And her own happiness? That question was on hold for the foreseeable future. She’d thought she’d found it with Conner. But she knew better now. She’d stepped into a fairy tale, complete with a handsome cowboy prince. But the ball was over and her coach had turned back into a pumpkin. End of story.

Too restless to sleep, she rolled out of bed, slipped her robe on over her pajamas, and turned on the bedside lamp. By its faint glow, she found her guitar, sat on the foot of the bed, and began strumming a few chords. As she played, softly, to keep from waking her family, she could feel the music coming together—first the beat, then the chords, then, little by little, the melody, flowing like magic from her fingers.

There was a light tap at the door. Without waiting for an answer, Daniel opened it, stepped into the room, and closed it behind him. “That’s pretty, Megan,” he said. “Can I stay and listen?”

“Sure. Sit down.” Another time, she might have been annoyed at the intrusion; tonight, though, having him here felt comforting. She was reminded of the times, years ago, when he couldn’t sleep at night and she would read him stories while their parents slept.

“Is that your new song?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.” She replayed the tune, willing it to flow into her memory. She didn’t usually write her music down, just stored it in her head.

“Has it got any words?”

“Not yet.” She kept on playing. “Does it give you any ideas?”

Daniel listened for a moment. “It sounds kind of sad, like the way I feel when I can’t be with Katy. I think how nice it would be to wake up and look at her while she’s sleeping. I’ve never seen Katy sleeping. I’ll bet she looks like Sleeping Beauty in the story. Maybe I’d lean over and kiss her to wake her up. Then we could have breakfast together.” He sighed. “But I know it isn’t real. Not unless we can get married. That’s why the music sounds sad to me.”

Megan remembered the little piece of advice she’d written for Maggie’s shower. Maggie had said that her note sounded like a song. Megan had been thinking about Conner when she wrote it—what it would be like to wake up early, feeling the love as she gazed at his sleeping face—the golden lashes against his tanned skin, the velvet shadow of stubble along his jaw, the faint white scar that slashed across one cheekbone . . . And now, to feel the loss, to know it was never going to happen . . .

As her fingers moved over the strings, Megan could feel her thoughts coming together. Maybe something was about to click. She glanced at her brother. “You can stay here, but you’ll need to be quiet. I’m thinking.”