Her mother's face — Callie, her name was Callie, I'd learned it at the Fort Worth rodeo three days ago and hadn't stopped turning it over in my head since — was pure amusement. She was shaking her head, arms crossed, one hip cocked, watching her daughter assault my kneecaps with the resigned affection of a woman who'd long ago stopped being surprised by anything this child did.
I crouched down to Maisie's level. "Hey, sweetheart. You made it."
"I made it! Mommy said we were coming to a party and I said is Clay going to be there and she said maybe and I said he better be because he owes me a riding lesson."
I held out my pinky. "A deal's a deal. Riding lessons. Soon as your mom says it's okay."
Maisie hooked her tiny pinky around mine with the solemnity of a Supreme Court justice. Her hand was impossibly small and warm…and a little sticky. She gripped my finger with everything she had.
Then she leaned in and whispered, loudly enough for half the party to hear: "I told all my friends you're my cowboy."
Something cracked in my chest. The real kind — the kind that happens when a five-year-old claims you and you realize you'd fight God for her.
I straightened up and made my approach. Full confidence. The grin. The lean.
"We meet again," I said, and tipped my hat because I was Clay Blackwood, and I tipped my hat. It was a whole thing.
Callie Monroe looked at me, and the corner of her mouth twitched. "Mr. Blackwood."
"Clay. Nobody calls me Mr. Blackwood except the IRS and my mom when I'm in trouble."
Her brows raised a fraction. “And are you in trouble?"
I shrugged once, noncommittal. “Depends on who you ask."
She laughed — short, easy, not the careful kind. "Thank you again for helping Maisie at the arena. She hasn't stopped talking about you. I believe she's already drafted a contract for those riding lessons. Terms and conditions. She's very thorough."
"Smart kid. She gets that from you, I'm guessing."
"She gets the audacity from her mother, yes."
I laughed. The delivery was so dry and so fast that it hit me before I had my charm shield up. She wasfunny. And she wasn't guarded like I'd expected — she was composed. Settled. A woman who knew exactly where her feet were and didn't need anyone to help her find the ground.
"Cornhole!" Weston appeared with Savannah in tow, two fresh beers in his hands, grinning the grin of a man about to start trouble. "Teams. Me and Clay versus Callie and Sav. Let's go, ladies. Prepare to be humiliated."
Savannah rolled her eyes. "You say that every time, and you lose every time."
"Tonight's different. I've got a world champion on my team.” Sometimes I was convinced he had forgotten he was a world champion in his own right.
Callie looked at Savannah. Savannah looked at Callie. Something passed between them — a silent, female communication that should have terrified us.
"You're on," Callie said. And smiled.
That smile. I needed a minute.
We set up near the barn. The boards were beat-up plywood Hunter had painted with the Blackwood brand, and the bags were filled with dried corn from last season. Weston and I had played a thousand games on this setup — on porches, in parking lots, at every rodeo afterparty from here to Montana.
Callie picked up a bag, tested the weight, and tossed a warm-up shot that arced clean through the air and landed dead center on the board with a satisfying thwack.
"Beginner's luck," Weston said.
"That wasn't luck, sweetheart," Savannah said. "That was a warning."
It was. Over the next twenty minutes, Callie and Savannah systematically dismantled us. Callie threw with her whole body — a smooth step, a fluid release, her hips turning into the follow-through in a way that made my brain go somewhere unhelpful. The jeans she was wearing shouldn't have been legal. Every time she stepped into a throw, every time she planted her front foot and let her body follow through, I got a full, unobstructed view of curves that made my mouth go dry, and my blood go south. I hadto take a breath. A deliberate, controlled,get-yourself-togetherbreath, because my body was reacting like I was nineteen and not thirty-one, and this was a family party. Not to mention, I was standing next to one of my closest friends.
She trash-talked with a grin that should've come with a warning label. "That was your best shot?" she called after Weston's bag slid off the board. "I've seen better aim from Maisie. She's five."
"She's lying," Weston muttered to me. "She's a ringer. Savannah brought a ringer."
