“I . . . I’m not . . .” She gasped, obviously winded, her hair now fully free of the ponytail and hiding her face. “I’m okay.”

“You’re shaking.”

“No, I’m . . .” She shook her hair away from his face.

And then he saw it—her face. Her smile. Wide and, good grief, ridiculously pretty. She wasn’t trembling; she was laughing. The sound of it—had he ever heard anything like it? Low and bubbling. Nothing like the high-pitched screech of Greta Turner when she’d faked her glee at every little thing during her first pathetic day at the farm.

But now Sydney wasn’t the only one laughing. He’d joined in at some point, his own chuckles growing into full-fledged laughter as they sat in the dirt, hazy, dusty sunlight fingering through the cracks in the wooden wall.

“I really am sorry. I’ve warned Indi and Lil to stay out of the loft. Should’ve thought to warn you too. There’s a hole.”

“I—I f-figured that out.” She swiped a fluttering strand of hair away from her forehead, leaving a streak of dirt. “Guess I stepped too close.”

“For the record, I used to be scared of the chickens.”

Her giggles tapered off. “What?”

“When I was a little boy visiting from Scotland in the summer. The chickens. I hated them.”

Why he said it, he had no idea. None at all.

Nor why the sight of her grin, even wider now, should be enough to still his own laughter, leaving an awkward space of silence in its place. Suddenly stupidly uncomfortable, he jolted to his feet. Jutted one hand down toward her.

Then wished he hadn’t when she took hold. Because now it wasn’t just her smile or her laughter or the way she looked in his oversized coat doing something altogether unsettling to his insides, but the feel of her hand in his.

He let go the moment she was on her feet. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

She nodded, and he turned away.

Turned back, voice low. “Just don’t hurt Maggie. Please.”

And then, before she could say another word, he left the stall, left the barn altogether. Gulped in a cloud of cold air, shook his head as if that might shake off whatever had just happened back there . . .

No, nothing had happened. Except that he’d abandoned Melba mid-milking. And hadn’t even gotten started on the feeding. And—

His steps slowed as his ears alerted him to something off-kilter. Wasn’t so much what he heard as what he didn’t. What he should be hearing this close to the cooling room. The generator—why wasn’t it humming?

There was no holding back his groan. Great. Just . . . great.

For those few minutes of merriment in the barn, after the shock of her fall had evaporated and before the throb of fresh bruises set in, Sydney had almost forgotten the weight of her cares.

No mystery over her parentage waiting to be solved. No frustration at Micah’s continued, long-distance silence. No worry that Neil and his sisters resented her presence here.