I straighten up and stick the leaf in my pocket. “I’ll get someone out here to give your baby an injection, but it’s probably going to have to come down. We might want to do some trenching to isolate this tree. We’ll hire a forester to inspect all of the trees on your property and ours. If you can spare it, you may want to walk your land and check the trees out yourself. Look for these darkened patches on the trunks or see if the leaves have this fishbone veining or yellowing around the edges. It’s spring. Leaves shouldn’t be turning or falling off.”
Maisie grimaces, but like any good rancher, she takes the bad news in stride. “I’ll get right on it.”
“We’ll send over help if you need it. Let me know.”
“Where are you off to?” she calls after me as I pull myself up on my horse.
“Got to check some other trees.” I wave my hand and gallop off. Oak wilt can spread a mile at a time from the damned beetles, and Astor has a cluster of them in her back yard, including one that has a swing on it that her dad set up when Astor was little.
One of Astor’s memories of her mom includes being pushed on that swing. It’ll ruin her if that tree has to be cut down.
The house looks empty when I arrive. I park on the side of the gravel road and hop the fence. It’s not hard. The fence line is breaking down all along the road. I have some rope and wire in the back of the truck, so I can at least prop a few of the wooden posts up, but I’ll need to bring the power auger the next time to set the posts into the ground with some cement and gravel.
A few of the horses whine at me as I jog across the property, and one pretty mare named Shelly trots over to push her nose at my pocket. “Sorry, babe, rushed over too fast and didn’t bring you a treat. I’ll catch you next time.” I pat her velvety snout and scratch behind her ears. She shakes her head in irritation. She’s a pretty girl, a rare grulla, and needs to be treated right. I give her another pat. When I sneak over to Astor’s place to do small repairs that I hope she doesn’t notice, Shelly is one of the girls I pay extra special attention to. She’s one of Astor’s favorite mares. The Quarter Horse’s special gray markings have produced a string of beautiful foals which have kept Astor’s farm afloat even as her dad chases one bad business deal after another.
I leave the girl behind and enter Astor’s back yard. The oak trees look good. No signs of the dark oval spore mats on any of them, including Astor’s tree. As I’m running my hands over the coarse bark, a screen door slams shut. In the fading light, I spot Astor striding toward me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks.
“Maisie Russell’s got oak wilt, and I came straight over to see how your baby is doing.”
“My dad is inside. You need to leave.”
“It’s getting dark. He can’t see me.” Now that Astor’s here, all thoughts of going home drain away. We’ve had more interaction this week than we’ve had in years. There’s a shift in the air. I like it because even if she’s calling me names, at least I’ve got her attention. “Come here.” I gesture toward a spot next to me. “I want to show you what to look for.”
“Send me a photo.” She puts her chin up and folds her arms under her chest. The action serves to push her tits up and close together under her thin, long-sleeved cotton shirt. She looks so beautiful. I want to sweep her up into my arms and devour her. Lay her down under this tree of hers and make sweet love to her. My denim tightens as my cock grows hard. It’s impossible to be around her and not be aroused. The sight of her, the scent of her, all of it turns me on. Even the sound of her voice can send the blood rushing from my big brain to the not so little one between my legs.
“Astor,” I say gruffly, her name laden with lust.
She backs up with her hands in the air, scenting danger. “Stay back, Cane. I told you my daddy’s inside, and if he sees you, he’ll come out with a shotgun.”
“I don’t really give a damn, Astor.”
I take a step toward her and then another and then another until there’s no space between us. I sweep her into my arms and lower my face. I’m about to kiss her when a hard, angry voice shouts, “Astor Callaway. What in the hell are you doing under that oak tree?”