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When I was a very little girl, my mother swore I would be the death of her. I loved to run and climb and tear down the road on our horse, even though my legs weren’t long enough to reach the stirrups.
When I was six, my mother found me sitting on the roof of our house.
She screamed and screamed. My father bolted out of the barn to find my mother wailing like I’d already fallen to my death and me giggling at the spectacle of it all. Soon, the neighbors came to see what the fuss was all about.
The Ryelands’ girl had gotten herself into trouble again. No one was shocked, and everyone but my parents seemed to enjoy the afternoon diversion.
While the villagers offered suggestions of how to get me safely down, no one noticed Emmet climbing up the far side of the house to join me. He hate
