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She gripped the page.

“What is it?” Emily asked.

Eden made herself read aloud.

“Miss Whitcomb, your brother’s suffering was regrettable but necessary. Some families only understand persuasion after an example is made.”

Bass came nearer. Nate said nothing.

She went on.

“Jesse Pickett is alive because Crowley was instructed to leave him breathing. If Bassett Pickett wishes the rest of his family to remain in such condition, he will sign over the south crossing before noon tomorrow. No marshal. No sheriff. Ring the church bell once at nine if he accepts. If no bell sounds, we will choose the next lesson.”

One more line appeared beneath the signature space, pressed hard into the paper.

“Ask Eden whether Josiah learned obedience.”

For a moment, she heard only the ticking of the clock.

She remembered them carrying Josiah into their house in Willow Bend, the wet blanket beneath him, the dreadful silence before he first spoke again. For three years, the family had called it an accident. Someone had written these words knowing precisely what they meant.

Bass reached for the paper, then stopped short of taking it. “May I?”

Eden passed it over.

“They want the crossing by tomorrow,” he said.

“They want us frightened enough to give it to them,” Emily answered.

From the sickroom came Jesse’s voice. “What happened?”

Nate was already moving toward the door. “I’ll explain—”

“Eden?” Jesse called.

She held out her hand to Bass. “I’ll tell him.”

Bass gave back the letter without argument.

Jesse was propped against the pillows when she entered. The bruising on his face was beginning to fade, and she could see the deep brown of both his eyes now the swelling had gone down. His right hand still lay stiff on the blanket. At the sight of her, his expression changed.

“Bad news?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

She sat beside him and read the letter from beginning to end. She expected him to interrupt. He listened until she had finished.

“May I see it?” he asked.

She placed the paper in his left hand, then moved the lamp closer so he would not have to strain toward it.

He studied the last line, turned the page slightly, and brought it nearer to the light.

“That wasn’t written with the rest.”

“The ink?”