"Yeah," I say. "I think I do."
She unclenches her hands.
The composure drops entirely.
Then the full smile comes out from underneath it, wide, undefended, completely unmanaged, the one that goes all the way up to her eyes and keeps going. The one that is her mother's smile on her face and mine underneath it and completely its own thing on top of all of that.
She crosses the barn in about four steps and wraps both arms around my waist and I put my hand on the back of her head and we stand there in the barn, the horses quiet around us, the ranch morning going on outside.
From the far end of the barn Silas says, without turning around, "Congratulations."
Maisie laughs against my shirt.
I look at the barn ceiling.
"Thanks Silas," I say.
"Mm," he says.
He keeps working.
Maisie's helping turns out to be comprehensive.
I discover this over the course of Friday afternoon as she follows me through the ranch with a notepad she found somewhere, a pencil behind her ear, and the focused organizational energy of a person who has been waiting for a project worthy of her full attention.
She has questions.
Many questions.
"Where are you going to do it?" she asks. First thing. Pencil ready.
"I've been thinking about the south pasture," I say. "Near the creek. Where we held the fence line in the storm."
She writes something down. Nods with the assessing expression of someone evaluating a location for logistical suitability. "Good sight lines," she says. "Nice light in the evening."
I look at my eight year old daughter evaluating sight lines for a proposal location.
"Where did you learn about sight lines?" I say.
"Books," she says, without looking up from the notepad.
We walk the south pasture together in the Friday afternoon sun.
She stands at the creek boundary where the sandbag line is still visible and turns slowly, looking at the hill line, the fence, the ranch house visible in the distance, the evening light already starting its work on the landscape.
"Here," she says. Points at a spot near the old oak at the bend of the creek. "Right here. The light hits that tree at about six o'clock and it's the best light on the whole property."
I look at the tree.
She's right.
Of course she's right.
"Okay," I say. "Here."
She writes it down.
"Who's coming?" she says. Next question. Pencil poised.
