"I made a sign."
She unzipped her backpack and pulled it out. Cardboard. Glitter glue and crayon. Two words in Maisie's handwriting, the letters uneven and fierce:
MARRY US
I looked at it. My vision blurred. I blinked hard and swallowed and gripped the steering wheel.
"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," I said. And meant it.
"The Y was hard," she said. "But I did it three times and picked the best one."
We drove to the ranch. I'd set everything up at the flat rock overlooking the valley — the spot I'd shown Callie on their first real day together. Lanterns strung between the trees, because that was our thing now. Wildflowers in a jar, because that was our thing too. The view that made your chest hurt spread out below, green and gold in the afternoon light.
Maisie arranged the sign on the rock with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert. She adjusted it. Stepped back. Adjusted it again. Tilted her head. Moved it half an inch to the left.
"Okay." She turned to me. Her face was serious. "I'm ready. Are you ready?"
I was terrified. I'd ridden two-thousand-pound bulls at full spin, and this five-pound ring box in my pocket had my hands shaking.
"Yeah, baby. I'm ready."
"You don't look ready. You look like you're going to throw up."
"That's what ready looks like when you're a grown-up."
"That's weird."
"Yeah. It is."
She reached up and took my hand. Her small fingers wrapped around mine and squeezed. Fierce. Certain. The same grip she'd used on the pinky promise, the same grip that saidI've got you and you've got me and this is how it works.
"She's going to say yes," Maisie said. "I already know."
"How do you know?"
"Because she smiles different when she talks about you. Like her whole face changes. Like the lights come on."
I crouched down. Looked at her. This kid. This extraordinary, fearless, negotiating, peninsula-knowing, chess-playing, boot-wearing kid who'd climbed into my lap at a party and changed the entire trajectory of my life.
"I love you," I said. "You know that, right?"
"I know." She patted my cheek. "I love you too. Now stand up. She's coming."
Maggie's truckappeared on the ridge road.
Callie was in the passenger seat. Maggie had told her I needed help with something at the south paddock — the misdirection was paper-thin, but Callie had been distracted, talking about a case study, and hadn't clocked it until Maggie parked at the wrong paddock and said, "Walk up the ridge. Trust me."
I heard her before I saw her. Boots on the trail. The sound of her breathing as the path climbed. Then she crested the ridge and stopped.
The lanterns. The wildflowers. The valley spread out below in the golden light. And Maisie — standing on the flat rock with the sign held above her head in both hands, her face splitting with a grin she physically could not contain, her whole body vibrating with the effort of not screaming.
And me. Hat off, because this moment didn't get a hat. Standing beside her daughter with a ring box in my hand and my heart in my throat.
Callie's hand went to her mouth. Her eyes went wide and then wet and her breath came out in a sound that was half gasp, half laugh. She looked at Maisie. She looked at me. She looked at the sign.
MARRY US.
"Clay." My name. Barely a whisper. Her chin was trembling.
