“MacKean.”

He halted mid-step at the corner of the house, work boots heavy on his feet and a frustrated exhale pushing free. He willed his expression to remain neutral as he greeted the man approaching from the gravel drive where a shiny black truck took up Lilian’s usual parking spot. “Mr. Carter. You’re back.”

Again. Another “neighborly” visit? After just stopping by yesterday?

The older man had a swaggering, self-possessed look to him—more weathered cowboy than farmer. But the devil-may-care manner of his sauntering gait and his easy grin were both at odds with the grit and glint of determination in his eyes.

He’d brought up the possibility of buying Muir land yesterday, his offhand tone doing nothing to fool Neil. Neil had been all politeness in return. Thanked him for the offer, said they weren’t looking to sell.

But clearly that wasn’t good enough for Carter.

The man shot out his hand, grasped Neil’s in a vise grip as they shook. “Looks like you’ve been toiling hard today.”

If Carter was referring to the dirt on his jeans and his shirt and probably streaking whatever bare skin showed, well, that was fine. A good day’s work was a good day’s work, even if it did leave a man less than presentable. He’d ditched his coat midmorning—left it at the shed, come to think of it. No matter. He’d retrieve it tonight when he trekked to the far field like every other night.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Carter?”

“No need to be so formal, son. Go ahead and call me Tatum.”

Son. Why did that word from this man feel so condescending? But Tatum Carter must be at least four decades Neil’s elder. Reason enough to at least attempt to be respectful. “Tatum.”

“Thought maybe I’d see if Maggie’s around. I’m hoping to chat with her.”

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans just to keep them from clenching. “I don’t think Maggie was expecting a visitor. Another time, perhaps?”

Tatum rubbed his chin. “Way I hear it, she already has a visitor. What’s this—the third, fourth potential granddaughter? I’d stake good money on Cecil Atwater showing up on your doorstep before the day’s out, on the hunt for a story.”

And the doorstep is exactly how far Cecil Atwater, editor of the Muir Harbor Gazette, would get. It was one thing for Neil and his sisters to wish Maggie would give up the hunt for her missing granddaughter. It was another for the people of Muir Harbor to view the whole thing as entertainment.

Of course, no one meant any harm. Townsfolk were bound to be curious. And poor Cecil was usually relegated to writing obits and engagement announcements, reporting on craft fairs and seasonal festivals. Couldn’t blame the long-time newspaperman for grasping at the straws of whatever human-interest story he could.

But while Neil might’ve warmed up to Sydney some this morning, he wasn’t anywhere close to thinking Wilder had hit the nail on the head this time. Sydney didn’t belong in local headlines. And the Muir name had already appeared in enough of them.