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R ebekah missed Ed. It’d been two days since she’d seen him.

If only he’d been along for the ride today.

The thought smacked into Rebekah’s chest as quickly as the sweet-smelling honeysuckle vine at the end of the lane had smacked across her boot.

Her ride to the home of the final candidate interview hadn’t been the same without Ed teasing her for searching out clues or chiding her for trying to go alone.

And she’d all but proposed to Isaac in her letter of apology.

What if Isaac had been there to promise Uncle Vess he’d look after her?

What would these last few weeks have been like?

No image appeared, no daydream. The grin tugging at her lips faltered.

She didn’t know if Isaac would have teased her or argued with her or if his eyes would have sparkled at her.

She didn’t really know Isaac McGraw at all. She knew Ed.

But she had no right to expect Ed to want to come with her today after what she’d done.

Earlier this week, Mr. Sullivan had been distant while they’d worked to put together the next issue.

He was clearly still unhappy with her. So she’d come to get another interview in the hope that he’d see her determination and forgive her.

Going it alone was the only way to get the story.

Which left her riding Mabel up to the house of candidate number three.

At least the 160-acre homestead was just off the main road between her home and Calvin.

A ranch hand, the one Mrs. Jones had introduced as Jimmy the last time she’d been here, sat on the porch with a rifle across his knee. He came to attention. “Who’s there?”

“Rebekah Edwards.” She lifted her arm to wave.

Jimmy offered a greeting as he lowered his rifle to rest beside the chair he occupied. Another man she didn’t recognize leaned against the side of the house, tipping his hat at her before turning to wander to the back. She didn’t recall them always being this vigilant at the Joneses’ ranch.

Rebekah dismounted as the familiar figure of Margaret Jones stepped out the front door. The woman stood wiping her hands on her apron as Rebekah’s footsteps echoed across the wooden boards of the porch.

Margaret worked to smooth her hair and dress, which looked as if she’d slept in it. Lines around her mouth made her look haggard. “Oh, Miss Edwards, I forgot you were coming today.”

“What’s going on?” Rebekah let her eyes roam to where Jimmy waited before landing back on Mrs. Jones.

Mrs. Jones’s face paled a little. “The doctor was here only an hour ago.”

Inside the house, it was quiet with the curtains drawn. Bandages were laid out on the table in a pile. A hound dog greeted her with a whine.

A clanging noise sounded outside by the barn. Margaret jumped, hand pressed to her heart. Rebekah’s nerves began to jangle.

“Follow me.” Margaret took her down a short hall to what appeared to be the main bedroom of the house. Frank Jones lay in bed, bandages wrapped around his forehead. Bruises swelled on his face and arms. “Rebekah Edwards is here.”

Rebekah stilled in the doorway, her heart pounding. Who would do this to Frank? And why?

Frank pushed himself up in bed, wincing as he did. His wife bent over him, fussing as she worked to help him, only to have him brush her off.

Rebekah moved closer to the bed, her unease growing. “Is there anything I can do to help? I could bring over a meal.”

Bruises ran up Frank’s neck and over one side of his face. Watching him wince with each movement told her there were more injuries she couldn’t see.

“Maybe it would be best if I come back another day.” She took a step backward.

Margaret cast a quick glance between Frank and Rebekah. “Yes, this isn’t a good time.”

Frank shook his head. He lifted his hand. “No. Stay.”

Rebekah lowered herself into the wooden chair beside the bed, probably pulled in from the dining table. “What happened?”

Frank cleared his throat. “I was on the road yesterday evening.”

He coughed. Margaret reached a glass of water over to him. He took a quick sip, then waved the glass away.

Margaret nodded to her notebook. “Do you want to write this down?”

Rebekah chided herself, flipping it open. Must be her unease over the whole situation.

“He was jumped. On the road back from town when it happened.” Margaret’s brows furrowed tight as she moved closer to the bed to fluff the pillow his bruised arm rested on. She leaned closer to him. “All of a sudden a man with a bandanna—wasn’t it a bandanna?—came upon him with a gun.”

“If you’d let me answer.” His voice remained calm as she finished arranging the covers and pulled back.

“The man came up from behind. Must have thought I had the payroll for my ranch hands on me. When I didn’t have anything for him to take, he let me have it.

” Frank held up his injured arm as evidence.

“Is there anyone who holds a grudge against you?”

Frank and Margaret exchanged glances, shaking their heads.

