She only glared, wisps of red hair framing her face after having fallen free of her ponytail during the walk. But her stern mask dissolved the moment Melba gave another whine, giving way to sheer alarm.

And for some irrational reason, he found himself taking pity on her. “Milking won’t take me more than ten minutes. Captain can keep you company ’til I’m done.”

With one more distressed glance toward the cow, she nodded. “I’ll just . . . explore.”

Not much to explore in a grouping of old buildings made of weathered wood and rusted metal, but she’d figure that out soon enough on her own. And poor Melba was in dire need of attention—much more than a city girl with a fear of harmless animals.

Not that she looked much like a city girl at the moment—wearing his coat and those faded jeans. He lowered onto an overturned crate beside Melba and settled into the familiar work. Don’t be offended, old girl. She’ll make friends with you if she sticks around long enough.

Though, hopefully she wouldn’t. She seemed nice enough. Had offered to help with chores. Hadn’t wrinkled her nose at the smell when they’d entered the barn. And he’d been strangely satisfied when she’d turned down his offer of creamer this morning. Greta Turner hadn’t consumed her coffee black.

But the longer Sydney Rose stayed, the more it might hurt Maggie in the long run.

“What’s up here?” From elsewhere in the barn, Sydney’s muffled voice reached him.

His hands stilled only momentarily. Up here? She must mean the loft. “The haymow.” Back to the rhythm Maggie had taught him during one of his earliest visits to the farm, back when his biological grandparents had still been alive and he’d accompanied them across the Atlantic to visit Grandma’s friend and—

Wait, the haymow. That rickety ladder. Worse, that spot where the weathered boards overhead had given way last spring.

He popped to his feet. “Hey, Syd? Don’t go up—”

A bark from Captain cut him off. And then, steps creaking above him. Shoot. He lurched out of Melba’s stall and hurried to the ladder across the barn. “Be careful up there. The floor’s old and rotting. And stay away from—”

Too late. The unmistakable sound of splintering wood cracked through the air, a squeal of surprise . . .

A moment of indecision. Race up the ladder or plant himself below?

A scream and the crunch of breaking boards made his decision for him. He sprang toward the empty stall next to Melba’s, neck craning to see falling wood and debris.

And then Sydney herself.

He lunged into the stall just in time to meet the force of Sydney’s tumbling form. She crashed into him and they landed in a heap in a mess of straw and dirt, one of her shoulders jabbing into his chest and her hair in his mouth.

He let out a rush of air, lungs heaving as he attempted words. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve warned you. I didn’t even think. I—” She was shaking. He could feel it as he attempted to sit up, to help her off of him. “Where are you hurt?”