“Sydney, you don’t have to do this alone.”

It shouldn’t feel so much like winter on only the second day of November. Though the usual seaside wind was almost eerily calm, the air was brittle and biting. Heavy clouds captured the sky in a swirl of rolling gray, hiding the sun and hinting at snow.

At least Neil had thought to start his truck ten minutes ago. Might not be as slick, shiny, and new as one of the Carter trucks, but the heater worked and he liked the thought of Sydney driving this more than Maggie’s old Buick.

He just wished she’d let him go with her.

But she was as resolute this morning as she’d been last night. “This is going to be awkward enough. I need Tate Carter to be honest with me, and I think there’s more chance of that if we don’t have an audience.”

She shuffled down the porch steps. She was back to wearing her too-thin coat—and on the coldest day since her arrival. But he supposed he understood. Showing up wearing an oversized men’s coat probably wasn’t the impression she wanted to give off to the man who might be her father.

Tate Carter. Of all the blasted people . . .

He had to try once more. “I could wait for you in the truck.”

She gave him the same smile she had fifteen minutes ago when she’d come downstairs and found him in the kitchen, already filling a travel mug of coffee for her. How he’d known she’d try to sneak out this morning before the rest of them were awake, he didn’t know. But she’d been open last night about her need to go see Carter and her desire to do so without telling the rest of the household.

That, too, he could understand. There’d been enough starts and stops in this attempt to find her father. He’d probably want a concrete answer himself, if he were in her shoes—not only about whether Carter was truly her father, but which woman was her mother—before sharing anything with the others.

“You are a sweetheart, Neil MacKean. But I’ve got my phone and my GPS app to get me there. It’s all of fifteen miles away. I’ve got your nice, warmed-up truck to drive. I’ve got coffee and one of Maggie’s scones.” She stopped at the truck. “I’ve got everything I need, and I’m going to be fine.”

“The photo?”

She patted her purse.

“Syd—”

She surprised him then. Leaned into him—no, practically threw herself against him, arms wrapping around his waist. No words, just holding on.

He held her back, encircling her in his arms and kissing the top of her head and wondering how he was supposed to let her leave. Not now, but in a few days. She still hadn’t explained what was going on with Micah, but the feeling in his gut told him there were things in her world trying to yank her home.

“When you get back, Syd, can we talk? We haven’t really discussed . . . haven’t really talked since the treehouse. I feel like we need to figure things out.” Figure things out. Sounded too businesslike. And there was nothing businesslike about this. It was pure, heady, life-changing emotion.

“What things?”

If he hadn’t heard the thread of a tease in her voice, her question might actually worry him. Instead, he smiled with his chin on her head. “Well, things like chores.”

She lifted her head, her pert nose wrinkled.

“What? If you were serious about not being scared of cows, you could take the milking off my plate.”

She laughed and pulled away. “I should hit the road.”

He tugged her back. “But there’s other things, too. To talk about, I mean. I should probably tell you how I feel about you. And you should tell me how you feel about me. And then”—perhaps after he’d spent a minute or two or more showing her how he felt—“we should talk about where we go from here.”

“That would be the mature thing to do.”

Her eyes were on his lips, which seemed like an invitation to him. So he kissed her—a soft, short kiss for the road. A promise for later. A wish . . . “Whatever you find out today, I’ll be here waiting.”

He let her go, opened the truck door for her, waited as she climbed in.

“I tried calling Micah last night,” she said as she buckled in. “He didn’t answer, of course. So I texted him a little bit ago. Let him know I wouldn’t be here this morning. I don’t think he’ll show up.”

He nodded, tucking the end of her coat against her leg so it wouldn’t catch in the door.

“Two weeks?”

He glanced up. “Hmm?”

“It was only two weeks ago that Wilder found me in Chicago. I never would’ve thought . . .”

He reached in to squeeze her hand. “See you when you get back.”

Seconds later, he watched as she eased his truck down the driveway in reverse, angled and pulled onto the lane leading away from the house. He released a frustrated sigh and turned, retracing his steps up the porch and into the house.

And then let out a yelp when he nearly ran down Maggie.

“Whoa, sorry!” He steadied himself, steadied her, and only then did he glimpse her sly grin. “Maggie Muir, were you spying on me from the window?”

“It’s not spying when it’s your children.”

“I’m hardly a child.”

“Well, you’re blushing like a schoolboy, so forgive me for being momentarily confused.” She laughed and patted his arm. “Come with me, Neil.”

