The Foxe & the Hound

by R.S. Grey

  Though we’ve been saying it for weeks, a warmth still spreads over me. I love hearing him say it, and I especially love hearing him shout it across the front yard.

  There’s a voicemail from Mr. Boggs waiting for me on my phone once I get my old clunker to start (yes, I’m stilling driving it) and peel out of the driveway. He wants to change up the schedule and tour a different house—a house I don’t have the specs on. He includes the address, but it doesn’t ring a bell and there’s no time to run back inside and search the property on our database.

  He’s just going to have to understand that we had a list we agreed upon, and I know those houses like the back of my hand. If he wants to see a different property, I’m not going to know every detail about it.

  I plug the address into my phone and follow the directions.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pull up in front of what used to be Hamilton Ranch, the oldest property in the whole town. It sits out on the outskirts of Hamilton now, though it’s so big, the entire town sort of wraps around its perimeter. I didn’t even realize it was for sale. The rumor has always been that the owners passed it down in the family for generations.

  I park outside of the front gate and sure enough, there’s Mr. Boggs leaning against one of the posts.

  Adam would kill me if he knew I was entertaining this showing. In the last few months, Mr. Boggs’ requests have turned more and more ridiculous. I don’t even tell Helen about half of them because I know she’ll start pestering me to drop him as a client as well.

  “Mornin’ Mr. Boggs,” I say as I step out of the car and settle onto the uneven terrain.

  Had I known we would be touring a ranch, I would have picked more practical footwear. Like tennis shoes, or a four-wheeler.

  “Morning Madeleine.”

  He’s already working on unlocking the gate.

  “How do you know the combination?”

  He doesn’t answer; instead, he scrolls to the last digit, tugs on the lock, and then the old gate gives way.

  Before us, rolling hills stretch out as far as the eye can see. In every direction, the perimeter fence continues on as if it never ends. There’s no telling how far the ranch sprawls, but it’s beautiful. Oak and cedar trees are scattered across the property, and I’m not sure, but I think about a half-mile up the dirt road, there’s an old farmhouse that was once used by the original owners.

  “I’ve never been here,” I admit, a bit amazed by the expansive property. The unspoiled ranch land is iconic in our old town, though I haven’t heard much about it in recent years, not since it was retired from cattle raising.

  “Do you know how many acres are in this property?” Mr. Boggs asks as we meander up the dirt road.

  “A couple hundred? Maybe a thousand? I could have checked if you’d given me warning.”

  He chuckles. “No need. It’s close to 13,000.”

  My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious. Who lives here?”

  “Well soon, I will.”

  I burst out laughing. “Oh yeah? So you’ve finally found your house, Mr. Boggs? After all this time, you’ve settled on a tract of land so big you can see it from space?”

  My sarcasm goes right over his head. “Yes. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Well, I have to give you props. I knew when you finally picked a property, it would be something spectacular.”

  “Madeleine, I can’t help but feel like you’re mocking me.”

  “Mocking you?! Mr. Boggs, c’mon. 13,000 acres in this part of Texas would go for what, 30 million dollars? 40 million?”

  “Closer to 50 million.”

  I laugh. We might as well be talking about Monopoly money.

  “Well whoever owns this ranch is going to be very wealthy. I didn’t even know it was for sale.”

  He turns back to face the land and his eyes narrow. “It’s not officially for sale until tomorrow, which is why I want to put in an offer today.”

  This is an all-time low for us. For over a year, I’ve put up with Mr. Boggs and his incessant demands. There’s not a property in town that we haven’t toured at least once. He calls every hour of the day, weekends included. I’ve never once lost my patience with him or pestered him to make a decision about a house, but this—this is too far. I have a job to do, other clients who need me.

  “Mr. Boggs, I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work anymore. I can’t afford to play games all day.”

  “Madeleine—”

  “Now you’re just abusing my patience. For a year, I’ve showed you houses, and if you don’t intend on purchasing something, you need to tell me now so I can stop wasting my time. I’ve enjoyed having you as a client, but at a certain point, enough is enough.”

  “Madeleine, have I ever once, in all our time together, said I’d like to put an offer in on a house?”

