CHAPTER THREE
Tommaso
I was just finishing up the breakfast dishes when there was a knock at the door.
Portia grunted and trotted on her trotters from her princess bed in front of the fireplace to the front door.
“Who is it, darling?” I asked her in Italian.
Drying my hands on the tea towel, I met her at the door, peering out the window on the side onto the front porch to see a man in a suit with a manila envelope in his hand. The man appeared to have a stick lodged up his backside. Proverbially, anyway.
I had a suspicion about what this was about and let out a deep sigh. “I wish you were an aggressive attack dog sometimes, little chop,” I said to my pet pig in Italian. “That way you could bite his ankles and chase him off the property.”
Portia grunted and glanced up at me, impatiently waiting for me to open the door. Unlike me, who preferred to be left alone, my pig loved people—and entertaining.
I sighed again and opened the door.
“Tomasso Barone?” the young man, who couldn’t be more than thirty, asked as the morning sun glinted off his heavily-gelled black hair.
All I did was lift my eyebrows in response.
He thrust out the envelope.
“I’m here on behalf of Jansen, Johnson, and Jamieson Attorneys at Law. We represent Vincent Corcan.”
I didn’t move a muscle. The envelope remained between us, his arm up. Then he glanced down at my feet, where Portia stood, grunting and wagging her tail.
“Is that a … is that a pig?”
Half a dozen smart-ass remarks landed like a splash of good Italian wine on my tongue, but I swallowed them down and simply held my hand down at my hip for Portia to stay where she was.
I could tell she wasn’t happy about it, but my girl was a well-behaved pig and never went against my orders.
The blue-eyed kid shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat, lifted his gaze from Portia, and more forcefully thrust the envelope toward me. “Mr. Corcan is filing a petition for land acquisition, stating that the land on which you currently reside rightfully belongs to him and his mother.”
I nodded slowly. “Mm-hmm.”
I enjoyed watching the man-child squirm. He wasn’t expecting this from me, and I certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Sure, he was just doing his job, but it wasn’t my job or responsibility to make his job easy.
He shook the envelope again, his eyes turning almost pleading, like he just wanted me to take the damn thing so he could tick “complete” on his to-do list and get the hell off the island.
A soft whimper fled his throat, but he masked it with a quick grunt. “Please, just take this. You can obviously hire your own lawyer to fight it or whatever. I’m just the messenger.”
“You know what you’re giving me, right?” I asked.
His shoulders jostled a little in a half-assed shrug. “Petition for land acquisition.”
“This land legally belongs to my son. My late wife’s parents owned this land.
Then, my wife died, so the land passed to her son.
My son. And while he does not live here, because he is living his very best life in Milan doing what he loves with the man he loves, I have a right to be here.
He has allowed me to live here and fulfill his mother’s dream of running a safe place for animals to live out their final days in peace.
So, Mr. Corcan may think that he and his mother—the sister of my late father-in-law—are entitled to this land, but they are not. It belongs to my son.”
The kid’s cheeks took on some color, and the softening in his eyes told me he actually now felt a little guilty about what he was doing to me.
“I … I’m just the messenger,” he repeated.
“I’m just a first-year law associate doing what I was told to do.
For what it’s worth, I hope you fight him and win. ”
I could tell he meant what he said. So I finally put him out of his misery and took the envelope from his hand, jerking my chin toward the silver Hyundai sedan parked on the gravel in front of my farmhouse.
He took the hint, gave me one last small but genuine smile, then turned to go.
I closed the door before he’d even made it to the driver’s side and glanced back down at Portia, who seemed rather put out that I didn’t let her properly greet our guest and get some scratches.
“Not someone worth knowing,” I said, taking the envelope into the kitchen and tossing it aggressively onto the island. Portia was at my feet, grunting and squeaking for some kind of good-girl reward, since she did as she was told and didn’t demand butt-scratches from the guest.
I rolled my eyes and broke a banana from the fruit bowl in half, handing it to her with the peel still on. She chowed it down with enthusiasm, then her soft-brown eyes drifted to the other half in my hand.
“Glutton,” I muttered, handing her the other half.
She ate it with the same vigor as the first bit, then gave me those big baby eyes asking for more.
