1
WES
By seven fifteen on Monday morning, I’d burned two pieces of toast, missed three calls from a livestock buyer in Billings, and discovered that my five-year-old daughter had decided pants were no longer a necessary part of getting dressed.
“Maisie!”
“WHAT?”
“Where are your jeans?”
“I don’t want jeans!”
I stood in front of the stove with a spatula in one hand and my phone in the other, staring at the hallway that led toward the downstairs bathroom. The smell of burnt bread hung in the kitchen, the coffee maker had been beeping at me for the past ten minutes, and somewhere upstairs, a cartoon theme song was playing at a volume that suggested Maisie had forgotten every conversation we’d ever had about the television.
I closed my eyes for a second.
“Baby, you can’t go to preschool without pants.”
“I have underwear!”
“Yeah, I know. Proud of you for that. But we’re gonna need a little more coverage.”
There was a pause.
Then, “Can I wear my princess dress?”
I glanced at the clock above the refrigerator.
Seven sixteen.
Preschool drop-off started at eight, and I had a conference call at eight thirty with a buyer who was interested in forty head of cattle. Graham needed updated transportation figures before nine, and Beau had asked me to look over the fall sales projections before our meeting that afternoon.
I hadn’t even brushed my teeth.
“Which princess dress?”
“The pink one!”
“The pink one with the glitter?”
“Yes!”
I considered my options.
The pink dress was currently hanging in the laundry room because Maisie had worn it to my parents’ house yesterday and managed to get chocolate frosting down the front.
“It’s dirty, sweetheart.”
“It’s not!”
“It has half a cupcake on it.”
“That was yesterday!”
I laughed despite myself.
“Pretty sure the frosting doesn’t know what day it is.”
My phone vibrated against my palm.
MARTIN KELLER
Of course.
I answered and tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder while reaching for the eggs.
“Morning, Martin.”
“Wes. You got a minute?”
“Sure do.”
A lie.
A spectacular one.
“Wanted to go over those shipping dates before I get tied up this afternoon.”
“Yeah, absolutely. Give me one second.”
I turned the burner down, grabbed a pen from beside the refrigerator, and pulled the nearest piece of paper toward me.
It was a drawing of a purple horse wearing what appeared to be a crown.
I turned it over.
“Okay. Go ahead.”
Martin started talking about transportation availability, weight estimates, and the possibility of moving the shipment up by two days.
I scribbled notes as quickly as I could.
Then Maisie appeared in the kitchen.
Wearing a sparkly pink tutu.
A yellow raincoat.
And one cowboy boot.
I stopped writing.
She smiled.
“Daddy!”
Martin was still talking.
I stared at my daughter.
She stared back.
I held up one finger.
She held up five.
I frowned.
She grinned.
I mouthed, Where are your pants?
She lifted the tutu.
I closed my eyes.
“Wes?” Martin asked.
“Yep. Sorry. Still here.”
“You get that?”
“Wednesday instead of Friday. I got it.”
“Good. And I’ll need confirmation on the numbers before noon.”
“Not a problem.”
It was absolutely a problem.
“Appreciate it.”
“You bet. Talk soon.”
I ended the call.
Then looked at Maisie.
She smiled sweetly.
“Do you like my outfit?”
I set the phone down.
“Sweetheart, you look like you’re about to attend a royal wedding in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
She beamed.
“Thank you!”
I laughed.
“Come here.”
She ran toward me, and I scooped her up with one arm.
Her little hands landed on my cheeks.
“Daddy, can I wear this?”
I studied her outfit.
The tutu was technically a skirt.
The raincoat was zipped all the way to her chin.
The single cowboy boot was pink.
“Where’s your other boot?”
She looked down.
“Oh.”
I waited.
She looked back up.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t.”
She giggled.
I kissed her cheek.
“Okay. Here’s the deal. You can wear the tutu if you put leggings underneath it.”
She considered that.
