Page 33 of A Secret Heart
She spun, locking gazes with Mr. Sullivan. “This letter is addressed to me.”
Neither one broke the stare. Even as her insides trembled, the words still warmed her. Nothing in her wanted to let him read it to prove the letter belonged to her.
Sullivan broke the stare. “Did you deliver the letters to Isaac?”
She pushed the envelope into the pocket of her skirt. “I said I would.”
His eyebrows hitched. But she found she couldn’t even be sorry for the misleading words, not while her heart sang. She’d won Isaac’s heart.
“My article is ready.” Rebekah reached for the papers with her article scrawled across it and held it out to Mr. Sullivan, only too ready to divert the conversation. “The one covering my interview with Mr. Quade.”
“I’ll read it later.” He walked to his desk, tossing her article to the side.
“It’s the facts. An exclusive interview.” Desperation clung to her words as she watched him from across the room. Wasn’t he even going to read it?
“Not sure we’ll have space for it.” Mr. Sullivan mumbled the words as he focused on the ledger on his desk. It wasn’t his usual day to pore over the books. He only paid bills and tallied the ledger every other week. Why busy himself with it now?
She stepped in that direction, ready with an argument to plead the case for her article. “Has the circulation for the paper improved this month?”
Mr. Sullivan slid his arm over the page. He eyed her as if he knew where she was going with this. “We can talk about your article later.”
“It’s just that our readership seems very interested in the candidates?—”
The ledger slammed closed, echoing through the office. Was he hiding something in those pages? “I only need you for one thing: the matrimonial ads. If you can’t do that right, then maybe you shouldn’t be employed here.”
All her words stuck in her throat. Her fingers brushed the pocket where she’d slipped Isaac’s letter. She swallowed hard, thinking of all the other letters she’d hidden. She’d not done her job properly. Not all of it.
Mr. Sullivan’s eyes narrowed. “I want a yes or no answer. Did you deliver the letters to Isaac? And make a formal apology?”
Rebekah couldn’t stop the trembling of her fingers. “I will.”
He shook his head, his face reddening. “You…I…”
She had to stop him before he fired her on the spot. “I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”
“See that you do. I can’t have the paper’s reputation suffering over this.” He locked the journal in a drawer, then marched to the front door. Every footstep jarred her worn nerves.
“Deliver those letters or you’re fired.” As the door slammed behind him, the bell rattled in time to the shaking of her hands.
Rebekah fingered Isaac’s letter in her pocket. More work waited for her on her desk, but it could wait. She’d already worked on the next edition of the paper until it was almost dark. Mr. Sullivan would be back first thing in the morning to help her set the type for this week’s edition.
She crossed the newspaper office to the stairwell in the back, then clutched the railing tightly as she climbed to her little cot upstairs. After pulling the bundle of letters from their hiding place in her satchel, she placed Isaac’s letter on her pillow and set the rest of the bundle on the cot.
The soft fabric of the quilt atop the cot crumpled when she sat and leaned over to unlace her boots. Who would have imagined letters causing so much trouble? They’d always fixed everything for her. A letter had gotten her here so long ago when her mother had decided to remarry. Aunt Opal and Uncle Vess had come to get her when she’d written, bringing her to this wide-open territory from the crowded city back east.
She tugged to pull off one boot, then the other. She had no regrets about writing that letter. It’d brought her new opportunities and so much joy. Coming here had meant working at the paper and meeting the McGraws. But if she lost her job, how could she afford to stay? All the years of working her way up from sweeping out the office to setting type and writing articles only to be on the verge of losing it all? What would her aunt and uncle do? Especially since her pay often helped cover the bill at the general store. It wasn’t like she could depend on others to pull them through. Her aunt and uncle had strong views about charity. If it came to that, they’d likely sell the ranch that they loved so much.
Walking on her stocking feet, she moved to the window. A group of boxes waited, arranged to create a sort of seat for her. If she hadn’t come west to be with her aunt and uncle, Rebekah didn’t know what her fate might have been at the hands of her stepfather. He’d been impatient with her, even cruel at times. Her mother had tried to smooth things over, needing the financial security he offered. But the Boutwells had been there for Rebekah. She could never let them down.
Through the windowpanes, the stars shone above the fading sunset.
Her journal and a pen waited in the secret place between the box and the wall. With her hand, she reached in to pull them out. The journal fell open to a blank page. Did she dare try to write another letter?
Dear Wyoming Rancher,
She put a line through the words. Crossed them out more fiercely as emotion poured through her. That wouldn’t do at all. She tore out the page, took a deep breath, and then began on a new sheet.
Dear Isaac,
