Sydney awoke in a cocoon of warmth, a thick blanket tucked around her, the weight of someone next to her, and somewhere, a humming fan pulling her from sleep.

Something wet touched her cheek and she opened her eyes. Not someone next to her—Captain, his downy fur tickling her cheek. She looked past him to where tiny dots of light cluttered the ceiling above her, twinkling like stars, and the smell of something fruity and sweet skimmed away the last of her hazy confusion.

The treehouse. She was in the treehouse. But since when were there fairy lights strung all across the wooden beams overhead, and shouldn’t it smell like lumber and paint, not one of Maggie’s desserts? “There’s a bed in here.”

“Yep, and considering that three-hour nap you just took, you did a nice job breaking it in.”

Her gaze flew to the corner as Captain bounded off the bed. Neil stood next to a small bistro table, and oh, the glass dish explained the smell. Even with her eyes still heavy from sleep, she could make out Maggie’s blueberry cobbler. “I . . . I’ve been asleep for three hours?” Then it was still today. But how . . .

Her mind hobbled backward as she sat up. The tears that had hit halfway home from Tate Carter’s house. The tug she’d felt to come here. She’d texted Neil, hadn’t she? And he’d come and she’d been a wreck and, goodness, had she cried herself to sleep? That was a first.

And nothing less than embarrassing.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up. I just got back. I wasn’t sure how long . . . that is, I didn’t want you to wake up alone out here, and plus, I’d left the space heater on. I was only gone long enough to do the evening chores. Well, and grab some food.”

But then, what was he doing earlier while she slept? Probably hanging those lights. She didn’t think they’d been up before, not that she’d been up to noticing much detail when she arrived. Not like she did now—the simple picture-frame decorations on two walls, the distressed farmhouse headboard, the off-white wool blanket tucked around her and pretty comforter underneath.

Oh, shoot, it was all wrinkled now and she’d climbed atop it with her shoes still on and . . . please, let her not have snored. But not even that would have been as humiliating as what was sliding its way into her memory now—the way Neil had found her hours ago, her gut-wrenching sobs. “I’m suddenly intensely mortified.”

“Why? I’m going to guess you didn’t sleep much last night. You clearly needed the rest.”

“No . . . I don’t mean . . . well, yes . . . but also . . .”

He rescued her with a smile clearly meant to ease her. “Want some cobbler? It’s after six. Did you even have lunch?”

“I did. I ended up going into town with Tate Carter. We ate at the Brunch Barn.” She stood, her legs wobbly. “But yes. I definitely want cobbler.”

He gave a nod that said Good and motioned her over to the table. “There’s decaf coffee in the Thermos. Indi says I’ll need to get a Keurig in here. I’m wondering if maybe I should add a little built-in counter over there—for a coffee bar, a small microwave, maybe a mini-fridge underneath.”

She slid onto the chair opposite Neil. “It looks amazing in here. Almost . . .” She searched for the right word, thankful for a moment that the focus was off her. “Enchanting.”

He set a plate in front of her, poured her a mug of coffee, and sat. “That’s the exact word Indi used when she was here earlier today. She picked out most of the stuff. However, I’m proud to say the lights were my idea. On a starry night, the place is better off without them, what with the skylight and all. But on a cloudy evening like this, I think they work.”

They more than worked.

“Indi says the windows need curtains, though. Apparently she’s got the perfect thing back at her store in Augusta. She left this afternoon to go pick them up. She insisted since she knows I’m showing Maggie the place tomorrow.”

“People are going to love this, Neil. Staying in a luxury treehouse sounds magical all on its own, but then you throw in the ocean only a short walk away and the charm of touring a blueberry farm and the cute little town a couple of miles up the road . . . there’s no way this won’t be successful. I bet you’ll get honeymooners.”

His fork clinked against his plate. “Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Syd . . .”

