She looked at me with those huge, tear-filled eyes. Her bottom lip was trembling so hard it was practically vibrating.
"I lost my mommy," she whispered.
"Okay. We're going to find her. Can you tell me your name?"
She sniffed hard, wiped her nose on her hand, and studied me with the suspicious intensity only small children and federal agents could pull off.
"Are you a real cowboy?"
That knocked a laugh out of me. "Yeah, darlin'. I'm a real cowboy."
She considered this. Looked at my hat. My boots. My competition number. "My mommy says I'm not s'posed to talk to strangers."
"Your mommy sounds like a smart lady."
"She's the smartest." Absolute, unshakeable conviction. "She knows about dinosaurs and she knows how to make the bestest grilled cheese and she knows all the words to 'Let It Go.'"
My mouth twitched. "That's a pretty impressive résumé."
"What's a rezza-may?"
"It means she sounds amazing."
She nodded solemnly. Then her face crumpled again. "But I can't find her and I been looking and looking and there's too many peoples and I want my mommy."
"Hey, hey." I held up both hands. "I'm going to help you, okay? That's what real cowboys do. We help people."
"Pinky promise?"
I extended my pinky. Hers barely wrapped around mine, and the fierce way she gripped it—like she was holding on with everything she had—hit me somewhere I wasn't expecting.
"I'm Clay."
"I'm Maisie. Maisie Elizabeth Ashford-Monroe. My mommy says I have to say the whole thing so peoples know which Maisie."
"Well, Maisie Elizabeth Ashford-Monroe." I tipped my hat.
Her green eyes went wide with a gasp. "You tipped your hat! Like in the movies!"
I stood and held out my hand. She slipped hers into mine—warm, small, sticky in the way children's hands were always sticky, from some unknowable source that probably involved candy.
"Where we going?" she asked, practically jogging to keep up. I shortened my steps.
"To find my mom."
Maisie looked up at me, curiosity etched into her little features. "Is she nice?"
"She's the nicest person I know. She also makes the second-best grilled cheese in Texas."
She frowned. ”Who makes the bestest?"
"Your mom, apparently. We'll have to set up a competition."
Maisie giggled, and the sound hit me like sunlight after a week of rain—bright, sudden, completely disorienting.
"Clay?"
“Yeah, sweetheart?"
