The garden notes are specific. Soil preparation, planting schedule, the varieties of things Maisie has been researching with a focus that suggests she has plans of her own.
A list of what grows well in Texas heat, plus a note about the raised beds I want to build along the south wall before spring.
A note at the bottom that says:Laney picks what goes in it. Her garden.
She looks up from the notebook.
Looks at me.
"Her garden," she says quietly.
"Yours," I say. "Everything here is yours as much as mine. You know that."
She holds my gaze for a long moment.
Then she reaches across the table and closes the notebook gently, her hand resting on the cover for a second before she pulls it back.
"Sixty four pages," she says softly.
"And counting," I say.
She looks at the closed notebook, then at me, then out at the ranch through the kitchen window, the evening light going gold across the pastures, the arena frame visible from here catching the last of the sun.
"Beckett," she says.
"Yeah."
"Whatever you're planning." She meets my eyes. "Don't wait too long."
I look at her across the kitchen table.
Pearl said the same thing.
That probably should've concerned me more than it did.
I reach into the desk drawer and feel the small box there without taking it out.
Not yet.
But Thursday is not the right day.
Soon though.
Very soon.
Maisie finds the ring on Friday morning.
I know this because at nine-fifteen she appears in the barn doorway where I'm working with Silas on the new feed system installation and she is wearing the expression of someonecarrying information so important it has physically changed her posture.
She's standing straighter. Her eyes are doing something complicated, bright and careful at the same time. She has both hands clasped in front of her like a person in a formal meeting.
Silas looks at her.
Looks at me.
Picks up his tools and walks to the other end of the barn with the quiet tact of a man who has read a situation correctly and removed himself from it efficiently.
I look at Maisie.
