Sydney tucked strands of hair, still damp from her shower after returning from the fields, behind both ears as Maggie led her up the staircase to the second floor, halfway through their tour of the house.

If she could just hold on to that feeling she’d had in the barn. It was as if that fall through the loft floor had shaken something loose in her. Freed her from her questions and concerns just long enough to make room for something else—a surprise delight at finding herself here.

And a desire, springing up from somewhere deep, to simply accept and enjoy where she was in this moment. Although, she did only have two weeks here.

Which meant she shouldn’t put off asking Maggie about JP for too long. She needed to tell her about that photo of CarleeAnn’s. Ask who Cynthia Muir’s father was. Cynthia . . . who might be me. It was too outrageous to think about—that maybe her name wasn’t her name. That maybe she hadn’t been born in Illinois.

That maybe there’d once been a mother who wanted her. A grandmother, perhaps, who wanted her still.

Tour first. Questions later.

Maggie paused now at the top of the staircase, motioning down the corridor. “Bathroom on one end and your room on the other, as you know.”

Would she ever be able to look at that bathroom door without burning with humiliation? Guess she couldn’t blame Neil for not warming up to her too quickly, not after the way they’d met.

But he’d seemed to ease up some this morning. Although, they never had finished their outdoor excursion. Neil had discovered some problem with a piece of equipment and had promptly left her to fend for herself. Well, not exactly. He’d assured her Captain would keep her from getting turned around in the grove and had apologized for cutting the tour short.

Surprisingly, he’d seemed to mean it.

When she’d returned to the house, she’d found Maggie alone in the kitchen. Lilian was at her office, the older woman had explained, and Indi had gone into town with her. Maggie had insisted on making breakfast for her, the smell of her pancakes and homemade blueberry syrup wafting upstairs while Sydney hurried through a shower.

They’d shared mostly small talk while they’d eaten. Maggie had told her about the inexpensive update they’d done to the kitchen a few years ago. Neil, apparently, had been the one to sand the old cupboards and paint them white at Maggie’s request. The walls were a cheery yellow—Maggie’s signature color, as it turned out.

“Wait until you see my bedroom. Indi calls it the sunshine room because of all the yellow.”

She’d seen the lower-level master bedroom just minutes ago, along with the rest of the downstairs. They’d lingered in the living room, where Maggie had told her of the hot nights, back before the house had been updated to central air, when she and “the kids” had camped out in sleeping bags on the shag carpet, only a window air conditioner for relief.