She couldn’t leave him hanging any longer. The poor man had to have been wondering about her time with Tate Carter all day, had probably worried when she was gone longer than expected, and then to find her the way he had . . .

“It was . . . it was actually good. Talking with Tate.”

He abandoned his next bite, propping his elbows on the table, in full listening mode.

“He’s definitely the guy from the photo,” she went on, “and he’s definitely—at least, we both feel very certain he’s my father.” Amazingly, her tongue didn’t trip over the word. “I would’ve thought after such an intense discovery, he’d need some time and space, but no, he just kept guzzling coffee and asking me questions about my life and then he wanted to give me a tour around the farm and he drove me into town for lunch.”

And at that point, he’d seemed almost . . . happy. Still a little dazed, perhaps, but not as shell-shocked as he’d been earlier.

But then they’d gone back out to the farm so she could pick up Neil’s truck. Tatum was there and Tate had made the mistake of telling him who she was. And that’s when the accusations had started flying.

“I can’t believe you’d actually believe her with absolutely nothing to go on. A photo isn’t proof. Her word isn’t proof. She’s another Cynthia Muir wannabe. Probably realized there was nothing for her there, found a random snapshot, and figured out how to scam one of the wealthiest families in the state. And you’re falling for it. No, I won’t believe it. Not until a paternity test proves otherwise.”

Tate had argued, but she hadn’t been able to speak—eventually, hadn’t been able to handle it at all. So she’d walked to the truck. She’d slipped inside and driven away without so much as a goodbye to Tate.

She replayed the scene for Neil now, her cobbler untouched and his frown deepening with every word.

“Halfway home, I just . . . I lost it. Because of Tatum, yes, but mostly because it suddenly hit me that I was going to have to tell Maggie.” Her eyes filled with tears all over again. No, no more crying.

But how could she not? Just the thought of saying those words to Maggie—I’m not your granddaughter—and the discouragement that would surely fill the older woman’s face at realizing her search had once again hit a dead-end . . .

Diana Muir wasn’t her mother. Maggie wasn’t her grandmother. She blinked but it did no good.

Neil slid something toward her. A box of tissues. His voice was gentle. “I came prepared this time. Not that my shirt didn’t work just fine last time.”

A laugh caught in her throat. Or maybe a sob. She pulled a tissue free. “I just didn’t realize how much I wanted it to be her . . . until I knew it wasn’t.”

She’d felt the prick of disappointment when Tate had first pointed to CarleeAnn’s face in the photo. But not until she’d been alone in Neil’s truck had she experienced the full force of it.

She pressed her tissue to her eyes. “I’d been telling myself no matter which one birthed me, it wouldn’t really change things. Both are gone. But it does change things. Because if it had been Diana, then I would’ve known or at least been able to assume that . . . she wanted me.”

“At least I did the right thing. Leaving you . . . at least I did that.”

There was no dam for her tears now. There was only Neil sliding from his seat and moving around the table, pulling her up and against him.

“I-I didn’t mean t-to do this again.” Her voice trembled through her cries, muffled by Neil’s shirt. “But a-at least I’m standing this time. I won’t fall asleep on you.”

“I didn’t mind you falling asleep on me at all. In fact, I might’ve enjoyed it quite a bit.”

She didn’t know how, but somehow she laughed. Through her tears, through the heaviness of her day, already hurting at the thought of talking to Maggie . . . she laughed.

And then cried some more. And finally, when he must’ve felt her still, Neil moved his hands to her face, tipping her head back just slightly, thumbs tracing the tears under her eyes. “Tatum Carter is an idiot.”

Another small, strangled laugh.

“Was Tate able to tell you much about CarleeAnn?”

“It was a summer fling before she went off to college. I guess he and CarleeAnn and Diana had become friends as teens, but apparently Tate’s mother wasn’t a fan of the girls, or maybe Maggie, so they kind of kept it on the down-low. I didn’t really understand that part of the story.”

