This road was the worst of all, gravel without any blacktop and big trees making it even darker. She fell again, and the heels of her hands stung from the gravel. Finally, she came around a curve where the trees stopped and spotted a house, but there weren’t any lights on. Not even one. Her house in Nashville had motion lights, so if a burglar came close at night it would light up. She wished this house had motion lights, but she didn’t think they had those in the country.

She hoisted up her backpack and walked closer. She saw more buildings. The shape of a barn. She should have thought about what she’d do if nobody was awake. Her mom hated getting woken up too early. Maybe her brother would, too. Worst of all, what if her brother wasn’t really here? What if he was still in Chicago? That was the one thing she’d been trying hardest not to think about.

She needed a place to rest until it got to be morning. She was scared to go to the barn, so she gazed toward the house. Slowly, she made her way up the path.

Chapter Eight

The faintest threads of morning light crept through the lace curtains in the tiny window above Blue’s head. It was too early to get up, but she’d foolishly drunk a big glass of water before she went to bed, and the gypsy caravan, for all its cozy charms, had no bathroom. Blue had never slept in a more wondrous place. It had been like falling asleep in the middle of a fairy tale that came complete with a wild, blond-haired gypsy prince who’d danced with her around the campfire.

She couldn’t believe she’d dreamed about him. True, Dean was exactly the kind of man to inspire outrageous female fantasies, but not from a realist like her. Ever since yesterday morning, she’d been too aware of him in all the wrong ways, and she needed to snap out of it.

The wagon’s bare wooden floor was cool under her feet. She’d slept in an orange T-shirt that said BODY BY BEER and a pair of deep purple tie-dyed yoga pants that had never seen a yoga class but were super comfy. After she’d slipped into her flip-flops, she stepped outside into the cucumber chill. Only the birds’ dawn songs broke the quiet—no clatter of garbage cans, shriek of sirens, or piercing warnings from trucks backing up. She headed for the house and let herself in the side door. In the morning light, the white kitchen cabinets and their bright red knobs gleamed against the new soapstone counters.

Don’t sit under the apple tree…