"What?"
"The landlord." She rested her arms on the fence rail. "That's what I call mine. The voice that says your plans are clutter. Thatyou're not qualified for the thing you want. It doesn't pay rent. It doesn't contribute anything useful. But it acts like it owns the place."
"When did yours get quieter?"
"When I stopped giving it a key." The corner of her mouth lifted. "I argue back now. Callie Monroe, attorney for the defense. Of whatever I decide I want." She looked at me — direct, open. "You should build your program. Because you lit up just now talking about that colt in a way you've never lit up talking about the arena. And I would know — I've been watching."
I've been watching.
So had I. And neither of us had been subtle about it.
I stared at her. She stared back. The yearling trotted behind us and neither of us noticed.
We were close. Both at the same section of fence, close enough that I could smell her shampoo over the dust and horse. Her hand on the fence rail shifted — her pinky moving a centimeter closer to mine. Not touching. Almost. The gap between our hands was more intimate than any kiss because she was choosing it. Holding it. Not closing it and not pulling away.
"You're kind of terrifying, you know that?" My voice came out lower than I intended.
"I've been told. Mostly by opposing counsel." She pushed off the fence — and the break in proximity felt like stepping out of sunlight into shade. "Come on. If we leave Maisie with your mother and Maggie for more than twenty minutes, they'll have enrolled her in Sunday school and assigned her a pony of her own."
"You're not wrong."
"I'm never wrong. It's exhausting."
Late afternoon. Maisie in the paddock with Rosie and Jack. Callie on the porch with tea and her shoulders down for the first time all day.
I sat beside her.
"You've got hay in your hair," I said.
She reached up. "Where?"
"Here." I pulled a piece from behind her ear. My fingers brushed the skin there and the contact ran through me like a current. "Evidence of a good day."
"Or evidence that your barn needs sweeping."
"My barn is immaculate. Ask Jack."
"Jack seems honest."
"Brutally. It's his worst quality and his best. Don't tell him I said that."
Her eyes were on me — half amusement, half something she wasn't ready to name.
"Can I say something?" I said.
"That's usually a dangerous opening."
"I want to be on your list. Your call list. Your team. When something comes up — when you're stuck at work, when Maisie needs picking up, when it's an emergency or not. You've been doing this alone for a long time. You don't have to."
She didn't say anything for a long time. Watched Maisie lead Rosie in careful circles, pink boots in the dust, Jack steady beside them.
"We're friends," I said. Quieter now. "I care about you and that kid out there. That's not complicated."
"Nothing about you is uncomplicated, Clay Blackwood."
"This is. This one thing. Let me be on the list. No strings. No expiration."
She turned to look at me. Those eyes — the ones I'd first seen under the lights at Fort Worth, wide and blazing as she scooped up a lost little girl — were fighting something.
