"That isnotall," Theo said. "That is the opening act. You gave a cowboy classified tea intelligence, Beverly."
"It's tea, Theo. Not state secrets."
"It'sromantictea. There's a difference."
I pointed at the Mercer files on his desk. "Work. Now."
Theo retreated, but the grin on his face could've powered the building. Bev returned to her filing with an air of injured innocence that fooled no one.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the morning's case files and did not think about the tin in my drawer. I did not think about a cowboy tracking down my tea brand through my office manager at a general store like some kind of Earl Grey espionage operation.
I opened the drawer three times before lunch.
The Maisie situation was reaching critical mass.
Every night. Every single night since the party. The same loop: Clay, the horses, the ranch, the pinky promise, the riding lessons, asking when we were going back, if we could go tomorrow, what about Tuesday becauseClay said he'd teach me, a pinky promise is a real promise, Mommy.
She'd drawn a picture of him at school. A tall stick figure in a cowboy hat next to a brown horse next to a smaller stick figure with yellow scribbles for hair that was clearly Maisie. She'd labeled it in her wobbly sometimes backwards kindergarten letters:Me and Clay and the hors.
It was on the fridge. I didn't know how it got on the fridge. It just appeared there, held up by a magnet shaped like Texas, and every time I opened the refrigerator door, it looked at me with its crayon eyes and judged me.
By Thursday, I broke.
Not because of Clay. Because of Maisie — because my daughter had been promised something by someone who wasn't her father, and the promise was still standing, and every night that passed without it being kept was another night she'd learn that adults couldn't be trusted. I refused to let Clay Blackwood become another broken promise in her collection because I was too nervous to make it happen.
I found the Blackwood Ranch number through the Copper Creek directory. A landline, because of course, this family had a landline. I dialed during my lunch break with the office door closed, expecting a voicemail or maybe one of the brothers.
A woman answered on the second ring. "Blackwood Ranch.” It was Louisa Blackwood.
"Hi — Mrs. Blackwood? This is Callie Monroe. We met at the —"
"Callie! Oh, honey, of course. How are you? How's that gorgeous girl of yours?"
The warmth hit me like a wall. Not performed warmth — the real kind, the kind that makes you feel like you've been wrapped in something soft.
"She's good. She's great, actually. That's sort of why I'm calling." I twisted the phone cord — they had a phone with a cord, this family was unbelievable — "Maisie hasn't stopped talking about the riding lessons Clay mentioned. I know he was probably just being polite, and I don't want to impose, but she's been asking every night, and I thought maybe I should —"
Louisa laughed. The kind of laugh that made you feel like you'd said something delightful instead of something awkward.
"Being polite? Honey, Clay has been asking me every day this week if I've heard from you. He's got a mare picked out and everything. He's been unbearable." She saidunbearablewith a mother's pride so thick I could've spread it on toast. "You bring that baby out here Saturday morning. We'll make a whole thing of it — riding lessons, the horses, I'll have lunch ready. Clay will be over the moon, and frankly, so will I. This house needs more little girl energy."
I opened my mouth to set boundaries — just the lesson, we won't stay long, I don't want to be any trouble.
"Ten o'clock?" Louisa said. "I'll have lemonade."
"That's — yes. Ten o'clock. Thank you, Mrs. Blackwood."
"Louisa, honey. Or Lou. Only person who ever called me Mrs. Blackwood was the tax assessor, and that man had the personality of a filing cabinet."
I laughed. Actually laughed — the startled kind that escapes before you can catch it. This woman was impossible to resist, and I suspected she knew it, and I suspected she'd been weaponizing it against her children and their romantic interests for decades.
"Saturday at ten," I said. "Just for Maisie."
"Just for Maisie," Louisa agreed, and the smile in her voice said she wasn't buying that for a second.
Saturday. Blackwood Ranch. And my daughter was going to vibrate out of her skin.
“Mommy! Mommy! Is that the barn? Is that where the horses live? Can I touch them? Can Iridethem? Where's Clay? Is Clay even here?"