  “No.” That much I know for a fact.

  “So listen to me when I say, I’d like to own this ranch. I’ve had my eye on it for a few years, and it’s finally up for sale. I wanted to have a real estate agent on hand for when it eventually came up.”

  For a crazy person, he sounds incredibly confident.

  I decide to humor him. “So for the last year, you’ve worked me to the bone so I’d be ‘on hand’ for when you buy this ranch?”

  He smiles. “I admit, I put you through the ringer, but I liked your work ethic. Now I don’t have to second-guess giving you the commission from this sale.”

  I burst out with a laugh that’s impossible to contain.

  “What’s the commission on a property like this?”

  “I was thinking about that. A million seems fair.”

  “Huh,” I say, humoring him. “After much consideration, I’d have to agree.”

  “Have I ever told you what I used to do before I moved to Hamilton?”

  I shake my head, stunned into silence. This whole exchange feels like a dream.

  “My father started B&G Steel, and when he retired, the company was passed down to me. I worked at that company my whole life right up until about five years ago, when I finally sold it and retired.”

  “B&G Steel,” I repeat to myself.

  Even I’ve heard of the company.

  “What month is it, Mr. Boggs?”

  “August.”

  Huh. So this isn’t an elaborate April Fools’ prank.

  I’m scrambling to think of another possible explanation when the sound of tires on gravel behind us draws my attention. I turn in time to see an old Ford truck roll past the entrance gate of the property, kicking up dust and dirt with its approach.

  It parks a few yards away, and then an old man slides out wearing a cowboy hat and beat-up wranglers. I know who he is right away: Steve Hamilton, a descendent of the original settlers of the town. He and his family are as good as celebrities around here.

  He dips his hat in greeting to Mr. Boggs and then holds his hand out to me.

  “Steve Hamilton, nice to meet you.”

  “Madeleine Thatcher.”

  He smiles and claps a second hand over mine. He has a nice handshake, sturdy and warm.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Madeleine. I hear you’re going to facilitate this deal for us.”

  What the hell is happening?

  “Um, I…”

  “Have you ever worked as a transactional realtor before?” Mr. Hamilton asks after he drops my hand and steps back.

  I shake my head. “No. I mean, I think I can do it, but…aren’t these types of deals usually handled by, y’know, big brokerage firms?”

  He grins. “Call me old fashioned, but I don’t need a team of vultures blowin’ smoke up my ass for months. And Mr. Boggs here has already made a verbal offer that’s more generous than any others I’m likely to get. So I’m happy to pay someone local to handle the nitty-gritty.”

  I glance back at Mr. Boggs, but he’s staring out at the land as if he’s not even listening at all.

  “Oh, okay.” I decide it’s best to continue on wi
th the charade, in case Ashton Kutcher is behind some bush with a video camera. After all, Mr. Hamilton is very convincing. “Well then yes, I would love to step in and act as the transactional realtor for the property.”

  “All right. Good.” He nods. “I think that means your commission would increase a bit, since you’ll be getting a cut from each of us.”

  I feel faint. I fan my face, laugh, stifle it, and then offer up a gentle, sane smile.

  “If I email you the details, can you have the paperwork drawn up this afternoon?” he asks, very calm, so blasé. Ha.

  I will draft the paperwork in my blood, right here in the dirt if this is legitimate. I decide not to tell him that. Instead, I nod enthusiastically and promise an expedient turnaround.

  “Good. All right. I’ll see you two at the title company at eight tomorrow morning. I’ve already scheduled an appointment to close.”

  Then, as quickly as he arrived, he’s gone, back in his old truck, reversing on the dirt road.

  “I’m assuming you believe me now?” Mr. Boggs asks with a good-natured smile.

  “Can you blame me for being skeptical?” I ask with wide eyes.

  He shrugs. “I have kept a pretty low profile since moving here.”

  We head back to our cars. In all, the showing took less than half an hour, yet I stand to make piles and piles of money, more money than I’ll know what to do with.

  “You know what this means, right?” I ask as we cross below the iron gate.

  “You’ll finally have to replace that old car.”

  I laugh and nod. “I’m not ready to let it go yet.”

