Hunter's Choice, page 1
HUNTER’S CHOICE
TRENT REEDY
This book is dedicated to Travis Klima, a fantastic brother-in-law and a master hunter. May the largest buck always find his way to your stand. It’s prime time!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgments
HUNTER’S CHOICE
CHAPTER 1
TAPTAPTAP. “HEY, HIGGINS,” KELTON FIELDING WHISPERED. TapTapTap. “Higgins.” Kelton Fielding was always tapping Hunter’s back, wanting to tell him something. It was only October, and Hunter had already been in trouble four times from talking to Kelton, usually when the guy couldn’t resist offering an update about his repairs to his ancient broken snowmobile.
Hunter let out a breath. Thirteen minutes and forty-five seconds left. The clock on the classroom wall ran so slowly. Miss Foudy sat at her desk at the front of the room filling out grades or doing whatever she did during the afternoon work period. Miss Foudy was cool, but she was nobody’s fool and did not allow talking during study time. Hunter leaned way back in his seat and pretended to stretch his neck. “What?” he whispered.
“You gonna bag a deer this weekend?”
Hunter nodded. Of course he would shoot a deer this weekend. Several guys in the sixth grade and at least half the guys in the junior high and high school were going hunting this weekend. Kelton knew darn well that Hunter was going hunting too. Why did he ask the question with so much doubt in his voice?
“Mom’s boyfriend says he knows about a cabin where a guy has a salt block,” Kelton whispered. “Says a big ol’ buck has been hanging ’round there.”
“Hunting with a salt block’s illegal,” Hunter whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Ain’t our salt block,” Kelton hissed. “We take that buck, even off that guy’s land, what’s he gonna do? He can’t complain much since he’s already breaking the law.”
For once, Hunter would have preferred to hear more about Kelton’s junky old snowmobile. He shook his head. Using a salt block to illegally lure deer to the kill. Trespassing and hunting on someone’s land without permission. Hunter had had the vague idea that Kelton Fielding’s mom was dating a new guy. He seemed to remember that her last boyfriend had been kind of a jerk. This guy didn’t seem much better. Hunter wasn’t supposed to know anything about these kinds of things, but there weren’t a lot of secrets in a little town like McCall.
“I’m going to take a four-by-four buck,” Kelton said quietly. “Or something bigger.”
Annette Willard, who sat at the desk in the next row over, looked up from the notebook in which she’d been writing. She flashed a cute look of forced irritation and pressed a finger to her lips.
“Sorry,” Hunter whispered, glancing at her a moment longer.
Hunter was sure Annette really did want them to quiet down so she could write, but she wasn’t mean about it. More importantly, she wasn’t about to shush them loud enough to draw Miss Foudy’s attention.
“You ain’t gonna bag no deer,” Kelton whispered.
Hunter sighed. Eleven minutes and twenty-two seconds. Twenty-one. Twenty.
TapTapTap. “I’m gonna bring in a huge trophy buck. I bet you don’t even pull the trigger.”
“Shut it, Fielding,” Hunter whispered.
“That’s good advice for both you boys,” Miss Foudy called from the front of the room, fixing them with that serious glare and doing that thing where she tapped her pencil on a book on her desk.
Hunter would’ve given real money if everybody would stop tapping. He quickly looked down at his social studies book. But not before stealing another glance at the clock.
Ten minutes and fifty-one seconds. Fifty. Forty-nine.
FOR ALL HIS EAGER ANTICIPATION OF THE END-OF-THE-day bell, Hunter didn’t bolt from his desk and sprint for the door. Once he was free from the rigid control of the classroom and the weekend had officially begun, he felt no rush, no anxiety. Most of his assignments were done, so he wouldn’t have to look at his schoolbooks until Sunday night. His clothes and boots were packed. His Remington 783 bolt-action rifle and plenty of 6.5 Creedmoor rounds were locked in Dad’s pickup. He was ready.
The weekend of his first-ever hunt had arrived.
