certain
products hadn’t failed her yet. Admittedly, certain items posed
more of an advertising problem—like hot dogs—but she hadn’t a doubt
that she could do it. And, given the opportunity, Annie was certain
she competently lead Hightower Advertising into the twenty-first
century.
But she had to get out of bed first.
With a sigh, Annie hoisted herself up and
planted her feet on the floor. She padded to the door and poked her
head out, disappointed when the pleasing aroma of coffee didn’t
instantly tickle her nose. That was odd, she thought. Since their
arrival some three days ago, Mitch had appointed himself “Guardian
of the Grounds” and hadn’t let her near the sophisticated coffee
maker. It was then that Annie noted the absolute stillness of the
cottage. Not a sound came from the other rooms. No water running,
no TV, and, she realized as uneasiness made her empty stomach
clench, no Mitch. She knew it.
With a flash of flurry, Annie jerked the door
open. Clad in her robe, she stalked through the house to confirm
her suspicions. Her search proved futile. She’d been right. He was
gone. Her eyes narrowed fractionally. And it didn’t’ take a genius
to figure out where.
That low-down dirty sneak
had gone to see Les. Without
her , which could only mean one thing. While
she’d been doing her Sleeping Beauty impersonation, Mitch had taken
the opportunity to track down Les and give his pitch. Another surge
of fury rocketed through her veins, making her grit her
teeth.
And to think she’d almost entertained some
charitable thoughts about him! Good thing she’d caught herself.
Annie didn’t take time to contemplate the underlying disappointment
she felt upon realizing Mitch’s underhanded trickery. Instead, she
shoved it to the very back of her mind, where she stored all of
life’s past disillusions. It was starting to get a little crowded
back there.
Then, she did what she always did when dealt
a blow—Annie immediately planned a counterattack.
A grim smile touched her lips. Mitch would
never know what hit him.
“ Now, see here,” Les
announced in his louder-than-a-megaphone voice. “You mighta been
hunting with some of those amateurs who spray themselves down with
scent, plant a little corn on the path and hide up in a tree,” he
said derisively. “But this ain’t how I do it.” Les huffed
indignantly as he barreled through the woods like a leprechaun in
camouflage. “Hell, boy. That ain’t huntin’! That’s waitin’! Humph!
I hunt like they did in the old days before it got so gol-darned
sophisticated.”
Mitch suspected Les didn’t hunt like any
other soul on earth, much less one of his touted ancestors. While
Mitch’s hunting experience had been limited to a few excursions
with Uncle Will as a teenager, he’d nevertheless gleaned a few
pertinent tips for bagging his game.
One of which was the need for silence. For
instance, when tracking an animal, one didn’t announce one’s
presence to the would-be prey.
Listening to Les loudly regale him with more
hunting anecdotes, Mitch decided the little meat magnate had never
learned that particular ploy. Hell, he was certain any
self-respecting animal within a two-mile radius had already fled
the surrounding woods and given them both a wide berth.
“ And so,” Les said,
awkwardly smacking a tree limb out of his way with a short stubby
arm, “that’s why I don’t even carry a gun into the woods. Sorta
evens up the odds for the animal, wouldn’t you say? After all, the
deer isn’t armed.”
And that would be the other hot tip, Mitch
thought silently. When hunting, one generally had procured a
weapon.
How did Les catch them, provided he ever did
actually stumble cross an animal too dumb or weak to get away from
him? Suddenly, Mitch had a horrible mental vision of Les tackling a
deer and wrestling it to the ground.
“ I bet you’re wonderin’ how
I ever get a deer, aren’tcha? Les said, interrupting Mitch’s
overactive
products hadn’t failed her yet. Admittedly, certain items posed
more of an advertising problem—like hot dogs—but she hadn’t a doubt
that she could do it. And, given the opportunity, Annie was certain
she competently lead Hightower Advertising into the twenty-first
century.
But she had to get out of bed first.
With a sigh, Annie hoisted herself up and
planted her feet on the floor. She padded to the door and poked her
head out, disappointed when the pleasing aroma of coffee didn’t
instantly tickle her nose. That was odd, she thought. Since their
arrival some three days ago, Mitch had appointed himself “Guardian
of the Grounds” and hadn’t let her near the sophisticated coffee
maker. It was then that Annie noted the absolute stillness of the
cottage. Not a sound came from the other rooms. No water running,
no TV, and, she realized as uneasiness made her empty stomach
clench, no Mitch. She knew it.
With a flash of flurry, Annie jerked the door
open. Clad in her robe, she stalked through the house to confirm
her suspicions. Her search proved futile. She’d been right. He was
gone. Her eyes narrowed fractionally. And it didn’t’ take a genius
to figure out where.
That low-down dirty sneak
had gone to see Les. Without
her , which could only mean one thing. While
she’d been doing her Sleeping Beauty impersonation, Mitch had taken
the opportunity to track down Les and give his pitch. Another surge
of fury rocketed through her veins, making her grit her
teeth.
And to think she’d almost entertained some
charitable thoughts about him! Good thing she’d caught herself.
Annie didn’t take time to contemplate the underlying disappointment
she felt upon realizing Mitch’s underhanded trickery. Instead, she
shoved it to the very back of her mind, where she stored all of
life’s past disillusions. It was starting to get a little crowded
back there.
Then, she did what she always did when dealt
a blow—Annie immediately planned a counterattack.
A grim smile touched her lips. Mitch would
never know what hit him.
“ Now, see here,” Les
announced in his louder-than-a-megaphone voice. “You mighta been
hunting with some of those amateurs who spray themselves down with
scent, plant a little corn on the path and hide up in a tree,” he
said derisively. “But this ain’t how I do it.” Les huffed
indignantly as he barreled through the woods like a leprechaun in
camouflage. “Hell, boy. That ain’t huntin’! That’s waitin’! Humph!
I hunt like they did in the old days before it got so gol-darned
sophisticated.”
Mitch suspected Les didn’t hunt like any
other soul on earth, much less one of his touted ancestors. While
Mitch’s hunting experience had been limited to a few excursions
with Uncle Will as a teenager, he’d nevertheless gleaned a few
pertinent tips for bagging his game.
One of which was the need for silence. For
instance, when tracking an animal, one didn’t announce one’s
presence to the would-be prey.
Listening to Les loudly regale him with more
hunting anecdotes, Mitch decided the little meat magnate had never
learned that particular ploy. Hell, he was certain any
self-respecting animal within a two-mile radius had already fled
the surrounding woods and given them both a wide berth.
“ And so,” Les said,
awkwardly smacking a tree limb out of his way with a short stubby
arm, “that’s why I don’t even carry a gun into the woods. Sorta
evens up the odds for the animal, wouldn’t you say? After all, the
deer isn’t armed.”
And that would be the other hot tip, Mitch
thought silently. When hunting, one generally had procured a
weapon.
How did Les catch them, provided he ever did
actually stumble cross an animal too dumb or weak to get away from
him? Suddenly, Mitch had a horrible mental vision of Les tackling a
deer and wrestling it to the ground.
“ I bet you’re wonderin’ how
I ever get a deer, aren’tcha? Les said, interrupting Mitch’s
overactive
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