“Purple leggings?”
“Sure.”
“And both boots?”
“That’d be my preference.”
She nodded solemnly.
“Okay.”
“Good negotiation.”
I set her down.
She took two steps toward the hallway before turning around.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Can you make my eggs into a heart?”
I looked at the pan.
Then at the clock.
Seven twenty-one.
I had no idea how to make scrambled eggs into a heart.
But my daughter was looking at me like I’d personally invented breakfast.
“Absolutely.”
She grinned and disappeared.
I stared at the eggs.
Then reached for a cookie cutter.
Five years ago, I hadn’t known the first thing about raising a little girl.
I’d known cattle.
Horses.
Livestock contracts.
How to negotiate a fair price without letting somebody talk me into giving away half the ranch.
I’d grown up surrounded by brothers, which meant I knew how to throw a punch, take a joke, and survive an argument over the last piece of pizza.
Then Maisie was born.
And suddenly, none of that seemed particularly useful.
I learned how to change diapers.
How to warm bottles.
How to recognize the difference between a hungry cry and a tired one.
How to braid hair badly enough that Caroline Hawthorne eventually staged an intervention.
I’d learned that a five-year-old could ask seventeen questions between the front door and the truck.
That a scraped knee could require a bandage, three kisses, and an explanation of why skin sometimes bled.
And that nothing in the world could make me feel as helpless as hearing my daughter cry when I couldn’t immediately fix whatever was wrong.
Maisie had changed my entire life.
Not always in easy ways.
There were nights when I was so tired I could barely remember my own name. Days when I wondered whether I was giving her enough attention, whether I was handling things the right way, whether I was somehow screwing up the most important job I’d ever have.
But I wouldn’t have traded a second of it.
Even the mornings when she refused to wear pants.
Especially those.
By seven thirty-five, I’d managed to get her into purple leggings, both cowboy boots, and a clean shirt beneath the tutu.
The yellow raincoat stayed.
Apparently, it was essential.
I wasn’t interested in fighting that particular battle.
Maisie sat at the kitchen table with her breakfast while I packed her lunch.
She’d insisted on helping, which meant she’d placed exactly one apple in the lunchbox before becoming distracted by the stickers on the refrigerator.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do horses have birthdays?”
I glanced over my shoulder.
“Sure do.”
“Do they get cake?”
“Not usually.”
She frowned.
“That’s sad.”
I smiled.
“They get treats.”
“What kind?”
“Carrots. Apples. Sometimes special horse treats.”
She thought about that.
“Can Honey have a birthday party?”
I closed her lunchbox.
“Honey’s birthday isn’t until spring.”
“Can we have it early?”
I laughed.
“That’s not generally how birthdays work, baby.”
She sighed dramatically.
“Okay.”
I walked over and kissed the top of her head.
“Eat your eggs.”
She looked down.
Then back up.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not a heart anymore.”
I studied the plate.
The eggs had started as something vaguely resembling a heart.
Now they looked like a yellow pile of scrambled eggs.
I nodded.
“Yeah, well. Hearts are tricky.”
She smiled.
“It’s okay.”
“Thanks, bug.”
She picked up her fork.
“You tried.”
I laughed.
“Appreciate that.”
We made it out the door at seven forty-eight.
Which would’ve been a miracle if Maisie hadn’t remembered halfway down the porch steps that she’d forgotten Biscuit.
Biscuit was a stuffed buffalo she’d received from my parents the previous Christmas.
He went everywhere.
He’d attended preschool, family dinners, three livestock auctions, and one dentist appointment.
He’d also spent a night in the washing machine after Maisie dropped him into a puddle.
I’d been informed that he’d found the experience traumatic.
“Daddy! Biscuit!”
I stopped beside the truck.
“Where is he?”
“In my bed!”
I looked toward the house.
Then at the clock on my phone.
Seven forty-nine.
I could make it.
Probably.
“Stay right here on the porch, okay?”
