents lost two sons, each when they were a few days old. Both were named after my dad. By the time they got pregnant with me, they were both knocking on the door of forty. Growing up, I believed that Dad had hoped I’d be a boy. He took me deer and dove hunting and bought me a mare. I loved the time I spent with him and I’m grateful to him for teaching me to love the outdoors.”
“You still ride?”
“Not lately. Dad gave me a mare when I was eight. Piggles was a beautiful paint. My heart broke when I found out we were moving to Denver and I couldn’t take her.”
“I’ll take you riding. Get you back in shape.” He smiled.
The restaurant was filling with diners and customers. I could tell the bartender was itching to turn the table. I finished my martini. “I’d like that.” I gestured to the waiting group. “We need to give some of these people an opportunity to enjoy the bar.”
Hunter slid a few bills on the table. He slipped his arm under my elbow. We ambled across the square full of dog walkers and kids on bikes to my car in the station lot.
“Thank you for interesting evening, Sawyer.”
“The pleasure was mine, Hunter. I look forward to sitting a horse again.”
He took my key and popped the lock on the Jeep. He put both hands on my shoulders and gave me soft kiss. I lightly touched the back of his neck. “Good night, Hunter.” I loved that he was tall. My head was only inches shorter than his. God, at nearly five-foot-eight, by the time I was thirteen, I was the tallest girl in middle school, making dance lessons a nightmare of stooping to hold little guys. Driving home, I relived his soft kiss lingering on my mouth. A tingle of anticipation kept me company.
When I turned into my drive, I was happy to see Julia parked in the drive. “Surprise,” Julia called, getting out of her car. “I brought my favorite takeout lasagna from the best pizza place in town.”
“Have you been here long?”
‘Nope, just got here.” She held out a white bag. “And in here—” She paused dramatically. “—are two perfect chocolate éclairs. I tried to call, but got your voice mail.” She cocked her head. “I hope this is all right. I can take my éclairs and go home.” She tantalized me by shaking the white bakery bag.
“Absolutely not!”
We plated up the lasagna. Julia snagged a bottle of wine off the counter and followed me out to two comfortable chairs on the back porch.
“You happy at the station?”
“Definitely. It was good move for me to come home. Look at that sky full of stars and a crescent moon.”
“Yeah, hard to get that view in the city.” Julia handed me an éclair.
“What do you know about Hunter Kane?” I hoped I