He just had one stop to make first. “Hey, Mom,” he said entering the school library and spotting his mother behind the counter scanning some books. “Can I still check out a book? I need something to read during downtime this weekend.”
“Sure,” she said. “If you hurry. I’m trying to get everything shut down here.”
Hunter headed for the fiction section. “No problem. I’ll just grab—”
“Hatchet?” Mom shook her head in mock irritation. “Again? That would be at least the tenth time you’ve read it.”
“It’s a great book!”
“Yes.” Mom nodded. “But I pride myself in running a library filled with hundreds of other good books. It wouldn’t kill you to branch out a little.”
Hunter pulled his favorite book off the shelf, enjoying the familiar library plastic over the dust jacket of the well-read hardcover. “Please? Just one more time? I promise I’ll read a different book next.”
She smiled and sighed. “It’s your first hunt. I’ll humor you. And it is a great book.”
“The best,” Hunter said. “Thanks, Mom.”
She scanned the book. “You’re welcome. Now would you get out of my library so I can close up for the weekend?” She laughed as Hunter bolted.
OUTSIDE THE SCHOOL, THE BRIGHT SUN WELCOMED everyone to freedom. A warm day for October. Hunter watched the school’s Patriot Squad lowering the flag for the day. They had a whole procedure where three of them folded the flag in a perfect regulation triangle, while the others stood in a straight line. Later that night right before the football game, they’d march the American and Idaho flags out onto the fifty-yard line for the National Anthem. Hunter planned to join the Patriot Squad when he became eligible next year in seventh grade.
At the bike rack, he caught up to Yumi. “Hey, cousin, you got a new game you’re gonna master this weekend?” Neither Hunter nor Yumi had any siblings, and since they were the same age, they’d grown up almost like brother and sister.
She scowled, wrapping herself tighter in the Army field jacket liner she used as a coat, hiding her new Halo Master Chief T-shirt. “I wish. Dad’s acting all weird again.” She picked at a string at the edge of a hole in her jeans. “Who knows?”
“Hey, slow it down!” Mr. Dufflin, the high school principal, called to some high school boys as they rolled toward the parking lot exit in a blue raised-up four-by-four pickup.
“This isn’t NASCAR,” Yumi said quietly, pulling her silver ten-speed bike from the rack.
“This isn’t NASCAR!” Mr. Dufflin shouted, running his hand back over his shining bald head.
Yumi rolled her eyes. “The guy is so old. He’s been high school principal here since way back before the school even had internet.”
“Yeah, but I heard he’s going to retire at the end of the year.” Hunter pulled his smaller stunt bike out of the rack and stood for a moment on its back pegs, pulling the handlebars up to pop a wheelie.
“Come on, Higgins.” Yumi shook her head. “They say that every year.”
She ought to know. Yumi was tapped into pretty much everything that happened or that people said was going to happen. Her mom, Hunter’s aunt Tomoko, owned and ran Wine O’Clock, a wine-tasting and -drinking place on the corner where the highway turned downtown by Payette Lake. A lot of people—locals too, not just tourists—hung out there, including Yumi, especially when the place got busy and Aunt Tomoko needed extra help.
“You going hunting?” Yumi asked.
Hunter smiled. For as long as he could remember, his family’s main thing had been hunting. He’d always dreamed of being part of it, but the closest he’d come to a real hunt was listening to Grandpa Higgins, Uncle Rick, and his dad telling stories. He’d started shooting on Grandpa’s firing range two years ago, and even Uncle Rick, who had qualified for an expert marksmanship shooting badge in the Army, said he was a good shot. He’d passed Idaho’s hunter safety course and Dad had paid for his license and mule deer tags.
“Sure am.” Hunter was proud to be able to tell her he was heading out with the men, finally old enough to really hunt. “I’m s’posed to ride to Dad’s office, and we’ll head straight to the lodge from there.”
“I topped your high score on Ms. Pac-Man last night.” Yumi mounted her bike, flashing Hunter a condescending smile.
Hunter sighed. “You did not! Come on, Yumi! It took me forever to get that score.”
