ColtonBy the time I get back upstairs, Maddie’s face-down in her books, fast asleep. Her little body is hunched over her white wooden desk and a white notecard is still clasped in her hand. As I pick her up and place her into bed, she mutters something that sounds an awful lot like, “Benedict Arnold.”
I sit with her for a while, stroking her hair back to her side. Like all fathers, I’m amazed at how much she has grown in what feels like a short amount of time. Every day that passes by, she looks more and more like her mother. Her nose is mine. Her mouth is mine. But those wide hazel eyes and those high cheekbones are all from April.
April was the exact kind of woman for me. She, like me, had been raised a Mustang. It was in her blood. Her daddy had taught her to ride as soon as she could