  But then, as if on cue, the rearview mirror on my passenger side falls off. For months, it’s been hanging in there with some duct tape, but apparently, it’s had enough. It rolls unceremoniously in the dirt a foot or two away from the car.

  Mr. Boggs pats my shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll drive you back to the agency. I imagine I’ll have some explaining to do anyway.”

  A laugh bubbles out of me. “They’re not going to believe it when I tell them.”

  “You’re finally going to stick it to Lori.”

  I can barely wait.

  “How many times do you think they’ll let me ring my bell for a sale this big?” I ask.

  “Maybe just one big bell. Hey, we oughta just fly in one of the bells from Big Ben.”

  I grin. “That’s a great idea! I hope we can get it here in time.”

  As expected, Helen and Lori don’t believe me when I explain the situation.

  Lori actually turns the color of her highlights, and passes out cold. She’s rushed over to Hamilton Family Practice, and Daisy texts me updates on her condition; apparently, she might have had a psychotic break. Poor thing.

  When I get home that evening, I pour Adam a glass of wine and tell him to sit down. His eyes are wide with suspicion.

  “I have big news.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  He seems excited by the prospect since we both want kids.

  I try to conceal my smile. “Do you want me to be?”

  “I feel like that’s a trick question.”

  I hold up my wine glass to stop him, happy with his answer. “I’m not pregnant. My announcement actually has to do with Mr. Boggs.”

  “Did you finally kick him to the curb today? Is that why we’re celebrating with wine?”

  I laugh. “Not exactly.”

  I fill him in on my very long, very strange day.

  He shakes his head in disbelief. He too asks what month it is.

  “Not an April Fools’ prank.”

  His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Let me get this straight: old Boggsy with his fraying clothes and nearly broken cane is going to purchase Hamilton Ranch for close to 50 million dollars, and you’re going to get the commission?”

  I beam and pat his shoulder, attempting to be as blasé about it now as Mr. Hamilton was a few hours ago.

  “That’s right. Adam Foxe, it looks like you got yourself a new hound and a sugar mama.”

  He laughs and I shrug.

  “Guess I’ll probably have you sign a pre-nup when we get married. I mean, you’re just a lowly veterinarian. As of tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, I’m going to be a millionaire.”

  “We aren’t engaged yet.”

  “We aren’t?”

  “I’ll probably ask any day now.”

  I smile. “How will that look? Everyone will think you just want me for my money.”

  “I can’t help but feel like this might be going to your head.”

  He’s probably referring to the southern aristocrat accent I’ve adopted within the last few minutes.

  I fan myself like a debutante, and lean deeper into my new drawl.

  “Oh Adam, that’s preposterous. I’m just a lonely heiress, lookin’ to hire an animal doctor to tend to my many beasts.”

  I motion to Mouse and Molly snuggled in the corner.

  He reaches for my waist and tugs me down until I’m sitting on his lap. His mouth finds mine and he kisses me senseless. Clearly, he’s had enough of my games.

  “Madeleine?”

  “Yeah?” I reply, breathless.

  “Do I get the job?”

  I can’t help but smile.

  “Do that thing you did the other night, and I just might consider it.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book was inspired by my own spoiled pooches, Ollie and Louie. Much of Madeleine’s experiences with Mouse were based more in fact than in fiction, rowdy puppy moments and all. Fortunately, they have never mauled a stranger on the street—yet!

  Thank you to my friends and family for their unwavering support. Thank you also to my fellow author friends. Thank you to my readers, especially the Little Reds!

  Thank you to my editor, Caitlin, and my two proofreaders, Jennifer and Alison. You’re all such a pleasure to work with and I know how fortunate I am to have you on my team.

  Thank you to my agent, Kimberly Brower.

  Thank you to all of the bloggers who help spread the word about my books! Vilma’s Book Blog, Book Baristas, Angie’s Dreamy Reads, Southern Belle Book Blog, Typical Distractions Book Blog, Natasha is a Book Junkie, Rock Stars of Romance, A Bookish Love Affair, Swept Away by Books, Library Cutie, Hopeless Book Lover, and many, many more! You all have been such cheerleaders for me and I am so grateful to each and every one of you!

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