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.

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 . . .