"This is why you were single for twelve years."
"I wasn't single for —"
"Twelve. Years." She held up her fingers. Counted them. Turned back to Callie with the efficiency of a woman who'd been dismissing her brother since childhood. "The town. Tell me."
"I've branched out," Callie said. "I found the good grocery store. The less good grocery store. The bakery that does the thing with the cinnamon rolls —"
"Millie's," Maggie and Momma said at the same time.
"Millie's. Maisie and I go Sunday mornings when she's home. She tells Millie about the horses. Millie gives her extra frosting. It's a whole system."
"Millie gives everyone extra frosting," Momma said. "It's how she maintains power."
"I also found the library," Callie said. "The one with the reading nook that looks like a treehouse. Maisie won't leave. I have to physically carry her out, and she narrates the injustice the entire way to the car."
"Mommy. The books weren't finished."
"The books will be there next time, baby."
"But what if they get lonely?"
Maggie grinned. "She's got you there."
"She's got me everywhere," Callie said. But she was smiling — the easy one, the one that came without effort when she was around people who weren't keeping score. "It's a good town. It's — it took me a while to stop waiting for the catch. In Dallas, everything came with conditions. The neighborhood, the school, the women at the club. Everything was transactional. Here people just..." She trailed off. Picked up her fork. Put it down.
"Just what?" Momma asked. Gentle.
"Wave at you in the parking lot for no reason. Hold doors. Ask how Maisie's doing and actually wait for the answer." She shook her head. "Bev told me on my first day that Copper Creek grows on you like ivy. Slow, then everywhere. She wasn't wrong."
Momma and Maggie exchanged a look — the Blackwood women's silent language, the one that communicated entire conversations in a single glance.
"Well," Momma said. "You're ours now. That's how it works."
Callie laughed — surprised, warm, her head tipping back and her throat long and golden in the light. I forgot what forks were for.
Jack kicked me under the table. Gently. Pointedly. I closed my mouth and went back to my sandwich.
After lunch, Maisie demanded a return to the barn. Callie started to follow, but I caught her eye.
"Can I show you something? Maisie'll be fine with Momma and Maggie for a minute."
"Is this the cowboy equivalent of 'come look at my etchings'?"
I laughed. "It's a horse, Callie. My etchings are in the house, and you have to earn those."
She bit her lip. Trying not to smile. Losing. "Lead the way, Blackwood."
I took her to the south paddock. The bay colt was moving with that natural collection you couldn't train into a horse — it either had it, or it didn't.
"Watch him," I said. "See how he shifts through the turns? That's cutting instinct. He could be the foundation of something."
"Something?"
"Jack and I have been talking about a breeding program. Performance quarter horses — cutting, reining, ranch versatility." I watched the colt move. "I've been up past midnight studying bloodlines and I don't know if it's real or if I'm just running from the only thing I've ever been good at."
Callie watched the colt. Actually seeing it — the movement, the potential.
"You know what that voice is?" she said. "The one that says you're pretending?"
