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.”