14. Saint #2
“I did know that,” Wrenley replies, turning to look at her. “Pretty amazing, right?”
“Rome says they have special legs that lock so they don’t fall over.”
The road narrows as we leave the outskirts of town, winding through fields where morning mist still clings to the grass. Weathered fence posts line the roadside, some leaning at precarious angles after years of withstanding storms.
“Is Rome the owner?” Wrenley asks.
“He’s Papa’s best friend,” Ivy declares before I can answer. “He has tattoos too, but not as many as Papa.”
I catch Wrenley’s glance at my forearms where my ink peeks from beneath my rolled sleeves.
“I didn’t know your Papa had a best friend,” Wrenley says, a teasing smile tugging at her lips.
“Talon Ranch is the biggest one around here,” I say, finally breaking my silence while also avoiding the question. “Been in his family for generations.”
The road curves sharply, and a vista opens before us of rolling hills dotted with black-and-white cattle and the distant glimmer of the Atlantic visible on the horizon. The landscape unfolds like a painting, all blues and the burned-off colors of summer beneath the clear morning sky.
“It’s beautiful,” Wrenley murmurs, leaning forward.
“Wait till you see the horses!” Ivy exclaims. “Rome has seven of them. My favorite is Scribbles. She’s beige with all kinds of white dots on her.”
“Does Scribbles let you ride her?” Wrenley asks.
“Uh-huh! Rome lets me go fast too. Not like Papa, who says ‘slow down’ all the time. ”
I frown into the rearview mirror. “That’s because Rome is irresponsible.”
“That’s not what you said when he fixed your car that time,” Ivy counters, her voice saccharine sweet.
Wrenley’s lips quirk, and she turns to look out the window, hiding what I suspect is a full-wattage smile. My stomach does a strange flip at the shy, quiet tuck of her chin as she tries to hide it.
Christ, I’d trade my best knife set to know what’s running through her head right now.
Is she thinking about how pathetic I am, getting verbally outmaneuvered by a five-year-old?
Or worse, is she filing this away as another reason she’s better off leaving?
My brain’s like a lovesick teenager trying to decode if that smile means something, when I’m the idiot who made sure it can’t.
After one hard blink, I turn my attention to the weathered barns as we pass, stone walls draped in wild roses, and glimpses of the ocean between stands of pine. Anything but Wrenley Morgan.
A massive red barn appears on the horizon, its weathered face burnished gold in the morning light. We pull up a long gravel drive flanked by split-rail fencing, where horses graze in the distance.
“We’re here!” Ivy squeals, already fumbling with her seat belt before I’ve fully stopped the car.
“Easy,” I remind her, putting the SUV in park.
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.”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because he’s right, and it’s ripping me up inside.
Rome sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but that woman isn’t looking at Ivy like she’s counting down the minutes until she can leave.”
“It’s complicated.”
“With you? Never would have guessed.” Rome claps me on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go watch your daughter show off her riding skills before you scowl so hard your face gets stuck that way.”
We make our way toward the paddock, Rome’s cowboy boots kicking up small clouds of dust with each step. Ahead, Ivy is pressed against the wooden fence, Wrenley beside her, both of them watching as a speckled horse trots along the perimeter.
“That’s Scribbles,” Ivy announces as we approach. “Isn’t she the prettiest horse ever?”
“She’s gorgeous,” Wrenley agrees, her voice warm with genuine appreciation.
“One of the gentlest mares I’ve ever trained. Perfect for little riders.” Rome winks at Ivy. “Want to saddle up, kiddo?”
Ivy bounces on her toes. “Yes, please!”
Rome whistles sharply, and Scribbles’s ears prick forward. She turns, trotting toward us.
“She knows me!” Ivy squeals, straining against the fence.
Rome unlatches the gate. “Easy now. Let her come to you, remember?”
Ivy stills immediately, her small body vibrating with contained excitement as she holds out a flat palm. Scribbles stretches her velvet nose forward, snuffling Ivy’s hand before giving it a gentle bump .
“Horses never forget a friend,” Rome says as he leads the mare through the gate. “Especially one who sneaks them sugar cubes.”
Ivy giggles, guilty and delighted. “Only sometimes.”
I catch Wrenley’s gaze over Ivy’s head. The look in her eyes—a quiet joy, a sense of belonging—makes that mysterious spice rise, forcing me to clear my throat.
She belongs here at this moment, the autumn sun highlighting the gold in her hair, her cheeks flushed with the crisp air. The sight of her, so natural beside my daughter, hits me with an unexpected punch.
“Want to pet her?” Rome asks Wrenley, noticing her hesitation.
“Can I?”
“She won’t bite,” Rome says. “Unlike some people around here.”
Wrenley’s eyes flare at Rome’s humor, but then she smiles, a real one that transforms her face and sends a bolt of heat straight to the groin.
“Go on,” Rome encourages. “Right between the eyes. She loves that.”
Wrenley stretches out her hand, palm flat like Ivy’s had been. Scribbles leans into her touch immediately, and a look of pure glee crosses Wrenley’s face.
“Oh! She’s so soft,” she breathes, stroking the white blaze that runs down the mare’s face.
“Ready to saddle up?” Rome asks Ivy, who’s practically levitating with anticipation.
“Yes!”
“I’ll get her tacked while you three head to the arena,” Rome says, leading Scribbles toward the barn. “And Saint, try not to terrify Miss Wrenley with your charming personality before we return. ”
I scowl at his retreating back while Ivy tugs Wrenley toward a fenced ring nearby, chattering about how fast she can make Scribbles go.
“She means trot,” I clarify, falling into step beside them. “Not gallop.”
“I can go super fast,” Ivy insists. “Rome lets me.”
“Rome also once broke his collarbone trying to ride a mechanical bull while holding a plate of nachos,” I mutter. “His judgment is questionable.”