"Today?"
"Right now. If that's okay."
She hesitated. Then nodded. "Okay. But Hunter — she's just a little girl. She's not going to understand who you are or why you're there. And if this doesn't work out—"
"It's going to work out."
"You can't know that."
"Watch me."
DELLA LANE'S HOUSEwas a modest bungalow on the outskirts of Bitter Root, with a chain-link fence and a yard full of children's toys. Wind chimes hung from the porch, and a hand-painted sign by the door read "Della's Daycare — Where Every Child Blooms."
Dixie's hand trembled as she reached for the doorbell.
"Hey." I caught her fingers. "It's going to be fine."
"What if she doesn't like you?"
"Kids love me. I'm basically a giant playground with better snacks."
That surprised a laugh out of her. "You're ridiculous."
"But in a charming way, right?"
The door opened before she could answer.
Dixie’s mother was a sturdy woman in her mid-fifties with Dixie's eyes and flour dusting her apron. She took one look at us — at our joined hands, at the way I was standing slightly behind her daughter like a nervous teenager — and her features went knowing.
"Well," she said. "This is a surprise."
"Mama." Dixie's voice wobbled. "This is Hunter. Hunter Massey."
"I know who he is. Town's been buzzing about you two since May Tidwell started posting pictures." Della's gaze assessed me slowly, head to toe. "You'd better come inside."
The house smelled like cookies and crayons. Children's artwork covered the refrigerator. Somewhere in the back, I could hear the theme song from a cartoon playing.
"She's in the living room," Della said. "Just woke up from her nap. Fair warning — she's got opinions."
Dixie led me down a short hallway. We stopped in the doorway.
A little girl sat on a rug surrounded by stuffed animals, her curly blonde hair wild around her face. She was deep in conversation with a threadbare rabbit, explaining very seriously about whose turn it was to have the purple crayon.
"Daisy, baby." Dixie's voice went soft. "There's someone here to meet you."
Daisy turned. Her brown eyes — exactly like her mother's — landed on me.
"You're tall," she announced.
"I am," I agreed solemnly. "It's a condition. Very serious."
She considered this. "I'm short."
"That's okay. Short people have more fun. You're closer to the ground, so you don't fall as far."
A giggle escaped her. She covered her mouth with both hands, eyes bright.
I crouched down to her level. "I'm Hunter. I'm a friend of your mom's."