The ice-cream shop next door to Wine O’Clock had a back room with a pool table and an antique video game arcade. About a year ago, she and Hunter started seriously battling each other for high scores on Centipede, Donkey Kong, Galaga, and Ms. Pac-Man.
“Come on down and drop in a quarter before you go to your dad’s office. Let’s see what you got,” Yumi said.
He didn’t really want to play video games today. The deer were out there, and Hunter was eager to go bring
“Fine.” Hunter mounted his bike and pedaled off out of the school parking lot onto McCall Memorial Trail, the sweet paved bike trail that ran through the woods from way down south of the school along Highway 55, north to the lake, and then northwest when the highway turned. “Race you!”
Yumi laughed. “You’re dead, Hunter!”
And he was. Even if she hadn’t had a way-better bike, Yumi was still one of the fastest kids in the whole sixth grade. They sped along past boulders and trees as the trail hooked back to Third Street, the main road where Highway 55 cut through town.
Hunter’s legs burned as he forced them to put on an extra burst of speed, closing the gap to within three bike lengths as the trail passed the back of Ridley’s Grocery Store. She laughed. She actually laughed, before shifting gears and speeding up, passing Tackle Tom’s Bait Shop.
The trail turned to the west at the trailhead near the beach just past Hotel McCall. That’s where Yumi rolled to a halt and waited for Hunter to catch up.
“Someday I’ll beat you.” Hunter puffed, looking out over the great expanse of Payette Lake, afternoon sunlight shimmering on the dark water rippling in the gentle breeze. The mountains beyond the lake could get a dusting of snow in the next few weeks. The lake was very low, a ribbon of darker sand along the shore showing how far up the water came in summer.
Hunter always found the beach sad in the fall. The big crowds that would swim or play on the sand in the bright summer were gone. Now only one older woman walked her dog along the shore. The dog squatted and shook a little as he dropped a big turd next to the water.
“You going to stand there all night, waiting to see Sharlie?” Yumi said, already walking her bike over to cross the highway.
Sharlie was the monster that people said lived in the deep part of the lake. When Hunter was a little kid, he absolutely believed the creature was real. After all, his parents and grandparents all swore she was out there. Now, of course, he knew they were just messing with him. But still, there were some people around town who swore they were certain Sharlie swam the depths or that they’d seen her.
They parked their bikes in the shed behind Wine O’Clock and went into the store. The aroma of so many scented candles always made Hunter feel like he was stepping inside a pie. Yumi complained sometimes that it stank like too much perfume, but her mom always laughed and pointed out that she made a ton of money selling candles.
Aunt Tomoko stood on a three-step ladder. As usual, her wrists jangled with a few charm bracelets, and a couple of glass, ceramic, or wood pendants made by regional artists hung by gold or silver chains from her neck. She sold pendants, charms, and bracelets and things, displaying them on a rack in the corner. She was placing wine signs on a higher shelf. “Wine Gets Better with Age. I Get Better with Wine.” “I Just Want to Drink Wine and Pet My Dog.” “Go Ahead and Wine a Little.” “Girls Just WINEa Have Fun” and “Wine Is the Answer . . . What Is the Question?” All the wine slogans were painted onto little boards and beaten up a little to look old.
“Hey, kiddo!” Aunt Tomoko said from the top of the ladder. “Hi, Hunter! How are you two? How was school?”
Yumi ignored the school question like any normal kid would. “Ugh. Wine signs? Really, Mom? Those things are so dumb. That one literally says, ‘You Had Me at Wine.’ What does that even mean?”
Aunt Tomoko glanced around to make sure no customers were within earshot. “I made these myself! I stenciled all of them by hand on boards I got free when a friend tore down his old barn. Each ’dumb sign’ costs me less than two dollars to make, and I sell them for twenty. I sell a ton of them!” She laughed when Yumi shook her head. “You kids hungry? Can I get you cheese and crackers? Some olives?”
“Actually, we were going to the arcade. Hunter was going to try to get his Ms. Pac-Man high score back from me,” Yumi said.
