Page 62 of Only Mine
The farmhouse door swings open before we’ve even gotten out, and Rome strides across the yard toward us. He’s six-foot-three of sun-weathered skin and easy confidence with chestnut hair cropped close on the sides but longer on top. The sleeve of tattoos running down his right arm is visible beneath his rolled thermal shirt.
“Well, look what the storm blew in,” Rome calls out, his voice carrying across the yard.
Ivy is out of her seat in seconds, flying across the gravel. “Uncle Rome!”
He catches her mid-leap, swinging her high. “There’s my favorite artist! Come to paint my horses again?”
“No! Just to ride them!”
Rome sets her down and turns his attention to me, his grin widening when he spots Wrenley climbing out of the passenger seat. His eyebrows shoot up, a question in them that makes my molars clench.
“And who might this be?” he asks, though his knowing smile tells me he’s already pieced it together from our brief phone conversations.
“This is Miss Wrenley,” Ivy announces before I can speak. “She’s my nanny, and she makes the best braids, and she’s never seen Scribbles!”
Rome extends his free hand to Wrenley. “Roman Miles, but most people call me Rome. Owner of this dusty patch of heaven and unfortunate friend to the grumpiest chef on the Eastern Seaboard.”
Wrenley’s laugh is genuine as she takes his hand. “Wrenley Morgan. Temporary nanny to said chef’s daughter.”
Her eyes flick to mine, a shadow passing over her features.
“Temporary,” I echo, mostly as a reminder to myself. “Very temporary.”
Rome’s eyebrow arches as he looks between us, his intuition picking up on the undercurrents like he always does.
“That so?” He sets Ivy down, who immediately tugs on Wrenley’s hand.
“Can we see the horses now? Please?”
“Of course,” Rome says, ruffling Ivy’s hair. “Why don’t you and Miss Wrenley head down to the paddock? I need to talk to your papa for a minute.”
Ivy pulls Wrenley toward the wooden fence where several horses graze in the distance. Wrenley glances back at me but allows herself to be led away.
“Temporary, huh?” Rome asks the moment they’re out of earshot.
“Shut up,” I mutter, watching Wrenley’s cream sweater grow smaller as Ivy leads her into the paddock.
Rome says with a low whistle, “Very mature response.”
“She’s leaving today. This is...” I gesture vaguely at the ranch. “A goodbye.”
Rome crosses his arms, the muscles of his forearms flexing beneath his faded thermal. “Funny kind of goodbye. Usually those happen at the door, not thirty miles away at a horse ranch.”
“Ivy wanted her to come.”
“And Saint Toussaint always does exactly what his daughter wants.” Rome’s tone is dry as the dust beneath our boots. “That why you’ve got that stick up your ass this morning?”
I glare at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be shoveling horseshit or something?”
Rome laughs, a deep, easy sound that has always irritated me. “Three years of friendship and that’s the best you’ve got? You’re slipping.”
We watch as Ivy points excitedly at a dappled mare near the fence. Wrenley leans down, listening intently to whatever my daughter is saying, her hand resting protectively on Ivy’s shoulder.
“She’s good with her,” Rome observes.
“She’s unqualified.”
“She seems pretty damn qualified at making Ivy smile.”
