"Rosie appreciates thoroughness."
"Rosie is a horse."
I adjusted my hat. She'd textedwe'd like to comeinstead ofMaisie wants to come.We. She'd included herself. On purpose.
The car turned in. Maisie's voice hit the air before the engine cut.
"Clay! Is that Starlight? Is she in the barn? Can I brush her today? You pink promised."
She was out of the car and running before Callie had the keys out of the ignition. Pink boots, blonde ringlets, backpack bouncing like it was trying to escape. She hit the fence line and grabbed two rails like a woman taking possession of property.
"Starlight. Where?”
"Barn. Stall three. But we've got rules first."
"I know the rules." She ticked them off on her fingers with the authority of a Supreme Court justice. "No running in the barn. No shouting near the horses. Quiet hands. Ask before you touch. And — and —" She faltered.
"And always tell an adult where you are."
"I knew that one." She looked up at me. "Can we go now?"
I looked past her to Callie, walking toward us at a pace that was careful and deliberate. Jeans and a blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled and her hair down, loose around her shoulders, catching the light in a way that made my mouth go dry.
Fuck, she's gorgeous.
Just like that. Ten a.m. on a Saturday with Maisie as an audience and my brain reduced to a single, useless thought.
"Morning," Callie said. Her voice was careful. But her eyes did a quick sweep of me — hat to boots and back — so fast Ialmost missed it. Almost. A flush crept up the side of her neck, and she swallowed, and I felt that swallow somewhere behind my ribs.
"Morning." I tipped my hat. Smiled slow, because I couldn't help it. "Nice flannel."
"It's laundry day."
"Must be. You look terrible."
Her mouth twitched. She was fighting a smile and losing. "You're not funny."
"I'm a little funny."
"You're a lot of things, Blackwood. Funny is debatable."
There it was. The spark behind the wall. The thing she did where her voice saidstopand her eyes saidkeep going.
We looked at each other. The hilltop was right there between us. Her lips parted, just slightly, and I watched her breath catch — watched her gaze drop to my mouth for half a second before she pulled it back. The composure sliding into place like a door she was holding shut with both hands.
"Miss Lou said there were cookies left over," Maisie announced, cutting through the moment with the surgical precision of a child who smelled baked goods.
Maisie grabbed my hand. "Starlight first."
I let her drag me toward the barn. Looked back once. Callie was still by the fence — her eyes on us, her daughter's hand in mine, the pink boots kicking up dust — and the expression on her face was something open and aching and quickly concealed. Then she followed.
Starlight was in stall three, head over the door, ears pricked forward. Maisie stopped. Went completely still — that other gear she had, the quiet focused one that kicked in around horses, like she understood the animal kingdom required a different frequency.
"Hi, Starlight," she whispered. "It's me. Maisie. We met before, but you were outside, and now you're in your house."
She produced a carrot from her backpack, wrapped in a paper towel decorated with horse stickers. "It's organic. Mommy says organic is better. I don't know what organic means, but it sounds fancy."
I crouched beside her. "Hand flat. Let her come to you."