She nodded.
I jogged back inside.
Up the stairs.
Down the hallway.
Into her bedroom.
Biscuit was lying beneath a pink blanket beside Princess Thunder, a stick horse she’d insisted needed its own pillow.
I grabbed him.
Then noticed the preschool folder sitting on her dresser.
Of course.
I grabbed that, too.
By the time I got back outside, Maisie was sitting on the porch step singing to herself.
She looked up.
“Did you get him?”
I held up the buffalo.
Her face lit up.
“BISCUIT!”
I handed him over.
She hugged him tightly.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
I crouched in front of her.
“Anything else we forgot?”
She considered it.
Then shook her head.
“Nope.”
“Shoes?”
She lifted both boots.
“Yep.”
“Lunch?”
I held up the bag.
“Yep.”
“Backpack?”
She pointed toward the truck.
“Yep.”
“Pants?”
She giggled.
“Daddy!”
I grinned.
“Just checking.”
She threw her arms around my neck.
I hugged her.
Then stood and carried her toward the truck.
“Let’s get you to school, bug.”
The drive into Aspen Ridge took a little over half an hour.
The ranch sat far enough outside town that the mornings felt quieter, especially once we passed the main gates and headed toward the highway.
The trees along the road had started changing color.
Gold and orange leaves moved in the breeze, and the fields beyond the fences were turning that particular shade of late-summer green that meant autumn was coming.
Maisie sat in her car seat behind me, Biscuit tucked beneath one arm.
She’d been talking for nearly ten minutes.
Something about a girl in her class named Olivia who had a new puppy.
I listened while keeping one eye on the road.
“And then Olivia said the puppy ate her sock.”
“Sounds like a hungry puppy.”
“No, Daddy. Puppies don’t eat socks because they’re hungry.”
“Oh?”
“They eat them because they’re naughty.”
I smiled.
“Fair enough.”
She continued explaining the situation in considerable detail.
Apparently, the puppy had also chewed a shoe.
And knocked over a plant.
And peed on the kitchen floor.
“Sounds like Olivia’s parents have their hands full.”
“Yep.”
There was a pause.
Then Maisie asked, “Can we get a puppy?”
I laughed.
“Nice try.”
“Pleeeeease?”
“Baby, we already have a ranch full of animals.”
“But none of them sleep in my bed.”
“That’s because horses don’t fit in your bed.”
She giggled.
“A puppy would.”
“Probably.”
“So?”
I smiled.
“We’ll talk about it another time.”
She sighed.
“Okay.”
I glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
She was looking out the window now, her little fingers stroking Biscuit’s head.
My chest softened.
“Hey, bug?”
She looked up.
“Yeah?”
“You excited for school?”
She nodded.
“We’re painting pumpkins.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“What color are you making yours?”
“Pink.”
I grinned.
“Shocking.”
She smiled.
“With sparkles.”
“Even more shocking.”
She giggled.
I reached back at the next stop sign and offered my hand.
She wrapped her little fingers around two of mine.
For a moment, we stayed like that.
Then the road cleared, and I put my hand back on the wheel.
Aspen Ridge was waking up when we drove through town.
Mabel’s Kitchen had a few trucks parked outside, and the bakery down the street had its lights on.
The Storybook’s front windows were decorated with paper leaves and little pumpkins.
I slowed near the intersection.
Maisie pressed her face toward the window.
“Daddy! Pumpkins!”
“I see ’em.”
“Can we get some?”
“Sure. Maybe this weekend.”
“Big ones?”
“Absolutely.”
“And little ones?”
“Those too.”
She smiled.
“Okay.”
I turned toward the preschool.
The parking lot was already filling up.
Parents carried backpacks, held little hands, and tried to convince children to hurry without sounding too desperate.
I parked near the entrance.
Then climbed out and opened Maisie’s door.
She reached for me immediately.
“Carry me?”
I smiled.