But by the look on Neil’s face, maybe he did. “Apparently Tatum and Maggie were . . . something. At some point. I don’t know much, only what Tate mentioned the other day.”

“Well, anyway, Tate and CarleeAnn had a fling but he never knew she got pregnant. Not until that weekend when she came home.” The same weekend of Diana’s accident. “She showed up at his house out of the blue almost two years later.” Much like Sydney had done today. “She was toting a toddler, told him she—I—was his and said she needed a favor. Asked him to watch her while she went home and talked to her parents.”

Tate’s words replayed through her mind. “I was pretty much paralyzed. Didn’t know what to do. You were cute—I remember that. I guess she thought showing up on her parents’ doorstep with their grandchild would be too much of a shock. Apparently wasn’t as worried about me.” There’d been a pained tinge to his wry half-smile. “I don’t know what happened with her folks. Only that she returned later that night—it was a Friday—and took you out of my arms with hardly a word and then she was gone. And I was too dumb to go after her, to ask questions, ask when I’d see you again. When I realized she’d left town entirely, I thought . . . I thought it was for the best. I was only twenty and I had my whole future ahead of me and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Neil was quiet after she finished the recounting.

“He doesn’t know why she went to Illinois. Or why she ultimately decided to give me up for adoption.”

He caught a lingering tear with the pad of his thumb, then lowered his arms to encircle her.

“At least now we have some new details for Wilder’s investigation. Diana’s accident happened Sunday night. Tate’s pretty sure CarleeAnn was long gone by then. But also, he confirmed that CarleeAnn was living in Atlanta before she came back. She told him that much. And there’s something else—he thinks there was another person traveling with them that weekend. Something CarleeAnn said about needing to ‘leave before they realized.’”

“Couldn’t she have been talking about her parents?”

Sydney shook her head. “He doesn’t think so. He said there were other comments that led him to believe she was talking about Diana and someone else. But who really knows? Regardless, we should call Wilder.” She began to pull away, but his arms tightened.

“We don’t have to call him right now.”

So she stayed there, her head nestled against his chest, letting quiet moments stretch until his low voice finally broke the silence. “Sydney, just because Diana Muir wasn’t your birth mother doesn’t mean you don’t belong here.”

They were almost an echo of words she’d said to him only two nights ago right here in this magical treehouse. And here, with his arms around her, she could believe he was right.

But at some point, she was going to have to leave. His arms, this treehouse . . . the farm.

As if he could hear her thoughts, he spoke again, voice huskier than before. “And while I don’t know what CarleeAnn’s story was back then, you are very much wanted now.” He lowered his head and kissed her lips, soft and reassuring, then whispered against her. “I just hate that you’re hurting. And I wish I knew what to do about it.”

“You could keep kissing me.”

He chuckled and acquiesced, quiet seconds passing as she let herself forget everything else, just for these few minutes.

But reality refused to let her free. She pulled away. “No, I know what you need to do.”

“I thought I was doing it,” he rasped.

“You need to bring Maggie here.”

“I’m going to. Tomorrow night.”

She shook her head. “No. Tonight.” And though she hated to step free of his embrace, she stepped back.

He ran one hand through his hair. “But . . . why?”

“Because tomorrow I’m going to have to tell her, Neil. I’m scared it’s going to break her heart. So give her this first. Enchant her the way you did me.”

His other brow lifted.

How, after everything that had happened today, did he manage to pull a blush from her? “Okay, not exactly the same way.” She moved to the bed and picked up the blanket Neil must’ve covered her with earlier. She folded it up, straightened the comforter.

“You know, hard as today was for you, there is one good thing—at least Micah won’t worry any more that you’re acting very inappropriately with someone you’re legally related to.”

She nabbed a pillow from the bed and lobbed it at him, earning a laugh. “Will you, though? Bring her out here tonight?”

He nodded and moved to her side, replacing the pillow on the bed then reaching for her hand. “And tomorrow we can tell her the rest. Together.”

