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“Why agree to help with the farm? It’s not like you’re invested in it, and with Rhona acting like she’s counting the days until you piss off back to America…I don’t get why you’re out here sweating to try and impress her.”

“I’m not trying toimpressher,” she grumbles.

Nowmybrow lifts. “Are you not?”

“Ugh.” She tosses the pitchfork to the ground, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe. I figure it can’t hurt.”

“Seems like a lot of effort for only a wee bit of reward.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she sighs, her eyes immediately widening when she realizes what she’s said. “I mean—why do you care anyway?”

I study the rigid way she holds herself; her spine is straight andher shoulders are damn near up to her ears, and the tension she carries seems to radiate from her in waves, giving away the truth of things, that for whatever reason, she’s determined to make this asinine venture of hers work. Again, I can’t help but think that it’s almost admirable. Almost.

“I don’t care,” I tell her, the words sounding not quite right even as I say them. “I’m just curious whyyouwould care so much about a relative stranger liking you is all.”

She runs her fingers through the wild mass of red curls, her lips turning down as a sharp exhale escapes her nostrils. Like this, with the morning sun kissing her skin, her freckles seem to almost sparkle like tiny flecks of gold.

I don’t even realize I’m fixated on this until she says quietly, “They’re all I have left, you know?”

She doesn’t look at me as she says it, but I can hear the vulnerability in her voice. I very much doubt she means to appear that way in front ofmeof all people, but given that her shoulders are sloping now as an air of defeat settles over them like a heavy cloak—I also suspect that she might be desperate for any sort of connection. I distantly think to myself how alone she must feel, here in a new land with a family whose matriarch acts as if she’s not wanted.

“Aye,” I answer softly, a strange, heavy weight in my chest. “I know what that’s like.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “You do?”

Something like hope shines in those green depths, and I don’t like the way her looking at me makes me feel. Keyanna MacKay is not someone to be friendly with, and I should know better. It’s that thought that has me tearing my gaze from hers, clearing my throat as I shrug.

“Aye, well. You’d best be getting to that hay if you’re to have any hope of finishing before breakfast. If the cows get too hungry, they might just bite after all.”

The soft expression she’d been wearing evaporates, replaced by her familiar scowl. I tell myself it’s a good thing. It’s safer, her scowling at me. I’m not sure how to deal with anything more than that. She opens her mouth as if she might call me out for the blatant brush-off, but eventually, she just shakes her head and reaches down to grab the pitchfork again.

She turns on her heel, dragging it behind her, moving right past the hay bale toward the barn in a tizzy. Her shoulders are hunched up high again nearly to her ears, and even from here, I can see the red hue of the shell of them, no doubt a color that is all over her face. I watch her go for a moment, reminding myself that I have no reason to go after her.

Thankfully, I have other things to attend to that can keep me from changing my mind.

The attic is cold when I climb up the old pull-down stairs, the one lone lightbulb casting an eerie glow over the wide space. I was deathly quiet as I made my way through the house to the second story; Rhona and Finlay have already left to go into town, and Brodie usually spends most of his days doing…whatever he does. Anything to keep him from having to help around the farm. I begrudgingly think to myself that at least Keyanna isn’t as useless as her eejit cousin.

Not that it matters.

I know that I’m betraying Rhona’s trust right now, but with the arrival of Keyanna, I find myself running out of options. Especiallysince I don’t know what her presence will mean for me. Also, I can’t get Blair’s words out of my head—about Rhona knowing something. Rhona has been good to me, all things considered, far better than any other MacKay has ever been to a Greer, but sheisstill a MacKay, which means I can’t let myself trust her. Not completely. Not that the thought keeps me from feeling guilt at having nicked the key to the attic while I was chatting Rhona up in her kitchen the other day.

I’ve known where it is for weeks after seeing her return it to a drawer after using it, but I’ve been able to convince myself not to resort to such measures before this. After months of finding no answers, however, I am not too proud to admit that I’m getting desperate. I recall the night before, even press at the bruises on my ribs that I know will be gone before tomorrow but will still ache with something that isn’t just physical long after, and remember why I’m here at all. What I have to lose. What I’vealreadylost.

Rhona’s attic is full of old trunks and dusty boxes—and just looking at it from the landing, I know there is too much up here to go through in one afternoon. It will take weeks to riffle through it all, and that’s not counting the fact that I will have to do so quietly and in secret, lest Rhona’s good graces run out should she catch me going behind her back.

I reach for the nearest box and flip it open, frowning when I’m met with dusty baby clothes. The box beneath it yields much of the same, with the exception of a small framed photo wedged between the folded clothes. I almost toss the box aside without looking, but for some reason, my curiosity has me pulling it out, and my eyes meet with the smiling, younger face of Keyanna’s father. He can’t be out of his teens yet in this photo, his hair the same shade as Key’s and his smile like hers too. He has the same slightly noticeable bunny teeth that she has, so slight one might miss it if they weren’t payingattention, and I would like to say that looking at the photo doesn’t make me recall the strange sensations in my chest upon seeing that same smile in his daughter, but I would be lying.

I shake my head and move to put the picture back.

I have bigger things to worry about.

9

Keyanna

My first week at Rhona and Finlay’s farm is strained, to put it mildly. My grandpa, as he insists I call him, has determinedly done his best to make me feel welcome, but Rhona has been decidedly less warm. Her icy regard of me is still as frosty as the day she begrudgingly invited me in from her porch, and I am starting to think that no number of attempts at helping around the farm will thaw her reception of me.

Not to mention their infuriating farmhand, who seems to take distinct pleasure in making me feel as stupid as he first assessed that I was.