Aunt Tomoko laughed again. She was an upbeat person like that. Hunter was pretty sure he’d never met anyone nicer. “Yumi, you shouldn’t be taking all the high scores. He worked hard at Ms. Pac-Man last summer.”
Yumi put her hands on her hips. “Then he can work hard to get the score back. I’m not going to sabotage my own game just to spare someone’s feelings. All’s fair in video games.”
Hunter’s phone buzzed. A text from his father: I’ll be done soon. You ready?
Hunter held the phone up, trying to act disappointed. “Wish I could stay and play, but Dad’s about ready, so . . .”
“Chicken,” Yumi said.
“Well, good luck on your first big hunting trip.” Aunt Tomoko grinned. “Tell your father I said hello. Tell him to stop in sometime. Your mother too.”
“Sure,” Hunter said as he headed for the back door.
“Yumi, your father called,” Aunt Tomoko said in a quieter voice as Hunter went outside. He didn’t catch the rest of what she said, but he could hear the tension in her voice. Hunter had overheard enough bits of conversation—whispered or murmured in that way parents had when discussing stuff they didn’t want their kids to hear—to know Uncle Rick was having serious troubles.
Among other issues, he was pretty much living at the family hunting cabin full-time. Hunter took his bike out of the shed and rode down the block to Dad’s law office. He wasn’t sure what was happening with Uncle Rick, but he was sure he was ready for his first hunt.
CHAPTER 2
HUNTER’S DAD ALWAYS SAID THAT APPEARANCE MATTERS in the legal profession. People are reluctant to hire a lawyer who works in a shed, and in a trial a jury is less likely to believe a lawyer who’s dressed like a bum or looks like he’s clueless. So, while some buildings in McCall were made to look rustic, like log-cabin-type structures, Dad’s office had a formal red-brick front, and inside had a lot of dark woodwork, bookshelves stuffed with boring thick lawbooks, and fancy-looking furniture and lamps.
Hunter entered the main waiting room, where Mom sat on one of the two small sofas facing the central coffee table, reading a novel. “Mom, what are you doing here?” Hunter asked. “Are you coming with us?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Oh no. I’m looking forward to a quiet house and two days of uninterrupted reading.” She liked stories with characters who worked in libraries or read a lot, and nonfiction about the history or other elements of books. “I’m surprised I beat you here. What took you so long?”
“Was with Yumi,” Hunter said. That usually explained it all. “Dad texted me. Is he ready to go?”
Mom tossed back her dark hair and laughed. “I don’t know which of you is more excited. Your father was shocked when I showed up here without you. He sent his receptionist home early. He said he’d hurry with a few last-minute work details to close out the week. He doesn’t want to waste a minute.”
“Neither do I,” Hunter said. “Just hope I can hit something, you know?”
“Last time I was at the lodge, your grandpa said your shooting has improved so much you just might inherit his nickname.”
Hunter wrinkled his nose. “Sureshot Higgins? No, thanks.”
Mom laughed again. “Well, nickname or not, you’re a good shooter. You’ll do fine.”
That wasn’t what Hunter had meant. He was glad Mom was here. Sometimes it was easier to talk to Mom rather than Dad about certain things. But before he could explain the true nature of his worries, the smoked-glass door to Dad’s office flew open and Hunter’s father emerged. “Whew! And that’s the workweek.”
Dad swept through the waiting area in his usual confident way, leaning down to kiss Mom.
Mom tilted her head a little. “Is that really what you wore today?”
Dad patted his dark jeans and light blue button-up dress shirt. “Casual Friday! Sport coat’s in my office. This way I don’t have to change, and we can get going.”
Mom slipped her bookmark in her book and stood up. “Well, good luck, you two. Be safe. Wear your blaze-orange vests.”
“Well, yeah,” said Hunter. “We’ll be rifle hunting.”
Mom drew him in for a hug. “I know, but I hear a lot of young hunters in my library who don’t quite trust that deer are color-blind, and insist on camouflage only.”
