Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Milo bats away a fly before scratching his jaw. “Sorry, ma’am. Mr. Ellington left specific instructions for me to take Indie.”
My gaze rolls between Milo and Faye. Fletcher made plans for me?
Faye frowns and so does Grandma Hill. But Grandma Hill always frowns. Fletcher calls it “resting bitch face.” I don’t know what that means. Ruthie said she only made that face for him.
“She’s a young girl,” Grandma Hill says just before sniffling and pressing a wad of tissue to her nose. “Indiana needs to be with other women.” She steps closer to me while curling my hair behind my ear on one side, like Ruthie would have done. The wind blows it back into my face.
I think she means I need to be with the Hills—Ruthie’s family—not the Ellingtons.
“Again, I’m sorry, ma’am. But Mr. Ellington was very clear with his instructions. Let’s go, Indie.” Milo squeezes my hand.
I feel safe. Safe because Fletcher trusts Milo more than anyone else. Safe because Ruthie always trusted Milo with me. Still, I don’t want to be with the Ellingtons. I want to go with Ruthie’s family. The Hills are kinder, and they treat me like I belong with them—like I’m their blood even if I’m not.
“I’ll check in on you later, sweetie,” Faye says while I let Milo lead me to his truck, peeking over my shoulder and giving Faye a nod.
When Milo shifts the truck into gear, he glances at me, but I can’t look at him. I don’t want him to see me cry, but I sure do miss Ruthie.
“You hungry?”
I shake my head while his truck creeps down the hill and out of the Ellington family cemetery. It’s a short drive to the main house, but Milo veers left and parks next to a barn instead of taking me home.
This is new. I’ve never been inside this barn, the one where Milo sleeps. Am I being moved to the barn now that Ruthie’s dead?
“I can make you grilled cheese,” Milo says, hanging his hat and tugging at his tie to loosen it before shrugging off his jacket.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Milo in a suit. It’s also the first time I’ve seen him without his cowboy hat, except the time I snuck out of the house and spied on him swimming in the pond behind it. He wore his underwear instead of swimming trunks. When they got wet, I could see the size of his penis and testicles. I never told Ruthie because I didn’t want Fletcher to get mad at Milo and not let him swim in the pond.
He glances over his shoulder at me and jerks his head.
With heavy feet, I step past the door and softly close it behind me. “I’m not hungry,” I murmur, trying to think about something besides Ruthie dying and the size of Milo’s penis and testicles.
“You have to eat. Mr. Ellington insisted I feed you, so …” He turns toward me and tosses his jacket over the back of a faded brown chair. It looks ancient. The cracked and peeling leather reminds me of the bald spot on Fletcher’s head.
I glance around the room. It’s plain compared to the main house but nice for a barn. Milo has a real bed, not a bale of hay or a stall of straw like I imagined. That’s good.
It’s just one room and maybe a bathroom to the right. The door is partially shut, so I can’t see for sure. His walls are gray wood. No pictures. No pillows on the sofa. No vases of fresh-cut flowers.
Even though it’s very plain, it’s clean.
But it does smell a bit like wet leather and hay. Maybe his bed is hay under the sheets. My house smells of lavender. Ruthie loved lavender. She even had Micah add it to her sweet tea, and she put it in her jars of honey from the beehives Fletcher gave her for her birthday.
“Grilled cheese is fine,” I mumble, fiddling with the sash of my dress.
“Let me change my clothes, and I’ll make it for you.” He shrugs off his button-down shirt, but he’s not wearing an undershirt like Fletcher. Milo has big muscles and a few tattoos. Bull horns and something else I can’t figure out. Before he takes off his pants, he grabs a pair of jeans from a plastic laundry basket and carries them into the bathroom.
Minutes later, he opens the door, and I startle. I’m not doing anything wrong, but everything in here squeaks.
The floor.
The doors.
The windows.
Even the ceiling whines when there’s a gust of wind.
I stare at Milo’s jeans and white tee while he plucks his tan cowboy hat from a hook and drops it onto his head. Perched on the very edge of the sofa, I smooth my hands over the skirt of my dress.