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“I remember.”

“Papa won’t even have received my letter yet.”

“This came from the lawmen. Could be their own investigation.”

“But somebody remembers something.”

“Yes.”

Eden stood and crossed to the window. Jesse let her go. Beyond the wet glass, people were moving through town, carrying baskets, hitching wagons, doing ordinary things while Eden’s world threatened to shift beneath her.

“For three years, we thought the wagon had overturned,” she said. “Josiah believed it too, when he could remember enough to ask.”

“It may still have happened that way.”

She faced him. “You believe that?”

“I don’t know. And neither does the marshal yet.”

She pressed her lips together. “I want to know what that witness saw.”

“Then ask Whit to wire Hillsboro for the statement.”

Her shoulders squared. “I will.”

Jesse was glad to hear the steadiness in her voice. She looked toward the door, then back at him.

“Will you come with me?”

The question caught him off guard. He glanced at the bed, at the right hand that still wouldn’t close properly.

“Not as far as Whit’s office.”

“I meant when he comes here. I’d like you beside me when I ask.”

“I can do that.”

Eden returned to his side. She held out her hand, palm up, offering him the choice. He took it and scraped his thumb across her delicate skin.

“I may need to go to Missouri,” she said.

“I know.”

“I may need to stay long enough to help sort out what happened.”

He grazed his thumb over her knuckles. “If you go, write me. Tell me what you learn.”

“Would you answer?”

“Badly spelled, most likely.”

“I’ve read worse.”

“From your novels?”

“From men who believed themselves excellent writers.”

He smiled, then sobered. “I’ll answer every letter.”