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“I knew someone once who wore boots like that,” she said.

Whit angled his notebook toward her. “Where?”

“Missouri. Near Willow Bend.”

“When?”

“Three years ago. He spoke with my father about land beside the mill road.”

“His name?”

“I never heard it.”

Whit waited.

“There was an accident on that road afterward. My brother’s wagon overturned.” She pressed her hands together. “I have no reason to believe the two things are connected.”

“You remembered the peppermint,” Whit said.

“I did, but that doesn’t make him the same man.”

“Agreed.” He shut his notebook. “Write your father. Ask what he recalls. Don’t mention our suspicions to anyone outside the family yet.”

Eden nodded.

Jesse shifted on the bed. “Who got hurt?”

She turned to him. “Josiah.”

His expression changed. “That’s how it happened?”

“Yes. The wagon broke apart on the road. He struck his head when he was thrown.”

Jesse drew his left hand across the blanket toward her. He stopped short of touching her sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Whit rose. “I’ll come back if I learn anything definite. In the meantime, no one goes looking for Pike alone.”

“Tell that to Bass,” Jesse muttered.

“I intend to.”

Nate followed the sheriff out, closing the door behind him.

Eden reached for her reticule and found a sheet of writing paper. She ought to go to the desk in the front room, where there was ink, and enough space to write properly. Instead, she sat with the blank page in her lap.

“Your father’s name?” Jesse asked.

“Thomas Whitcomb.”

“Good man?”

“The best I know.”

“Then tell him what you heard. Let him do his part.”