Maisie named the horse before we got out of the car.
"Starlight. Her name is Starlight because she has a star on her head and I already decided, Mommy. Don't you think Starlight is the best name?"
"It's a beautiful name, baby."
"I drew her a picture at school. Three pictures. One is her eating carrots, one is her running, and one is her and Rosie being best friends." She was unbuckling before I'd turned off the engine, practically climbing out the window. "Is Clay here? Where’s Clay?"
This was for Maisie.
I said it to myself like a woman reciting an alibi as I parked at the Blackwood Ranch. This was for my daughter, who had talked about this mare every single night since Clay texted a photo on Tuesday — a chestnut with a white star on her forehead, standing in a paddock, with the message:Got a new mare coming in. She doesn't have a name yet. Think Maisie might want the job?Maisie had seen the photo over my shoulder,screamed at a pitch that made the neighbor's dog bark, and had been planning the naming ceremony ever since.
This was for Maisie.
It was absolutely, categorically not for the man standing at the paddock fence with Jack, hat tipped back, sleeves rolled, talking with his hands the way he did when he forgot to perform. Clay was in his element — I could see it from fifty feet away. He was gesturing toward a chestnut mare in the round pen while Jack nodded beside him, and the animation in his face — the focus, the excitement, the complete absence of swagger — made something shift that I immediately told to stop shifting.
He looked up when Maisie's voice hit the air. His whole face changed.
"There she is! The official Blackwood Ranch Horse Namer!"
Maisie’s hand left mine and she went sprinting to him. “Is that her? Is that Starlight?"
Clay laughed as he scooped her up in his arms. "That's her, cowgirl. Want to meet her?"
I watched them at the fence — Clay lifting Maisie to sit on the top rail, one arm secure around her waist, fielding questions with the patience of a man who had nowhere else to be.
"What does she eat?"
"Hay, grain, and carrots. She's a big fan of carrots like Rosie."
"Does she like rain?"
“She does.”
“I’m glad she’s not scared. Is she fast?"
"She's going to be. She's got speed in her bloodline."
"Can she be Rosie's best friend?"
"I think that's up to Rosie. But I've got a good feeling."
"What's her favorite color?"
Clay didn't blink. "Green. Because of the grass."
"That makes sense," Maisie said, with the solemnity of a scientist confirming a hypothesis.
"See that white star on her forehead? That's how you know she's special. Not every horse gets a star."
"Like a superpower?"
"Exactly like a superpower."
Maisie turned to me, blazing. "Mommy, she has a superpower!”
I smiled. Because my daughter was sitting on a ranch fence in pink boots, being told by a champion bull rider that a horse had a superpower, and she believed it with every cell in her body. How could I not smile at that?
Clay caught my eye over Maisie's head. Didn't wink. Didn't grin. Just looked at me with something quiet and warm that saidI see you standing there pretending this isn't getting to you.