For the second time in as many hours, Neil’s steps carried him into the clearing, the treehouse he’d put so many weeks of work into coming into view.

He knew the moment Maggie caught sight of his project. She gasped, froze in her tracks.

He’d done more than hang fairy lights inside the treehouse while Sydney slept earlier. He’d also strung outdoor lights all along the staircase and the small landing at the top, and he’d hung an antique lantern—another of Indi’s contributions—from a thick branch that curved near the entrance.

And then there was the antique spyglass propped atop the railing, a nod to Alec Muir and the Legend of Muir Harbor. Sydney had declared it a brilliant addition when she’d seen it as they left earlier, said the exterior appearance as a whole was pure perfection, and he’d have been lying if he said her approval hadn’t meant everything to him.

Or that his mind hadn’t drifted back to what she’d said earlier. About honeymooners. And there was that ring back in Maggie’s room . . .

Even now, he felt his pulse sputter as thoughts it was too early to be thinking trailed through his brain.

He’d tried to talk Sydney into coming along for this, but she’d insisted it was something he should do alone. “It’s your dream to share, Neil.”

Yes, but he was beginning to think he might not have gotten around to sharing it at all if Sydney Rose hadn’t swept into his world. Her interest and intrigue that first night he’d showed her the still-unfinished structure, her encouragement that he let his sisters in on the farm’s struggles, her push for him to not wait any longer to show Maggie . . .

She’d changed his life. That’s all there was to it. She’d changed him.

All those weeks that he’d worked on the treehouse before Sydney came along, it’d felt like a desperate last-ditch effort to give Muir Farm a chance at survival. But she’d seen the dream underneath the desperation. She’d seen untapped skills and caged ambition.

And through her encouragement, she’d set his vision free.

“What is this, Neil?”

“Well, you know I’ve tended to disappear for a couple of hours most nights.”

Maggie still stood rooted in place. “I thought you were fixing the barn loft.”

She thought it had taken him that long to fit a few two-by-fours into place? “This is what I’ve been working on.” Her confused expression prodded him on. “It’s a luxury treehouse.”

“There’s such a thing?”

“They’re becoming more and more popular. I got the idea forever ago and it wouldn’t leave me alone, so I finally started working on it. It’s not completely done yet. I still need to build a bathroom, but I’ve been stalling a bit in case I needed to dip into my savings for the new parts for the harvester.”

“I don’t understand. What’s this for? Why would you build it in secret?” Maggie’s breathing seemed to quicken in time with her questions.

“I’d like to rent it out. And there’s other spots around the farm that I think would be perfect for something similar. I think it could end up being a really nice and much-needed extra income all through the spring, summer, and fall. Heck, maybe we’ll even get winter boarders. I’d like to add some opportunities for guests at the farm, too. Let people help with raking during harvest—like apple orchards where you get to pick your own apples. I know I’ve mentioned something like this before but—”

“Yes, you have.”

She wasn’t looking at the treehouse anymore. She was looking at him, the hard lines around her mouth surrounding her frown. But why . . . ?

“I said no, Neil. I don’t want our property crawling with strangers.”

“It wouldn’t be crawling. It’d be really controlled. We can set rules about how many guests can stay, what’s allowed. And it’s a good distance from the house. You wouldn’t even ever have to come into contact with any of them, if you don’t want. I can coordinate and take care of everything. Lil and Indi said they’d help, too.”

She huffed. “So you’ve already shared this with them. Another secret, only this time everyone’s in on it.”

“It’s not like that.” Of all the reactions he’d imagined—and yes, he’d considered that she might not immediately latch on to the idea—he hadn’t imagined this. She seemed almost frantic. “I just wanted—”

“You just wanted to do what you wanted regardless of how I felt about it.”

“Maggie, please—”

“I don’t want strangers wandering around the farm.”

Why was she staring at the spyglass? And what was her issue with the notion of strangers? This wasn’t the Maggie he knew.