“Mr. Billings was attacked by a bandit. Brought into town.” Rebekah gripped the pencil tighter to steady her hand. “He was running for office too. He was on the list of candidates.”

“Seems mighty coincidental that they were both running for the same position.” Margaret shot her husband a worried look.

“I woke up with my eldest boy, Elmer, standing over me. Came after me when I didn’t arrive back in time for supper.” He motioned to his side table, and his wife reached over to pick up a knife and a piece of newspaper. “Found this next to me. Stuck in the ground.”

“That must have been frightening.” Rebekah’s mind raced, trying to tie the pieces together. It appeared the candidates were being targeted. But why?

“Elmer didn’t notice the paper until later.”

Rebekah leaned over to grasp the article from the paper as Margaret handed it to her.

The one Mr. Sullivan had run announcing who was running for president of the Cattlemen’s Association.

If someone was targeting all the candidates, was Quade next?

But she’d already been to interview him.

All Ed’s warnings rushed back at her, even as she tried to push them away.

“You didn’t come here to talk about a bandit. What questions do you want to know about my candidacy?” The words had a quiet determination, so out of place when the man couldn’t even sit up.

Rebekah couldn’t let this go. “Have you told the marshal?”

He stared at the bruises on his arm before continuing. “Not yet.”

“Anything else you can tell me? Did you recognize who did this?”

“Like I told you, the man came at me from behind. I remember seeing a bandanna over his face. He did have a tattoo on his hand. Like this.” Frank traced out a pattern on the blanket.

Her chest tightened. She handed him her paper. “Can you draw it here?”

“I’ll try.” As Frank sketched, Margaret worried her hands. After a few minutes, he handed the notebook back to her. “Think the marshal can use that?”

“It’s something to go on.” Her own words sounded as if she were listening to herself from afar. She’d seen the same tattoo on the man’s hand at Mr. Quade’s ranch. “I’ll make sure to get it to her.”

“If this is about you running”—Margaret shot Rebekah a worried look—“maybe you should drop out.”

“I’ll be fine, dear.” Frank scanned the room, turning his attention back to Rebekah. “You didn’t ride out here by yourself, did you?”

His concern touched her. “The McGraws have been looking out for me.”

At least, they had been. One in particular. If only he were with her. “I’ll send the marshal to you. And I’m certain the parson will organize some help for you.”

His brow wrinkled. “What about the McGraws? I thought you said they were watching out for you.”

Rebekah averted her gaze. She couldn’t answer that right now. “I’ll leave you to rest. Thank you for your time.”

Margaret motioned for Rebekah to follow her to the door.

“Thank you.” The older woman’s hand clasped Rebekah’s with a slight tremble. Her lips quavered as she spoke. “Good day, Miss Edwards.”

Rebekah walked toward Mabel and mounted as the door closed behind her.

The moment she’d held a drawing of that tattoo—for the second time—nerves had stolen over her.

Ed’s insistence that Quade was a snake rang through her memory.

The cowboy with the tattoo had been on Quade’s ranch.

In his kitchen. Was he working for Quade?

Her mind whirled with questions.

If the bandit had attacked from behind, could the rancher be mistaken?

If the cowboy was the bandit, did Quade know?

Riding Mabel at a canter, she jumped at every shadow. Mr. Jones’s story had to be written. The tattoo’s detail had to be printed. But Mr. Sullivan was still sore over the letters. He might refuse to let her write this story.

A flock of sparrows took flight, and Mabel spooked. Rebekah barely kept her seat.

If Ed were here, she could talk to him. He’d know what to do. She slowed Mabel—no need to break her neck. She was suddenly aware of even the smallest noise in the distance.

The edge of town loomed near. She pulled back to slow Mabel as they entered the busy main street.

Sweat ran between her shoulder blades from the heat, the effort of hard riding, and her nerves.

Familiar faces tipped their hats or smiled in her direction.

She should feel safe here. Laughter erupted from the saloon as she passed, sending her heart pounding.

She found the marshal’s office empty. Heart still racing, she glanced down the boardwalk. Was it safe to go to the newspaper office?

* * *

Ed unloaded the display case into Mrs. Wilson’s bakery.

“You’re days late, but this is a beauty.” Mrs. Wilson ran a hand along the sheaves of wheat Ed had carved into the trim.

Ed shifted a little, his throat growing dry. “I’m sorry it’s late. I’d still like to start on the table and chair set we talked about.”