“So… her name should be Hope.”
I nod, giving myself a moment before I answer.
“Yeah,” I manage around the lump in my throat. “Hope is a beautiful name. It’s something we all should have.”
“I have hope that one day someone will want to be my daddy,” she says, smiling brightly, her chin lifted high. “Even though my original daddy didn’t want us anymore, that doesn’t mean there isn’t another one out there who will. We just have to have hope… right, Mama?”
Well… crap.
I nod because words aren’t possible right now.
Livy’s father is a piece of crap who walked out on us five years ago when he realized just how hard it is to run a sanctuary and raise a child.
“Come on, Mama,” she says, reaching for my hand. “The wind’s picking up, and we need to get you inside before your fingers and toes stop working.”
I laugh, but let her lead me toward the house.
She’s not wrong. Five more minutes out in this cold, and my fingers and toes will start to go numb.
The cold and I are not friends because I have Raynaud’s syndrome. It’s a condition that messes with my circulation.When I get too cold or stressed, the blood flow to my fingers and toes slows down, sometimes enough that they go numb and lose feeling altogether.
If I’m not careful… it can get worse than that.
The missing tip of my right index finger is proof of that.
“Rory, give her about ten more minutes to graze, then bring Hope back into her stall, please,” I call to one of the workers as we stop near him.
“Hope, miss?” he asks.
“That’s the new mare’s name,” Livy says proudly. “Mama let me name her.”
“Well, you chose a mighty fine name, Miss Olivia,” Rory says with a smile. “I’ll make sure Hope’s nice and comfortable in her stall…with an extra apple to boot.”
“I get to pet her tomorrow,” Livy adds, lifting her chin. “Will you make sure to say nice things about me tonight?”
“I’ll tell her every nice thing there is to say about you,” Rory promises.
“Which is a lot.”
Livy nods, and I chuckle.
“Let’s go, silly girl,” I say. “Let Rory get back to work.”
“Bye, Rory.”
“Bye, Miss Olivia.”
We start toward the house when Livy speaks again.
“Rory’s nice, but I don’t think he’s supposed to be my daddy.”
I nearly trip, glancing back to make sure he didn’t hear my crazy child.
“He’d make a good daddy,” she continues thoughtfully, “but I don’t think he’d be a very good husband for you. They have to be good at both. Right, Mama?”
This kid is going to kill me.
“Right, honey,” I say, knowing arguing will get us nowhere.
