Rules of Protection (Tangled in Texas #1)(52)

Jake grunted, glaring at Hank. “You said she could come; you get to deal with her.” Then he grabbed a flashlight and stomped off toward the back of the property.

“Who crapped in his oatmeal this morning?” Hank asked.

“I guess that would be me.”

Hank grinned and turned on his own flashlight. “Let’s go.”

We caught up to Jake on the back side of the pasture near the barbed wire fence. Jake pushed the bottom wires down with the weight of his boot and picked up the top wire to create an opening. Hank went through first and I followed, before turning to watch Hank do the same for Jake.

Jake led the way on the walking trail with his rifle leaned over his left shoulder as we followed. Hank kept his rifle in his left hand, opposite of me, and pointed to the ground. “You need to keep watch for wild hogs,” Hank warned me. “They hang out near the deer feeders usually, but we sometimes cross them on the trails. They’re dangerous.”

“A pig, dangerous? You’re kidding, right?”

“These aren’t domesticated pigs. They’re wild hogs. Mean little bastards. They’ll rip you open with their tusks if they get a chance. I’m not kidding about that. I’ve got an eight-inch long scar on my calf to prove it.”

“I thought we were supposed to be the hunters. Now you’re telling me the animals can attack us?”

Hank chuckled. “Anytime you corner an animal, you run the risk of it turning on you.” He shot a look at Jake’s back. “Same goes for people.”

“Another pearl of wisdom?”

“An observation,” Hank corrected.

“Good eyes.”

The trail ended, and we walked through the long, deep grass until the sticky ground got mushier where it had rained earlier in the night. Hank told Jake to cut through the scrub brush to avoid the mud, then sandwiched me in between them. I followed Jake’s flashlight as he cleared the path ahead.

After a few minutes, Hank tapped me on the shoulder. “Emily, do you know what they call a bunch of deer?”

“Herd.”

“Heard what?” Hank said, grinning at his dumb joke. “You know what you call a deer with no eyes?” Hank asked, pushing through the brush behind me as I shrugged. “No-eye deer,” he said in a corny voice and then chuckled.

I laughed at that one, and Jake shot us an ugly look. “If you two don’t zip it, you’re going to scare off everything within a ten mile radius.”

“Put a lid on it, Jake.” Authority colored Hank’s tone, and Jake wasn’t dumb enough to push the issue. We walked in silence the rest of the way.

The deer blind—a green wooden structure with rectangles cut out for windows—was elevated off the ground and had a ladder attached. Jake climbed up, opened the door, and shined his flashlight inside.

“All clear,” he said, knocking a cobweb away from the door.

“You two go on in,” Hank said. “My neighbor isn’t hunting this morning. I’m going to go over and sit in his deer blind. Bubba said he didn’t mind.”

“When did you talk to Bubba?” Jake asked.

“Last night.” Hank grinned and turned to walk away. “I’ll be back for you two around nine o’clock.”

Jake shook his head with disgust and motioned for me to climb up the ladder. Silently, I did as asked. Once inside, Jake slid an upside down milk crate over to me and plopped down on one himself. He leaned the rifle in the corner and propped open two of the hinged windows, letting in the slight breeze and a small amount of blue morning light.

“What’s the deal with Hank?” I asked.

“The old man doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone. I guess he thought we needed some alone time.”

“What kind of alone time?”

“The kind when there isn’t another person around,” Jake said, unable to keep from smirking.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Hard to believe Hank considered a shoddy, musty-smelling box in the middle of the woods romantic.

“If you keep talking, we won’t see anything. Sound carries, and the deer spook easily.” Jake checked his watch. “The feeder’s on a timer. We’ve got twenty minutes before it starts throwing corn.”

We sat in silence—boring, painful silence—until we heard the whir of a machine in the distance as the feeder dropped corn. Deer must have a built-in clock because moments later Jake put his fingers to his lips and motioned for me to look out the window.

A small white-tailed buck with a modest rack approached the feeder, peacefully nibbling the corn beneath his feet. A doe trotted up behind him. I watched them for a few minutes, but my legs fell asleep from the way I squatted near the window. I reached for my milk crate and slid it closer, grating it across the wooden floor. The noise was enough to scare off our company.

Jake gave me a stern look, but all I could do was shrug and mouth “sorry” to him. I settled in next to the window and picked dry mud out of my sneakers with a twig. I practically fell asleep leaning against the wall when Jake touched my arm and whispered, “Deer.”

I swept my eyes back and forth over the area. “Where?” I whispered. “I don’t see a deer.”

“To the left of the feeder, standing on the other side of the bushes.”