Page 15

Rebekah smoothed the front of her apron. “Do you think it was good enough to give me a chance to write the bios for the candidates? The ones for the Cattlemen’s Association.”

Mr. Sullivan continued shifting through the invoices and adding figures to his ledger as if he hadn’t heard her. Maybe he hadn’t. No doubt his daughter’s fight with consumption weighed on him. Rebekah had even heard him mention helping her and her husband with the cost.

She glanced at the work she was supposed to be doing. This was her chance.

The clop of her boot heels echoed off the wood flooring as she neared. He remained focused on the unruly stack. Rebekah settled her fingers on the desk edge, then leaned forward slightly. She kept her eyes trained on him, licking her lip.

“Since you liked the story about the bandit, I would love the opportunity to write the bio stories on the candidates.”

Mr. Sullivan tapped his pencil against the desk as he lifted his face. “You can interview the candidates.”

Her heart felt about to explode.

“If they agree.” His eyes were calculating. He pointed the pencil at her for emphasis, bursting her bubble. “I plan to write up an article on each one too. I’ll decide which one is better and publish that.”

She took a deep breath, then let it out. It wasn’t all she wanted, but at least it was a start. “I promise you, these interviews will be the best articles I’ve ever written.”

“Hmmm.” He closed the ledger and pushed back from his desk. “You ready to set the type?”

“Of course.” She spun to go gather up the ads from her desk. The elation she’d imagined feeling at the chance for the story had been tempered by his gruffness. What had him so riled? Maybe the expenses for his daughter’s care were more than he’d imagined. She dared not ask.

Careful not to disturb her layout, she transported it to the table they always used when setting the type.

Mr. Sullivan tied a leather apron around his waist as he came to stand beside her.

They worked in tandem, placing the letters in the composing sticks.

As they worked, the stain on Rebekah’s fingers grew darker from sliding the letters.

The bell over the door jangled as Mr. Lee delivered their mail.

“Morning, Mr. Lee.” Mr. Sullivan greeted him, walking toward the bundle of mail he’d left on Rebekah’s desk.

“Morning, Mr. Sullivan. Got you another bundle of them letters.” The man winked at Rebekah. He knew they were her specialty.

She grinned and waved as he let himself back out. Mr. Sullivan picked up the stack, shuffling through the letters. A sensation as active as romping foxes started in her stomach. Those letters were her job. Mr. Sullivan didn’t intend to distribute them, did he?

“Where is your letter opener?” He’d pulled a particular letter out of the stack and left the rest for her.

But as her stomach quieted, he reached for her bottom drawer. Her hand flew to her lips as she sucked in a gasp, undoubtedly smearing her face with ink. There was no way to stop him from seeing the stack of letters all neatly bundled together in the drawer.

Rebekah froze in place, pulse racing, as he pulled the bundle out.

“What is this? Why are all these letters addressed to Box 256 in here?” His eyes moved to rest on her, confusion in his crinkled face. “Why aren’t these delivered?”

“I’ve been busy.” Her voice faltered as she spoke, betraying her.

“What?” The left side of his lip lifted in incredulity.

Rebekah intertwined her fingers in an effort to calm herself, fishing for an explanation. Any explanation besides the whole truth of the matter. “One day, I was in a hurry. The letters were in my hand. I hadn’t decided what to do with them?—”

“What to do with them? You put them in the box. What have you done?” The volume of the question grew with each word. She’d seen him angry before, but it had never been directed at her. Her stomach knotted.

“I didn’t mean to withhold the letters.” The words tumbled out in a flurry.

She wiped her fingers across the apron and rushed to her desk as if there were a way to undo this nightmare.

The fire in Mr. Sullivan’s eyes halted her before she’d made it halfway.

Inhaling deeply, she tried to calm the hurried beating of her heart.

“Do you understand the trouble this could cause?” He fanned the letters as he pulled them from the drawer. “If anyone found out we withheld mail?”

“I…I…I can explain.” Her mind grasped for an explanation, even as she pushed out the words.