“I’ve got chores—”

“Melba can wait.” Wasn’t she going to ask him where Sydney was going? Or tease him with the same mercilessness as his sisters?

But no, she only hurried down the hallway, leaving him no recourse but to follow. She led him to her bedroom and ordered him to sit the moment he stepped in. He perched on the edge of her pristinely made bed while she walked to the dresser against one wall and opened the top drawer.

And then she moved to stand in front of him, arm outstretched, and in her hand . . . a jewelry box?

“Take it.”

“Uh, Maggie—”

“Take it and open it.”

He obeyed, grasping the velvet box, thumbing it open and then trying to make sense of what he was seeing inside. Or more so, why he was seeing it.

The ring captured sunbeams from Maggie’s windows, its simple gold band adorned by a large diamond in the center surrounded by tiny sapphires.

“It was my grandmother’s,” Maggie explained. “When she realized Robert and I were serious about getting married, my mother had it cleaned and re-set. Quite the family heirloom, yes? That thing could buy you a new harvester—or at least a used one. Though, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to sell it.”

“You’re going to give it to Indi, aren’t you? She’ll be thrilled, Maggie. I’m not really a judge of jewelry, but I think she’ll love it.”

Maggie laughed and sat beside him. “Not Indi, silly boy. You.”

He snapped it closed. “Uh, you . . . you can’t.”

“Yes, I can. Because I was spying on you out the window, and what’s more, I’ve been watching you for two weeks now and I know a man who’s met his match when I see one.”

“Maggie—”

“Don’t argue with me, son. There’s no use.”

He opened the box again, couldn’t seem to make any one thought stick long enough to speak. He and Sydney hadn’t known each long at all. They hadn’t gone on a date. Hadn’t talked, really talked, yet. He didn’t know how whatever she found out today might affect things . . . what would happen when she left Maine on Sunday . . . what might be going through her head as she drove to Tate Carter’s house right now.

Didn’t know anything other than this wasn’t normal—these feelings, the depth of them. They just weren’t . . . normal.

“I didn’t know what to make of it either, at first, Neil.”

He made himself look at her even though he knew his face must be twisted with confused emotion. “Make of what?”

“How I felt about Robert. How it could’ve happened so quickly. The whole thing stunned me.” She touched his shoulder. “Some loves take months or years to blossom. But some blow in like a storm over the sea, so fast and furious and wonderful it about bowls you over.”

Love? He wasn’t ready to admit it out loud, but it wasn’t as if the word hadn’t flitted through his mind once or maybe twice or a dozen times in the past couple of days. “But, Maggie, even your beloved Robert waited at least three weeks to propose. I haven’t even known Sydney a full two weeks.”

Her grin turned impish. “Took him three weeks to propose. Didn’t take him nearly that long to see what was right in front of him and do something about it.” She leaned into his side and reached her arm around his back. “I’m not saying go propose to her tonight. I’m just saying, when you’re ready for this, it’s yours. If it feels like too much right now, I can hold on to it for you.”

He should keep arguing with her. Try to convince her to give it to Indi. She was the one who was getting married. She was legally a Muir—she or Lilian should get the family heirloom.

But he couldn’t make himself say it. Because . . .

Because Maggie had done him the greatest favor in the world when she’d sent Wilder to Chicago to bring Sydney here. Only a fool would turn down another one.

Maggie squeezed him, then took the box from his hands and tucked it in her dresser drawer. He stood and crossed the room in two long strides.

Then stopped in surprise.

Micah. Barreling down the hallway. But he must’ve heard Neil’s steps because he paused and looked back. “Uh, sorry. Hi. I . . . I didn’t just barge in. I got Syd’s text and thought maybe I could catch her before she left. Um, Lily—is it?—she let me in on her way out.”

“Lilian.” Who must’ve not realized yet that Sydney wasn’t here.

“Right. Seemed like she was in a hurry, so she told me where Syd’s room was, but I guess I missed her.”

“Oh.” Maggie came up behind him. “I assumed that’s where she was headed—into town to see you. Where’d she go?”

“She . . . had to run an errand. I’m sure she’ll be back by lunchtime.” If Neil had any hope of getting out of further questioning about Sydney’s whereabouts, he’d need to escape to the barn pronto. But he didn’t love the thought of leaving Micah here.

