Never Tell. Karen YoungЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Two

      To Hunter McCabe, a week when he didn’t make it to his ranch was a week that sucked. For the past seven days, he’d divided his time driving on Houston’s clogged freeways between two construction projects forty minutes apart where everything that could go wrong had. He needed to breathe something besides exhaust fumes and city smog. So it was barely daylight when he left the parking garage at his high-rise condominium and headed west out of the city. Making good time, he’d be at the ranch just as Theresa was dishing up breakfast.

      It was a few minutes past seven when he finally turned off a state road onto the ranch—two hundred and eighty acres of prime Texas land. As he drove beneath an iron arch with McCabe-Colson forged in large letters, his mood improved. The ranch was a legacy from his father and one that Hunter cherished. Bart McCabe had purchased it thirty-five years ago with his business partner, Hank Colson. According to Hank, they’d bought it mostly as a tax write-off, but with hopes of raising cattle on a large scale in the future. But those plans had died when Bart went down in the crash of a small plane, leaving Hunter fatherless at age two and his mother a widow. Driving past grassy pasture now, he blessed the impulse that had moved Hank and his dad to purchase the land, whatever their motivation.

      Once out of the car, Hunter breathed deeply, taking in the smells of the ranch—fresh-cut grass, wood smoke and horses. In the south pasture, a young mare stood cropping winter rye while her foal nursed vigorously. A prize Appaloosa in the pasture opposite spotted Hunter and whinnied, but he resisted the temptation to head that way. There were a couple of things that needed tending before he could escape to the stables. A weather front had brought rain yesterday and the cold, crisp day was perfect for what he had in mind.

      He braced for the wild welcome from the chocolate Lab who rushed toward him, barking joyously. Charlie was aging, but somehow in greeting Hunter, who’d raised him from a puppy, he seemed to forget his aching joints. Laughing, Hunter dodged the dog’s tongue and enthusiasm, and only after he’d given him a good rub did Charlie fall in beside him, tongue lolling happily. He was up the steps onto the porch in two strides, pausing to stamp the dampness from his boots on the welcome mat at the front door before going inside.

      The man who met him before he cleared the threshold might have stepped right out of a Remington sculpture. “Thought I heard you drive up,” Hank said, handing over a steaming mug of coffee. “If you’d headed to the barn first, I was coming after you and I wouldn’t be offering coffee.”

      “I missed you, too.” Hunter took the coffee, knowing it would be hot and strong, and inhaled deeply.

      Tall and whipcord lean, Hank was on the downhill side of sixty but still as fit as a man in his forties. He had a face made of sharp angles and shadowy planes and a generous mustache as gray now as his eyes. And in spite of the fact that he always wore a hat, his skin was still richly tanned and weathered.

      Hunter tossed his hat at the rack by the door, ringing it squarely. “Before you light into me, hear me out. I plan to look over that lease agreement you’ve been nagging about right away. Not that I need to. If you’re satisfied, I’ll sign it and we’ll be done with it.”

      “This is a partnership, Hunt. I’m not signing anything that ties us to a contract for five years without you blessing it.”

      Hunter tasted the coffee with caution. “I know as much about growing pecans as you do about building a high-rise,” he said, wincing over his blistered tongue.

      “It’s not about growing pecans. It’s about your land and—”

      “Our land, Hank. We’re equal partners here. You keep forgetting that I was only ten years old when you had the idea to plant a thousand trees on ground that was growing nothing but grass and scrub. Left to me, it would still be grass and shrub, as long as there was pasture for the horses. So, if you say you want to lease more acreage to plant more pecan trees, why would I argue?”

      “We’re lucky the land butts up to ours and that Billings is willing to lease it out,” Hank said. He watched Hunter give the collection of mail on the table a quick glance, then lose interest before adding, “I’m 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.