She passed the closed doors of the two rooms she’d put in—admit it, with visits from Davey and Maddie in mind—resisting the temptation to open the doors and peek into those rooms, one decorated for a boy, one for a girl.

At times, like now, for instance, she wondered what she’d been thinking to set aside so much space for children who weren’t her own and would never wind up in Painted Pony Creek. She ought to tear out a few walls, create a nice studio for herself, or at least convert one to an office.

Because hope died hard, even when it was completely unfounded, Brynne hadn’t made the decision. She didn’t have time to paint these days, and her dad’s old office downstairs, a converted supply closet, filled the bill.

Besides, if she renovated again, there would be all the commotion that comes along with construction, not to mention the expense.

Brynne had earned a good living in Boston, and she’d saved a lot—sold a few of her own paintings, too, for sums that still surprised her—but, while Bailey’s brought in a decent income, she wasn’t going to get rich selling breakfast, lunch and dinner to the locals.

She was still young by modern standards—thirty-four—but she was also an unmarried woman, with zero prospects, and she had to think ahead. After all, she’d be old one day, probably sooner than she thought.

Entering her bedroom suite, Brynne chuckled at herself. She took a steadying sip of raspberry tea and admired the space around her.

It was as much her own design as any of her paintings—French country furniture, a few cherished artworks on the walls, a working white brick fireplace, visible from the bath as well as the bedroom.

Here, as in the living room, a set of mullioned bay windows overlooked the street out front. Brynne’s small Christmas tree sat between them, dark and magical, tinsel swaying as if stirred by the snow falling beyond the glass.

In that moment, she figured she needed a little Christmas, so she went over and tapped the switch on the cord to set the bubble lights bubbling.

How she loved those old-fashioned lights. They brought back so many happy memories of her childhood.

Waldo, having toddled after her, took his place in the wing-backed chair next to the fireplace, where Brynne had expected to spend quiet nights reading, and nestled in for the night.

Brynne entered the bathroom, separated from the sleeping area only by a low tiled wall, started the water running in the tub and stripped to the skin. Then she added a generous sprinkling of the scented bath salts she’d received as a Christmas gift from Miranda, her favorite waitress, climbed into the water and sighed with relief as the day’s tensions began to dissolve.