Hmm, guess he could give the guy the same farm tour he had Sydney. Babysitting hadn’t really been on his agenda for the day. But more and more, there was simply no denying the truth burrowing its way into his heart: There was very little he wouldn’t do for Sydney Rose.

Neil had told her to look for the massive house at the top of the hill. “Four dormer windows and a red front door. A crazy amount of house for two single men—though, I guess there’s three of them when Tate’s son is with him.”

Tate Carter, Jr., apparently, had moved in with his widowed father when he’d divorced more than a decade ago. She’d seen the scattering of outbuildings dotting the hillside as she drove the winding road to the house, recognized the Carter Farms logo on the side of a bright red barn.

Now here she stood, rooted to the mat just inside the front door, wondering why she’d been so set on doing this today. Alone. Without so much as a phone call in advance.

But it was too late to turn back now. Tatum had already seen her pull in the huge circle drive. He’d come ambling over from what looked like a garden shed, hadn’t more than cocked an eyebrow when she’d asked to talk to Tate Carter. He’d let her inside and disappeared down a wide hallway.

This was insane. Coming here with only a yellowed photo and the memory of a vague remark from CarleeAnn Picknell that might or might not mean what she’d always assumed.

“Uh, good morning.”

The shadowed corridor hid the approaching form for a moment both too long and too brief. He might think this is some crazy joke. He might get angry. He might say it’s not even him in the photo.

But Neil had been positive. Not a doubt in his mind, he’d said. The young man in the photo was Tate Carter.

And now Tate Carter stood in front of her, the light of the half-circle window over the front door, cloud cover and all, confirming Neil’s assurance. Same slightly crooked nose as in the photo. Same blondish hair with a hint of red. Goodness, he even wore a shirt with the Carter Farms logo on it. Not blue like in the picture, but—

“My dad said you wanted to see me.” He jutted out his hand. “Sorry if I’m not quite placing you. I don’t have some appointment I’ve completely spaced off, do I?”

Did he notice the clamminess of her hand as they shook? “No. No appointment. In fact, I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I . . . I—”

“Heading into town, son.” Tatum Carter strode into view, pulling the same hat he’d been wearing when she arrived over his head again now. He gave her only a quick nod, and she stepped to the side so he could pass her and open the door.

But he stopped just outside. “Maggie Muir’s place. You were there the other morning. Knew your face looked familiar.”

She couldn’t help a quick glance at Tate. “Y-yes.”

“She didn’t by any chance send you with some good news, did she?”

All she could manage was a shake of her head.

“Well, had to ask.” He moved off, disappearing behind the shed.

She turned back to Tate, throat dry and brain as helpless as sand against the tide. She’d tried rehearsing this on the way over. But it wasn’t that long of a drive and with thoughts of Neil and Micah churning . . .

You have to talk, Syd.

She wetted her lips. “Like I said, I’m sorry this is out of the blue, but . . .” There was nothing else for it. She pulled the photo from her purse and awkwardly thrust it toward the man. “Is this you?”

His light brows slanted into a V, his attention remaining on her even as he took the photo. He must think her loony. Or maybe . . . maybe he saw something in the shape of her face or the look in her eyes.

But then he turned his focus to the picture. The incline of his brows deepened. He looked up. “Where’d you get this?”

Her voice dipped into a whisper. “C-CarleeAnn Picknell.”

His gaze was once again glued to her face, the shift in his brown eyes happening so slowly she hardly realized it for the dawning it was—not until he lifted his hand to rub his dropping jaw and she saw his shaking fingers. “I think I’m going to need another cup of coffee.”

Tate Carter, Jr. set a mug in front of her, the smell from it pulling a gurgle from her stomach and reminding her she’d never eaten that scone—and had probably had too much coffee already.

But Sydney was just as fidgety as the man currently stirring half-and-half into his own cup. She needed something to do with her hands. Might as well be this. She lifted it for a sip.

“I guess I’ve stalled just about as long as I can.” Tate had yet to take a drink. Or look at the photo again. Or look at her again.

“I was confused for a little while. I thought it said JP on the back. So I was looking for the wrong . . .” Why had she started there? Why would he care about some misunderstood letters when she was pretty sure he’d figured out who she was?

Whose she was.

“So then . . . you were looking?” He finally met her eyes again.

If only she could decipher what it was she was seeing in them. Intense discomfort, certainly. But there was something else, too. Almost like . . . no, it couldn’t be yearning. But maybe, at the least, interest. “I wasn’t looking until recently. Actually, it was Maggie Muir who came looking for me.”