Or . . . or maybe it was. She’d welcomed Sydney to the farm, had asked Indi to invite her fiancé, had opened their doors to Sydney’s foster brother—all true. She’d even met with Tatum Carter the other day.

But the Maggie who rarely went into Muir Harbor anymore, the Maggie who avoided town events, the Maggie who, up until earlier this week, hadn’t even backed her Buick out of the garage in he didn’t know how long . . . that Maggie, he could believe, would balk at the thought of a constant stream of visitors.

But . . . why?

“I don’t understand, Maggie. This could get us out of the red. And it could be fun. I love being a farmer, and I like the idea of sharing that with people. Did you know Sydney didn’t know anything about blueberry farms? She had no idea our state’s practically covered with them. We have something special here and we could be sharing it.”

“Why can’t you be content, Neil? Why can’t you understand? If you love being a farmer so much, then it should be enough for you.” She was breathing even faster now.

She hadn’t even seen the inside yet. Maybe once she caught her breath, he could at least convince her to climb the stairs and see the work he’d done inside. Maybe then she’d feel differently. Wouldn’t look at him like this . . . as if . . .

As if in building this treehouse and dreaming this dream, he’d somehow betrayed her. Maggie, who he’d loved longer than anyone.

“I am content here. It’s because I love this farm and want to spend the rest of my life here that I wanted to pursue this idea even though . . .” Even though she’d made it clear anytime he brought it up that she wasn’t keen on the idea of opening up the property to other purposes.

She’s right to be upset. She said no and you went ahead anyway. Because, like always, he barreled in, thinking he needed to take charge, handle everything on his own. Rescue what she apparently didn’t want saved.

“Is that it?” he asked quietly. “Have you decided to sell and that’s why—”

She huffed again, a cloud of cold, white air forming. “No. This is Muir Farm. It’ll always be Muir land.”

Relief slid in, but it was pushed out just as quickly as her words thumped through him. Muir Farm. Muir land.

And he was Neil MacKean.

The same Neil MacKean who’d stood in a courthouse at sixteen and been sure, so sure, that when he walked out again he’d be Neil Muir. How could those old bruises still be so tender?

“I guess . . . I guess you don’t want to see the inside, then.”

“Neil—”

“It’s okay. We can go.” His truck, actually, was still nearby from where Sydney had parked outside the cluster of trees this afternoon. He’d drive Maggie back to the house. Probably hadn’t been the best idea to ask her to walk this far on a cold night in the first place. Especially considering how it’d turned out. He strode toward the treehouse. “I need to turn out the lights before we leave.”

Which meant trudging up the stairs he’d spent days building. Walking into the picturesque atmosphere Indi had created with all her decorations and suggestions. An atmosphere made all the more exquisite by memories of time spent with Sydney here.

He paused at the top of the stairs. He’d made a horrible mistake keeping this a secret from Maggie.

But that wasn’t the only thing rooting him in place at the landing outside the treehouse door. It was something else. A feeling—not a good one. Why was the door cracked open? He remembered closing it before he’d left with Sydney more than an hour ago.

He pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped inside, shock surging through him. Someone had been here. In the time between when he’d walked Sydney to the house and returned with Maggie, someone had . . . searched the place? The mattress was at an angle on the box spring, its covers mussed. The drawer of the little bedside table was open, and faint, dusty footprints led to the bistro table.

Someone had been here and hadn’t even tried to hide it. You need to call someone. Wilder, he should call Wilder. Or the police. Or—

A sharp cry immobilized him. Until realization pushed him out the door once more.

“Neil.” His name was a moan on Maggie’s lips. His focus flew to the ground. Why was Maggie panting, bending?

He rushed down the steps, reaching her just as her legs gave out. “Maggie, what’s happening?” He caught her crumpling form.

“I remember . . . I remem—”

The word died on her lips as her eyes fluttered closed.