“Thought you were a big girl.”
“I am.”
“Big girls can walk.”
She considered that.
Then lifted her arms higher.
“Please?”
I laughed.
“Come here.”
I unbuckled her and lifted her onto my hip.
She wrapped her arms around my neck.
Biscuit was squished between us.
I grabbed her backpack and lunchbox with my free hand.
“Ready?”
She nodded.
We walked toward the entrance.
A little boy ran past us wearing a dinosaur backpack.
Maisie waved.
“Hi, Ben!”
He waved back.
“Hi, Maisie!”
She smiled.
Then leaned closer to my ear.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Ben likes me.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Oh, does he?”
She nodded seriously.
“He said I’m pretty.”
I smiled.
“Well, he’s got good taste.”
She giggled.
I kissed her cheek.
“Does he treat you nice?”
She nodded.
“He gave me a purple crayon yesterday.”
“Then he sounds like a good friend.”
She smiled.
“Yep.”
We reached her classroom.
Her teacher, Miss Allison, stood near the door greeting children.
“Good morning, Maisie!”
Maisie smiled.
“Hi!”
Miss Allison looked at her outfit.
“Oh, I love your tutu.”
Maisie beamed.
“Daddy said I could wear it if I put leggings on.”
“Very smart.”
I laughed.
“Team effort.”
Maisie wriggled in my arms.
I set her down.
She adjusted her backpack.
Then looked up at me.
For a moment, her smile faded.
“Daddy?”
I crouched.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Are you picking me up today?”
The question hit me harder than it should have.
“I’m going to try, sweetheart.”
Her little forehead wrinkled.
“Try?”
I swallowed.
“Mrs. Palmer might pick you up, remember? We talked about it last night.”
She looked down at Biscuit.
“Oh.”
I reached for her hand.
“Hey.”
She looked at me.
“Whoever picks you up, I’m gonna see you tonight. Okay?”
She nodded.
I brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her cheek.
“And we can make spaghetti for dinner.”
Her eyes brightened.
“With the little meatballs?”
I smiled.
“With the little meatballs.”
“And garlic bread?”
“Absolutely.”
She considered that.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
I opened my arms.
She stepped into them.
I hugged her tightly.
“Love you, bug.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
I kissed her forehead.
“Have a good day.”
She pulled back.
Then held up Biscuit.
“Can he stay in my backpack?”
“Sure.”
She tucked him inside.
Then took Miss Allison’s hand.
I stood.
Maisie walked into the classroom.
Halfway through the door, she turned.
“DADDY!”
I smiled.
“Yeah?”
“DON’T FORGET THE GARLIC BREAD!”
A few parents laughed.
I grinned.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She waved.
Then disappeared inside.
I stood there for another second.
Watching the doorway.
Then turned toward the parking lot.
My phone started ringing before I reached the truck.
By nine thirty, I was already behind schedule.
The call with Martin had run long.
The transportation company wanted revised loading times.
One of our regular buyers was asking about a different group of cattle than the ones we’d discussed last week.
And the spreadsheet I’d opened on my laptop had apparently decided that formulas were optional.
I sat at my desk in the ranch office, staring at the numbers.
“Come on,” I muttered.
I clicked another cell.
Nothing.
I sighed.
Then my phone buzzed.
MRS. PALMER
I answered immediately.
“Morning, Diane.”
“Hi, Wes. You got a minute?”
“Of course. Everything okay?”
“Oh, yes. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to talk to you about my schedule.”
I leaned back.
“Sure.”
Diane Palmer had been helping with Maisie for almost two years.
She was in her late fifties, lived just outside Aspen Ridge, and had raised three children of her own.
She was reliable, kind, and one of the few people Maisie trusted enough to let braid her hair without complaining.
I’d been lucky to find her.
“I wanted to let you know that my daughter is going to need some help with the twins,” she said. “Her husband’s work schedule is changing, and she’s having a difficult time finding someone for the afternoons.”
