I sat on the edge of the bathtub and watched her navigate the rubber duck through a complex underwater journey that seemed to involve a quest and a betrayal.
"I like the sounds," she said. Definitive. Like she was making a ruling. "Big doesn't mean good."
I breathed through it. "No, baby. Big doesn't mean good."
She looked at me then — full eye contact, clear and steady in a way she hadn't been since Thursday.
"Can we go see Starlight this week?"
"Saturday, baby. Clay said Saturday."
"Is Saturday far?"
"Five days."
She counted on pruny fingers. Nodded once, satisfied with the math.
"Okay. Five days is not so bad." She went back to the duck. "Gerald the caterpillar waited twelve days to become a butterfly, and he didn't even complain."
I laughed. The one my daughter pulled out of me like a magician pulling scarves from a hat — unexpected, endless, impossible to stop once it started.
Later. Couch. Maisie was asleep in her room with the purple butterflies and her horse, and the door was cracked two inches because she liked to hear my sounds from the living room.
I opened my phone. Found Clay's text from Friday. The books. The ranch table.No rush.
I typed:We'd like to come Saturday. If the offer still stands.
His reply came in under a minute. Just:
It always stands.
I put the phone down. Pulled the blanket over my legs. Stared at the ceiling.
Three words. Simple, direct, asking nothing.
And the plan I'd spent five days rebuilding didn't stand a chance.
Chapter 9
Clay
She came back.
I'd told myself she might not. Spent Sunday through Friday running scenarios the way I used to run bulls — assessing the angles, measuring the odds, preparing for the dismount. She'd textedWe'd like to come Saturday.I'd repliedIt always stands.And then I'd stared at the ceiling for two hours, wondering if three words were too much or not enough and whether "always" was a declaration I hadn't earned yet.
But Saturday morning, ten o'clock, her car came up the drive.
I was at the paddock fence with Jack, pretending to discuss the yearling evaluations. Jack had been watching me check the driveway every thirty seconds for twenty minutes.
"She'll get here when she gets here," he said.
"I'm looking at the yearlings."
"You're looking at the road."
"The road is near the yearlings."
Jack almost smiled. "The mare's stall is clean. The books are on the table. You brushed Rosie twice this morning. She doesn't need to be brushed twice."
