He thumped his tail again. She would take that as a yes.

Ever since the divorce, she’d taken to talking out loud to the mostly English setter rescue. And not just “good boy” when Punkin completed his business on their walks, or an occasional “who wants a treat?” No, she was having full-on, meaningful conversations with a dog. An exceptionally intelligent, intuitive dog, but still …

The driveway ended abruptly in front of a small red structure with more peeling paint. “Look, Punkin!” Ivy squealed. “There it is. Our barn! We have an honest-to-goodness barn!”

Parked directly in front of the barn was a black Jeep. And leaning against the hood of the Jeep was a lanky man dressed in jeans, boots, and a plaid lumberjack-type coat. “Who’s this?”

Punkin let out a low-throated grrr.

She pulled up in front of the Jeep and got out.

“Hi,” she said, eyeing the stranger warily.

He had thick butterscotch-colored hair sticking out from beneath a baseball cap and the beginnings of a beard, and he didn’t seem at all fazed by her presence here. “Hey there,” he said lazily, not bothering to move.

“Can I help you?” Ivy said.

“That depends.” He was looking at her car, which was packed to the roof with her belongings. Punkin was straining, scratching at the window.

“Depends on what?” she asked impatiently. She would not be intimidated by this intruder.

He held out a ring of keys. “On whether or not you’re Ivy Perkins. If you are, I thought you might want the keys to your new house.”

“Oh.” Ivy looked around the yard, which was decidedly more bedraggled looking than the real estate listing photos. “I was expecting the real estate agent.”

“You got him.”

“Wait. You’re Ezra Wheeler?”

“Correct.”

All of her communications with the agent had been conducted through emails or text messages. Ivy had pictured a kindly white-haired gentleman in a bow tie and sweater-vest. Not this …

“You were expecting some old geezer, right? Nobody under the age of seventy is named Ezra these days. What can I say? My mom thought she was birthing a sea captain.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ivy said. “So. This is Four Roses Farm.”

“Yup.”

“What happened to all the hollyhocks? And the delicate pink roses clambering over the porch railing and the blue hydrangeas?”

“Huh?”

“The pictures from the real estate listings. Everything in those photos looked so lush and green and vibrant.” She gestured at the brown, stubbled yard and the colorless, skeletal bushes. “I don’t even see one rosebush, let alone four.”

He rolled his eyes. “Those photos were taken in the summer. When the house was first listed. And now, it’s winter. Win-ter.”

Ivy didn’t like his patronizing tone. Like he was explaining the seasons to a toddler.

“Also, the Four Roses is a reference to the owners—well, former owners now—Bob and Betty Rae Rose, and their two daughters, Sandi and Emily Rose. Get it? Four Roses.”

“I thought the seller’s name was James Heywood,” Ivy said.