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“I’ll bring Buck another apple tomorrow.”

“Bring two,” he said. “One for him and one for you. Otherwise, he’ll think he owns you.”

“Too late for that, I fear.”

His grin followed her into the hall.

For the first time since arriving in Flat River, Eden had news she dreaded writing home. She also had someone waiting for her when she came back.

Chapter Nine

Eden had spent the morning upstairs at the clinic, washing her hair and putting her belongings in order. Carolina had insisted she eat breakfast before going anywhere, and Nate promised to sit with Jesse until she returned.

By the time she reached Reverend Billings’s study, she had rehearsed her letter to Father a dozen times and still didn’t know how to begin.

The church was quiet enough for thinking. Reverend Billings had offered her the little desk in his study when she asked whether she might borrow paper and ink. Now a blank sheet lay beside the spoiled ones, and her father’s name stared back at her from the fourth.

Dear Papa,

She put down the pen.

How did a daughter ask whether the accident that had nearly killed her brother might have been arranged by a stranger? How did she raise such a thing in a letter her mother might read before Father did?

Footsteps sounded beyond the study door.

“Miss Whitcomb?”

June Hardin stood in the passage with a covered dish balanced against her hip. “Reverend Billings said you’d be here. I can come back.”

“No, please.” Eden moved the discarded pages into a pile. “I’m making poor use of the reverend’s stationery.”

June set the dish on a side table. “Then you must be writing something important.”

“To my father.”

“Bad news?”

“I don’t know yet.”

June did not press. She drew up a chair at the other end of the desk and waited while Eden picked up the pen again.

“Three years ago, my brother was hurt in a wagon accident,” Eden said. “Yesterday I heard something that made me question it.”

“Have you spoken to your father?”

“Not since I left Missouri.”

“Then perhaps he ought to hear from you before you decide what happened.”

Eden studied the words already on the page. June was right. She had spent the morning composing accusations against a man she could not name, but all she needed was to ask Father what he remembered.

She dipped the pen.

I have a question about the gentleman who called on you concerning the mill road before Josiah was hurt. Do you recall his name? Was he from Missouri? I remember his boots and the peppermint scent he carried, but little else. Please write as soon as you can.

There. No accusation. Nothing about Silas Rusk or Sam Pike that might alarm her parents before she had proof.

“I’d like to post this today,” she said.