He came through the group and I grabbed his shirt in both fists and pressed my face against his chest and the shaking I'd been holding back hit all at once. Full-body tremors, the adrenaline crash and the relief and the staggering reality that a judge had looked at me and saidshe's in excellent handsand this man had sat in the gallery and cried while a courtroom gave his not-daughter back to the woman he loved.
"Full custody," I said into his shirt. "Clay. Full custody. She's mine."
His arms locked around me. His voice was rough. Stripped. "She was always yours, darlin'. Now the rest of the world knows it."
I pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes — the green that had seen me before I said a word since the night of the party — were bright and wet and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"Take me home," I said.
Chapter 24
Clay
Momma was packing Maisie's overnight bag when it happened.
The small one — the one that lived at the ranch now, the one that held pajamas and a toothbrush and the backup horse Momma had bought after Maisie left the original at the cottage one weekend and the world nearly ended.
Not the Dallas bag. That bag was gone. Callie had walked it out to the trash the day after the hearing, and dropped it in without ceremony.
Maisie was on the kitchen floor with Sully, feeding him pieces of bacon she'd smuggled off her plate with the stealth of a career criminal. Dad was at the table reading the paper. Momma was moving between the stove and the bag, flipping pancakes and folding pajamas without breaking stride.
"More bacon, Grammy?"
The spatula stopped mid-flip. Dad's paper lowered an inch. I was leaning against the doorframe with my coffee, and I felt the word land the way you feel a change in air pressure — something shifting, something rearranging itself in the room.
Maisie hadn't noticed. She was scratching Sully's ears with one hand and holding a piece of bacon above his nose with the other, negotiating his obedience with the confidence of a kid who understood leverage.
"Baby," Momma said carefully. "What did you call me?"
Maisie looked up. Confused by the question. The bacon lowered, and Sully seized it.
"Grammy," she said. Like it was obvious. Like it had always been the word, and the adults were being slow.
Momma set the spatula down. Her hand went to her chest — pressed flat against her sternum, fingers spread. She turned from the stove, and her chin was trembling. Her lips pressed together so hard they'd gone white, her eyes filling fast and spilling before she could blink it back.
"My friend Sophie at school goes to her Grammy and Grandpa's house every Friday," Maisie said. She was sitting cross-legged now, Sully in her lap. "And she says they make her special pancakes and she gets to stay up late and they have a dog and she says it's the best."
She looked at Momma. Then at Dad. Then back at Momma.
"You make me special pancakes. And I get to stay up late sometimes. And you have Sully even though he’s Jack’s." She held up Sully's paw as evidence. "And I love you and Grandpa Owen, and I want you to be mine."
Dad put the paper down. Slowly. He took off his reading glasses. Folded them. Set them on the table. Then he pushed his chair back, crossed the kitchen, and lowered himself to one knee in front of Maisie.
Right there on the kitchen floor. This man, who'd built a ranch from nothing, who communicated in nods and two-word sentences, who I had never once in my life seen cry — he knelt in front of a five-year-old with bacon grease on her fingers andlooked at her like she'd just handed him something he didn't know he'd been waiting for.
"Maisie," he said. His voice was rough. Thicker than I'd ever heard it. "Do you know what a granddaughter is?"
Maisie shook her head. Sully licked her elbow. She ignored him.
"It means you're ours," Dad said. "It means you belong to this family. Not just for visits and not just for weekends. For good." He swallowed. I watched his throat work, and his eyes go red at the rims, and his jaw clench the way it did when he was keeping himself together. "And you would be our first one. Our very first granddaughter. That's a pretty important job."
Maisie's eyes went wide. She looked at Momma, who was standing at the stove with tears streaming down her face and her hand pressed flat against her chest. Momma nodded. Couldn't speak.
"Your very first?" Maisie whispered.
"Our very first."
The beam that spread across her face could have powered the whole ranch. She sat up straighter. Squared her small shoulders. Looked at Dad with the gravity of a child who understood she'd just been given a title and intended to take it seriously.