I frowned.
“Everything all right with them?”
“Oh, yes. They’re doing well. It’s just a lot with two little ones.”
I smiled.
“I can imagine.”
She laughed softly.
“Anyway, I’m going to be helping her more regularly starting next week.”
I sat up straighter.
“Okay.”
“I can still do mornings here and there, and I can help with Maisie on some weekends if you need me. But I won’t be able to cover the afternoon pickups the way I have been.”
I looked toward the calendar on my desk.
Next week.
The beginning of our busiest sales stretch.
I rubbed my forehead.
“Got it.”
“I feel terrible giving you such short notice.”
“Diane, don’t.”
I meant it.
“You’ve been a lifesaver for us. Your family comes first.”
She sighed.
“Thank you, Wes.”
“Of course.”
“I know this isn’t ideal.”
I looked at the calendar again.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
Every afternoon marked with something.
“No,” I said gently. “But we’ll figure it out.”
She promised to send me her updated availability later that day.
We talked for another minute.
Then I hung up.
And stared at my phone.
Well.
Shit.
I spent the next hour trying to make the schedule work.
Diane could still help two mornings a week.
Mom had offered to pick Maisie up on Thursdays when she was available.
Beau could occasionally cover an emergency.
Emerson had helped once or twice when I’d been stuck in town.
But everybody had their own responsibilities.
And the ranch wasn’t exactly slowing down.
I opened the calendar again.
Maisie was with me this week.
Next week, she’d be with Hannah.
Then back with me.
Alternating weeks had worked well for us since we’d settled into the arrangement.
Hannah and I had figured out a schedule that gave Maisie plenty of time with both of us.
We kept the same preschool routine.
The same bedtime expectations, as much as possible.
We talked about appointments, school events, and anything important that came up.
We weren’t together anymore, but we’d always agreed on one thing.
Maisie came first.
And I wasn’t interested in changing that.
I could’ve asked Hannah to take more of my parenting time during sales season.
She probably would’ve tried to help.
But she had her own work schedule and responsibilities, and it wasn’t fair to expect her to rearrange everything because mine had gotten complicated.
Besides, I wanted my time with my daughter.
I wanted the breakfasts.
The bedtime stories.
The spaghetti dinners.
Even the arguments about pants.
I didn’t want to spend the next two months handing her off to somebody else every time work got busy.
I wanted to find a way to make both parts of my life work.
I just didn’t know how.
Beau found me staring at my calendar shortly after eleven.
He knocked on the open office door.
“Got a minute?”
I looked up.
“Depends. You bringing good news?”
He smiled.
“Probably not.”
“Then no.”
He walked in anyway.
My older brother looked exactly like he always did at work—dark jeans, boots, a navy work shirt, and an expression that suggested he’d already solved three problems before breakfast.
He carried a folder.
I eyed it.
“Please tell me that’s not another contract.”
“Sales projections.”
I groaned.
He laughed.
“Morning going well?”
“Beautifully.”
He glanced at my desk.
Then at the coffee cup beside my laptop.
“You look tired.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. That’s exactly what every man wants to hear before lunch.”
Beau smiled.
Then set the folder down.
“What’s going on?”
I leaned back in my chair.
“Diane’s cutting back her hours.”
His expression changed.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Her daughter’s having trouble with childcare for the twins. Diane’s helping her.”
Beau nodded.
“Understandable.”
“Absolutely.”
I gestured toward my calendar.
“Just terrible timing.”
He pulled out the chair across from my desk.
“Let’s see.”
I turned the laptop toward him.
He studied the schedule.
Then frowned.
“That’s a lot of afternoons.”
“Yep.”
“Can Mom help?”
“Some. But she’s got her own stuff going on.”
“What about Hannah?”
I shook my head.
“I’m not asking her to rearrange our custody schedule because my sitter’s unavailable.”
Beau nodded.