“No,” I said, heading toward the front door.
“You’ll get fat.” I yanked open the door and stalked across my yard toward the brays and whinnies coming from inside the barn.
Portia happily trotted beside me, grunting with each step.
I held the door open for her, and she stepped in first, going to each stall to greet the horses and ponies.
Some of the lot were already out in the yard—they could mostly come and go as they pleased—but a few liked to hang out in their stalls in the morning until I came in to officially say good morning to them.
I’m not sure how I ended up with such needy animals, but as much as I gave them all grief, I didn’t really mind.
I went up to the first horse along the row, Galahad.
It was hard to pick a favorite among all the animals, but gun to my head, I might have to say this old gent.
Because he really was a gentleman who truly lived up to his name.
A blue roan Quarter Horse x Tennessee Walker he got along with everyone.
His best bud, however, was Conrad, another older man who could be a bit skittish.
I rarely saw the Spanish Barbe with the white and brown splotches without his emotional support horse, Galahad, by his side.
“Buongiorno, signore,” I greeted Galahad, scratching his neck as he hung his big gray head through the opening of the stable door. He closed his eyes and leaned to the side to rub his forehead against my head.
Snorts and snuffs down the way said I needed to keep moving and greet the rest.
I made my rounds, as Portia made hers. She was sure to give Kenny, the grumpy old bay roan Thoroughbred a proper hello.
Kenny tended to keep to himself. He tolerated Monarch—the big gentle Percheron who had aged gray from black—but besides me and Portia, he didn’t want anything to do with any other animals.
Portia stood at Kenny’s door, and the two seemed to be deep in conversation about something.
Almost like she was filling him in on the morning’s intruder.
I tried to give the last horse, Mouse—a very shy, small female Quarter horse—a kiss on the nose, but she jerked her head away at the last moment This wasn’t unusual though, as she rarely let anyone touch her.Then I headed over to the donkey barn to let those crazies out for the day.
It was nearly noon by the time I’d completed all my daily farm chores.
Feeding everyone, mucking stalls, collecting eggs, and being followed around by Cannoli the protection goose.
I got him a few years ago from a farm that was looking to separate their geese that fought, and unfortunately, it was owned by an extremely religious family.
Cannoli’s original name was “God is Love”. I quickly changed that.
While he sometimes tried to nip my ankles, he did a good job protecting the flock of chickens and ducks from eagles and other predators in the sky.
With about ten eggs in my basket, I thanked the ladies and went to check the duck house. There weren’t as many eggs there, and I wanted to hatch the ones that were. So I used my flashlight to check on them to see if they were viable, and left the ones that seemed to show a yolk with promise.
All the horses, donkeys, and ponies were out in the field now, enjoying the sunny morning.
Portia had found her way through a pig-sized hole in the fence and was catching up on all the daily gossip with Olive and Buddha, two of the donkeys.
The other donkey, Pinata, was off doing what he did best, which was terrorizing the rest of the animals.
“Pinata!” I called out, causing the big idiot with the gray coat and twinkle of evil in his eyes to lift his head from where he was busy chasing around the goats and causing them to charge him. “Piantala!”
Pinata was distracted enough by me, that Taco—the biggest male goat I had—took his opening and charged Pinata good, knocking the devilish donkey off his feet a little.
Taco’s horns curled back toward his tail, So it wasn’t like he’d gore Pinata, but the donkey needed to be taught a lesson from time to time.
I was halfway across the yard with my basket of chicken eggs when another vehicle, this time a white RAV4, came rumbling down my driveway.
I didn’t recognize it, nor the blonde woman behind the steering wheel.
That is, until she parked in front of my porch steps.
Then, I realized she was one of the pretty women last night from the vineyard who won Bonn Remmen’s land.
I set the wire basket of eggs on the top step of the porch and held my hand down at my hip to stop Portia from charging the woman as she stepped out of the SUV.
Portia did as I commanded, but not without a bit of argument. She grunted and groaned at me as her entire back end wiggled in excitement and anticipation.
As if she’d grown more beautiful overnight, the woman with the hesitation in her beautiful green eyes made my breath snag almost painfully in my throat.