Page 26 of A Secret Heart
“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.
Chapter8
The very next day, Rebekah eased up on Mabel’s reins, giving her horse leave to catch up with Ed’s as they rode toward the Quade ranch. But Lightning sidestepped in a way that prevented her from riding close to him. Ahead of her, Ed’s shoulders loomed broader than she remembered. She reined Mabel around to the other side, attempting to sidle up on the left, but Ed reined Lightning back until he was nudging Mabel aside. This Ed was different. Less scowls and more smiles. He’d taken her offer of friendship seriously.
Rebekah leaned to the side as a branch brushed close. A chuckle escaped Ed.
This was intentional. “Mabel and I aren’t cattle that need to be cut from a herd, Ed McGraw. I’m on a mission to get an interview, remember.”
Yesterday evening, when Ed had come by to tend the livestock, she’d rushed out of the house to meet him. She’d been missing her aunt and uncle dearly. With all the other McGraws still recovering, it had been a relief to see him. When she’d let slip about her plan to ride out to interview Heath Quade, Ed had insisted on coming. Sure as the sunrise, he’d shown up early this morning to ride out with her.
Ed flashed a serious look at her over his shoulder.
“I don’t see why an interview is necessary. Why can’t you just write that Quade’s a crook and be done with it? Save a lot of time that way.”
“You know why.” This earned another wry glance from him as he slowed Lightning enough to ride side by side with her.
“Has journalism always been so important to you? Always been your dream?” He shifted his focus to the road, then back to her, genuine curiosity written all over his face. Curiosity without an ounce of snark in it.
“I want to run the paper one day. I even have a plan to own it.” She’d never told anyone her dream before for fear of censure. But Ed didn’t laugh. There wasn’t even a twitch of his mouth.
“You like the facts or the writing?”
“The writing, mostly.” She angled herself, shifting Mabel’s reins slightly, to avoid a low-hanging branch on her side of the road. The movement left her so close to Ed that her thigh brushed against his. He shifted away on the horse’s next step, but not before she saw the way his hand fisted and then flexed on release.
“What inspired your love for writing?”
Never had she imagined him with so many questions bottled up inside. He’d always been short on words in her presence. This was all so new. So nice.
“I used to watch my father write novels.” Thinking about Papa brought an old pang of sorrow, one that somehow eased under Ed’s gentle gaze.
“It made you want to write too?” He bobbed his head as if contemplating this new revelation. “Why go into newspaper reporting? Why not write a novel yourself?”
She paused as silence filled the space. They’d called a truce, shaken on being friends. Did she dare to trust him with the truth?
“I’ve tried.” Rebekah scanned the trees and the curve in the road ahead that led up to the Quade house—anything but look at Ed.
“And?”