“Fair.”
I rubbed my jaw.
“I’m trying to figure out another arrangement.”
“Maybe it’s time to hire someone.”
I looked at him.
“For the ranch?”
“For Maisie.”
I laughed.
“Like a nanny?”
He shrugged.
“Why not?”
I stared at him.
“Because I don’t need a nanny.”
Beau raised an eyebrow.
I gestured around the office.
“I need somebody who can pick her up from preschool a few days a week.”
“And help with afternoons.”
“Yeah.”
“And probably some evenings during sales season.”
I hesitated.
He looked at me.
“Wes.”
I sighed.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The older-brother thing where you look at me like you’ve already figured out the answer and you’re waiting for me to catch up.”
He smiled.
“Maybe I have.”
I shook my head.
He leaned back.
“Look, I’m not saying you need somebody raising your daughter for you.”
“I know.”
“But you’re trying to run the business side of a ranch and be available for every school pickup, every appointment, every afternoon. That’s a lot.”
I looked down at the calendar.
He continued.
“There’s nothing wrong with hiring professional help.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“I just don’t want Maisie feeling like I’m handing her off.”
Beau’s expression softened.
“You’re not.”
I didn’t answer.
He leaned forward.
“You’re her dad, Wes. Nobody’s questioning that.”
I looked at him.
“And hiring somebody to help doesn’t change it.”
I sighed.
“Yeah.”
He studied me for a moment.
Then said, “You know what she’d probably remember?”
“What?”
“That you were there for dinner. That you helped her with her school projects. That you weren’t stressed out every time your phone rang.”
I looked away.
He wasn’t wrong.
That was the annoying thing about Beau.
He could be stubborn as hell.
But when he was right, he was usually very right.
I stared at the calendar.
“Maybe.”
He nodded.
“Think about it.”
We spent the next hour going through sales projections.
The fall season was shaping up to be busy.
We had several buyers interested in our cattle, transportation schedules to coordinate, and a handful of contracts that needed careful attention before anything was finalized.
Beau handled the broader ranch operations.
I managed the business side, which meant a lot of calls, paperwork, negotiations, and trying to make sure we weren’t losing money because somebody had forgotten to account for fuel costs.
It wasn’t glamorous.
But I liked it.
I liked the challenge.
I liked knowing the work mattered.
And I liked being part of something my family had built over generations.
Still, by the time Beau closed the folder, I could feel a headache starting behind my eyes.
He noticed.
“You eat lunch?”
I glanced at the clock.
Twelve fifteen.
“Not yet.”
He sighed.
“Wes.”
I laughed.
“Jesus, you sound like Mom.”
“Somebody has to.”
I stood.
“Fine. I’ll eat.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
We walked toward the main office kitchen.
Graham was standing near the counter talking to Megan about a delivery schedule.
He looked up.
“Morning.”
“Afternoon,” I corrected.
He glanced at the clock.
“Barely.”
I grinned.
Megan smiled.
“There’s leftover chicken in the fridge if you want it.”
“Marry me.”
She laughed.
“Pretty sure my husband would object.”
“Worth asking.”
Beau shook his head.
I grabbed a container from the refrigerator and heated it.
While I waited, Graham asked about the revised transportation figures.
I gave him the update.
Megan reminded me about two invoices.
I made a note.
Then my phone rang again.
I looked at the screen.
Another buyer.
I sighed.
Beau glanced at me.
“Eat first.”
“I can do both.”
He held out his hand.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Phone.”
I laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
He smiled.
“Then put it down.”
I looked at the screen.
Then at the microwave.
Then back at Beau.
Finally, I declined the call and sent a quick message saying I’d call back in fifteen minutes.
Beau nodded.
“Progress.”
I shook my head.
“Insufferable.”
He grinned.
“Runs in the family.”
By two thirty, I had a plan.
Not a great one.
But a plan.
Mom could cover pickup today.