“I don’t need an explanation. I need it fixed.” He slammed the drawer closed. “I’m disappointed in you, Rebekah. This is an important part of the paper. Was I wrong to trust you with it?”

“No one knows about this.” Heat rose in her face. Her plan had seemed so simple and innocent. Nothing like this was supposed to happen. She risked losing her access to the mail-order letters and ads. What if he took back the chance to write the articles too?

“Is that the box for the McGraw ad? They’re the last bunch I need poking around here causing trouble. Especially now that Quade’s—” Mr. Sullivan slapped the mail on the desk, his words trailing off as he brushed past her to his own desk, the letter he’d been searching for earlier in his hand.

Her mouth opened, then closed. The McGraw ad. Ed’s face popped into her mind. She pushed the thought of him away. It wasn’t his ad.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll fix this?—”

“You think you want all these stories for the paper, but you can’t put responses to the matrimonial ads in the right place?

What are you trying to do, play matchmaker?

” He swung the letter opener he’d found in a grand gesture, then set back to opening his mail.

“This isn’t a ridiculous dime novel like your father wrote.

This is real life, and you can’t mess with people’s lives like this. ”

Rebekah gripped the desk to steady herself.

Her father’s novels weren’t ridiculous. Those novels were more than just stories.

They were her connection to him. A connection that filled her with dreams of what she could be.

Filled her with dreams of a hero to love her like no other.

And she’d have her hero in real life, even if she had to write him herself.

When Mr. Sullivan didn’t look up again, she moved with slow steps back to the composing sticks. Her heartbeat sounded in her ears as she fought to push back the tears from the sting of it all. With trembling hands, she worked to set the type. She’d figure out how to handle the letters later.

Mr. Sullivan barely spoke the rest of the day as they finished up the printing.

The doctor had already agreed to take her home this week when he’d been out to check on the McGraws’ progress during the illness.

Especially with Ed needed at the homestead to help as they recovered.

At first, she’d imagined herself elated to be riding with anyone other than Ed, but she found herself missing their conversation.

As the doctor pulled into her drive, Rebekah failed to think of an excuse to accompany him over to the McGraw place. Once on the porch, she waved, then let herself inside.

She put on a kettle of water for tea. The letters were heavy in her pocket.

Her fingers interlaced with the ribbon on her hat as she worked to untie it.

As she did, her feet carried her to the familiar shelves in the corner.

They held the books her father had written before he’d passed.

So many that they tumbled over one another in a jumble.

The shelves simply didn’t have enough room to hold them all in the organized fashion she’d prefer, but they were all there.

She picked up her favorite, running her hand along the worn cover.

It took her back to the days she’d sat on her father’s lap as he read to her.

The kettle whistled, pulling her from her reverie.

After she’d steeped a cup, she lingered at the table with Isaac’s letters.

There’d been three so far. She ran her hand along the top page.

Rebekah blinked at the tears trying to escape.

These letters filled the place in her heart that her father had once filled.

A man wrapping her in words, telling her how valued she really was.

And yet, after all her careful planning, Mr. Sullivan wanted her to give over all the other responses.

There hadn’t even been time in the letters to properly discuss marriage. She couldn’t give up. Not yet.

She’d find a way to fix this. She’d find a way to keep Isaac for herself. Picking up the letters, she hugged them close to her.

At least Mr. Sullivan hadn’t changed his mind about the coverage of the candidates.

Back in the kitchen, she set Isaac’s letters on the counter before placing a bit of cheese on the last slice of bread she had.

She leaned her back against the counter as she tore off a bite, then eyed it with a crinkle of her nose.

When Ed had made one, she hadn’t imagined a person needed any special talent for it.

But this sandwich didn’t taste the same.

Or did she miss his company? The man she hadn’t been able to stand only a few weeks ago had now turned into a friend.

Her eyes fell back on the letters. Ed had given her the gift of a chance with Isaac when he’d placed that ad. All she needed was a little more time.