His brow scrunched all over again. “Oh.”

“She’s been searching for her missing granddaughter, you see.”

“Oh, of course. I heard Monroe was still working on that.” His fingers cupped his coffee mug. “I have to be honest . . . I never thought I’d . . . that this would . . . or even could be possible. I made a whole heap of mistakes, horrible mistakes, as a teenager. But letting her leave with . . . you—that was, by far, the worst.”

Then he’d known about her. At some point, he’d known.

His words came faster. “I don’t have an excuse. Nothing other than teenage stupidity. I’ve thought about it so many times through the years, but never once considered the possibility that . . .”

She should tell him she hadn’t come here for a guilt trip. Or an apology. Or even an explanation of his younger self’s decisions. She just needed to know. And there was something he’d just said . . .

“Letting her leave with you.”

“Which her?” The question jolted from her.

“Say again?”

She nodded to the picture on the table between them, her heart sprinting. Was this really happening? She’d just found her father and now, in the same hour, she was about to know—finally, for certain this time—who her mother was. “Which her?”

“You mean, you don’t know who . . . ?”

She shook her head, every racing thought slowing and then stilling entirely when he pointed.

The waiting was killing him.

Neil paced from one end of the barn to the other. Sydney had been gone for too long. She should’ve been back hours ago.

He’d stayed as busy as he could. He’d taken Micah on that tour, not that the younger man had seemed all that impressed by anything he’d seen. Other than a few clipped sentences here and a monotone answer there, the guy had done little talking. Any hope he’d had for bonding with Sydney’s foster brother had faded by the time they’d reached the closest field.

Micah had begged off quickly, but not so quick the whole thing didn’t leave a pit in Neil’s stomach. He hadn’t wanted to push Sydney about what the man was doing here, especially not after what they’d discovered about Tate Carter. And all that was still left unsaid between them.

But there was something off.

He’d gone into town with Indi midmorning and she’d loaded him up with items for the treehouse from her shop. She even had an antique queen-sized bed that would work in the space. He’d picked out a mattress at Muir Harbor’s sole furniture store, then had borrowed Wilder’s truck to get it out to the treehouse.

But now it was a quarter ’til two and he still hadn’t heard from Sydney.

Melba bellowed from her stall.

“I know, girl. I’m concerned too.”

But what could he do? Borrowing Maggie’s Buick and tracking Sydney down felt like an overreaction. She was a grown woman who didn’t need a man she’d known all of twelve days barreling in and trying to solve her problems.

Who was to say this was a problem at all? Much as he didn’t have a plethora of warm feelings for the Carters, Tate was a decent guy. Less arrogant than his dad, at least. If he was who Sydney thought he was, what if he took the news well? Maybe they were having a joyous father-daughter reunion.

And maybe Tate was finally putting to rest the question of who Sydney’s mother was. Maybe, even now, she was discovering a new sense of peace.

Anyway, he had better things to do than distress Melba with his aimless stomping around the barn. His phone dinged. His breath released in a whoosh as he plucked it from his pocket. Just one word but the relief of it was instant. Treehouse.

Captain scampered at his side across the fields and into the trees. If Sydney was already in the treehouse, then she’d have seen the new bed, the grayish-blue comforter Indi had picked out, the antique bedside table. Indi had said she’d let him choose his own accent items, but he hadn’t missed the way she’d steered him to the old picture frames she’d painted and repurposed with wire and dried wildflowers. Eventually he’d given her free rein and stopped arguing when she wouldn’t let him pay for a single thing.

But his eagerness to get to Sydney—hear how this morning went, get her reaction to the treehouse’s new look—faded as he climbed the wood staircase and realized what he was hearing from inside.

Crying—but not the gentle tears Sydney had freed the other day in the pantry. This was sobbing, unbridled and heart-wrenching.

He pushed in through the new door he’d installed and felt his core constrict at the sight of her curled up in the center of the bed. Oh, Syd. Gone was any thought of holding back or any fear of overreacting. He was at her side in seconds, lowering to the bed, leaning against the headboard, and pulling her against him. He wanted to ask but . . .

“I-I just . . . I don’t know how I’m going to tell Maggie.”

Oh. There was his answer. Her answer. Diana wasn’t her mother. He closed his eyes and combed his fingers through her hair and let her cry.