Diane could handle tomorrow.
Wednesday was going to require some creativity.
Thursday might work if I moved one meeting.
Friday was still a complete mystery.
I called Mom.
She answered after a few rings.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Mom. You busy?”
“Just finishing a few things around the house. What’s going on?”
I explained the situation.
She listened.
Then said, “Of course I can get Maisie today.”
Relief washed through me.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I love spending time with my granddaughter.”
“I know. Still appreciate it.”
She laughed.
“Have you eaten?”
I closed my eyes.
“Why does everybody keep asking me that?”
“Because you forget.”
“I ate.”
“What?”
“Chicken.”
“And?”
“Mom.”
She laughed.
“Fine.”
I smiled.
We talked about pickup time.
Then she said, “Wes, honey?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you don’t have to do everything yourself.”
I leaned back.
“Beau already gave me that speech.”
She laughed softly.
“Then maybe you should listen.”
I smiled.
“Yeah.”
“There’s no shame in needing help.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked toward the calendar.
I didn’t answer immediately.
Mom waited.
Finally, I sighed.
“I’m working on it.”
“Good.”
The afternoon disappeared.
One call turned into another.
A buyer changed his requested delivery window.
The transportation company needed confirmation.
Graham asked for updated figures.
I spent forty minutes reviewing a contract that should’ve taken ten.
By the time I finally looked at the clock, it was five twenty.
Shit.
I grabbed my phone.
Mom had sent a picture an hour earlier.
Maisie was sitting at the farmhouse kitchen table with a plate of cookies.
Her pink tutu was still on.
Her face was covered in chocolate.
I smiled.
Then read the message.
MOM: She’s having a wonderful time. Don’t rush. We’ll feed her dinner if you need.
I stared at the screen.
Don’t rush.
It was a generous offer.
A kind one.
Exactly the sort of thing my family always did.
And for some reason, it made my chest feel heavy.
Because I didn’t want my daughter eating dinner somewhere else tonight.
I’d promised spaghetti.
I’d promised garlic bread.
I’d promised I’d see her.
And I’d spent the entire day trying to figure out how to make that happen without disappointing somebody at work.
I called Mom.
She answered immediately.
“Hi, honey.”
“Hey. I’m coming to get her.”
“Are you sure? We can feed her.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.”
I grabbed my keys.
“Thanks again.”
“Anytime.”
I hung up.
Then shut down my laptop.
The remaining emails could wait.
For once, they were going to have to.
Maisie came running when I walked into my parents’ house.
“DADDY!”
I barely had time to crouch before she launched herself into my arms.
I caught her.
“Hey, bug.”
She wrapped her arms around my neck.
“You came!”
The words hit me straight in the chest.
I hugged her tighter.
“Of course I came.”
She pulled back.
“Grandma made cookies.”
“I heard.”
“And I helped.”
“I can tell.”
She looked confused.
I brushed a smudge of chocolate from her cheek.
She giggled.
Mom appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hey, Mom.”
She smiled.
“Everything okay?”
I nodded.
“Yeah. Just a long day.”
She studied me.
Then nodded.
“Maisie’s backpack is by the door.”
“Thanks.”
Maisie tugged on my shirt.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Are we still making spaghetti?”
I smiled.
“Absolutely.”
Her face lit up.
“With meatballs?”
“The little ones.”
She grinned.
“And garlic bread?”
I kissed her forehead.
“Wouldn’t forget it.”
We got home just after six.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the driveway.
Maisie ran inside ahead of me.
I followed with her backpack and lunchbox.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet, considering how much noise one little girl could make.
Then she yelled from the kitchen.
“DADDY! I’M HUNGRY!”
I laughed.
“Coming!”
I set my keys down and rolled up my sleeves.
We made spaghetti together.
Or rather, I made spaghetti while Maisie stood on her step stool and supervised.
She stirred the sauce.
Counted the meatballs.
Insisted on adding more cheese.
