Page 115 of Wild Rose
“List?”
“Willow called. I answered—” I pause when I realize how that might sound. If I ever answered Bonnie’s phone, she’d deck me.
Rose rolls her eyes. “Oh Lord, what did she say?”
“She gave me a Rose tutorial.”
She breaks into laughter. “I’m sorry. I need to tell her to mind her business. She’s protective.”
“I like that.”
“Between her and my brother, I’m set for life.”
Idon’tknowaboutthat.
“She called to let you know she forwarded your mail to Wesley’s since she didn’t know your address here.”
“Oh. Probably just bills my brother will open and check for delinquencies.”
I know all about Wes having to take care of his sister because she can’t hold down a job. And when she could with something like bartending at night, he’d criticize her judgement.
It sure has got to be frustrating for her.
But hell, if I’m not grateful she ended up here because of it.
“How you feelin’?” I ask, pulling her by the waist.
Her eyes twinkle when she answers, her tone playful. “Like I could go all night.”
I bend to kiss the top of her head, trying to match her playful tone but failing. “You got work tomorrow. And I should probably .?.?.”
She pulls back like she’s been burned. “I know. I’ve taken up so much of your time already.”
I see the sun setting and there’s one thing I need to set straight with her before the weekend is over. “Come for a walk with me.”
Her eyes widen. “Is that OK?”
“Rose, we take walks all the time.”
“More like you march ahead of me and boss me around while I try to keep up.”
“If I keep my strides even with yours, will you walk with me?”
She nods and there’s a hint of apprehension in her eyes, picking up on the shift in mood. This girl is nothing if not perceptive.
Before long, we’re walking along the river. The part of my ranch where the water runs slow and smooth. It’s a quiet afternoon, ranch humming around us, cottonwood leaning over the fences. I glance down at Rose, liking the way she takes it all in. Her eyes dance from the wildflowers to the daisies that grew thick along the edge this past spring.
She’s not in awe of them, her expression is more thoughtful. Like it’s more the idea of flowers everywhere she’s embracing. “Which one’s your favorite?” I ask.
She smirks, glancing up at me. “Which one’s yours?”
“Don’t have one.”
She frowns but it’s not playful, there’s a subtle sadness that tugs at my chest. “So?” I ask again.
She narrows her eyes as she looks ahead. “Don’t have one.” Her response is flat and I get the feeling I’ve offended her.
“Something I said?”