And asked whether we could have ice cream afterward.
I said maybe.
She informed me that maybe usually meant yes.
I told her she was getting too smart.
She grinned.
We ate at the kitchen table.
She told me about preschool.
About Olivia’s puppy.
About the pumpkin she’d painted pink.
About a boy named Ben who apparently still had excellent taste in crayons.
I listened.
Really listened.
My phone sat facedown on the counter.
It rang twice.
I ignored it.
Maisie didn’t notice.
She was too busy explaining why pink pumpkins were better than orange ones.
And for the first time all day, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
After dinner, we cleaned up together.
Maisie carried her plate to the sink.
I washed the dishes.
She wiped the table with a damp cloth and somehow managed to spread the crumbs farther than they’d been before.
Then we went upstairs.
Bath time took longer than expected because Biscuit apparently needed to sit on the bathroom counter and supervise.
Maisie changed into pink pajamas covered in little horses.
I brushed her hair.
Badly.
She informed me that Grandma did it better.
I told her Grandma had more practice.
Then we read two books.
One about a princess.
One about a horse.
Naturally.
By eight thirty, she was tucked beneath her blanket with Biscuit beside her.
I sat on the edge of her bed.
She looked up at me.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Are you busy tomorrow?”
I swallowed.
“Got some work.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
I brushed her hair away from her forehead.
“Why?”
She looked at her blanket.
“Can you pick me up?”
My chest tightened.
I took a breath.
“I’m gonna try, sweetheart.”
She nodded again.
Then whispered, “Okay.”
I hated that answer.
Not because it was wrong.
Because she was five.
And she was already learning that her dad was always trying to make time.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“Hey.”
She looked up.
“I love you more than anything in the whole world.”
She smiled.
“I love you more.”
I grinned.
“Impossible.”
“Nope.”
“Pretty sure.”
She giggled.
I kissed her again.
“Goodnight, baby.”
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
I stood.
Turned off the lamp.
And walked toward the door.
“Daddy?”
I stopped.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t forget me tomorrow.”
I froze.
Then turned back.
Maisie was lying beneath her blanket, looking at me with sleepy blue eyes.
I crossed the room and crouched beside her bed.
“Hey, bug.”
She looked at me.
“I could never forget you.”
She nodded.
I brushed my thumb across her cheek.
“Not ever.”
She smiled faintly.
“Okay.”
I kissed her forehead one more time.
Then stayed until her breathing evened out.
Downstairs, the kitchen was clean.
The house was quiet.
My phone had six missed calls and eleven unread emails.
I sat at the table.
Opened my laptop.
And stared at the calendar.
The same one I’d been staring at all day.
Tomorrow.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Friday.
Every square filled with obligations.
Every afternoon dependent on somebody else being available.
I rubbed my face.
I loved my job.
I loved the ranch.
I loved being part of something my family had worked so hard to build.
But I loved my daughter more.
And I was tired of making promises I couldn’t confidently keep.
Beau’s words came back to me.
There’s nothing wrong with hiring professional help.
I looked toward the stairs.
Maisie was asleep.
Safe.
Happy.
Loved.
And tomorrow, she’d wake up and ask me whether I was picking her up again.
I didn’t want to keep saying I’d try.
I wanted to know.
I opened a new tab on my laptop.
Typed a few words into the search bar.
Experienced nanny services Montana.
Then I leaned back in my chair.
For a moment, I just stared at the screen.
I’d spent years convincing myself I could handle everything if I worked hard enough.
The ranch.
The business.
Fatherhood.
The constant balancing act between all three.
But maybe being a good father didn’t mean doing every single thing myself.
Maybe it meant making sure my daughter had the stability she deserved.
Even if that meant admitting I needed help.
I reached for my coffee.
Cold.
Of course.
I took a drink anyway.
Then opened the first search result.
And started looking for someone who could help me give my daughter the kind of life she deserved.
