And besides, do you really think my father would take me to Abilene if it were unsafe? He may be many things but he loves me and wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. And even if the area is a tad rough you know full well I can handle myself. Your constant worrying is offensive …

How could she possibly take offense to my concern? Would she rather I not care at all?

and I find your sarcasm—I hope it was just sarcasm—offensive. I want an apology.

Yes, I will apologize.

I honestly thought you would thank me for my commitment to changing my father’s opinion of you. Surely you can see the benefit of my spending time alone with him. There is nothing to do on the long train ride but talk. I can make him understand what we mean to each other. You must concede this trip can be used to our advantage.

I can, and yet I could never forgive myself if she were harmed on my account.

I share your disappointment about the wedding and was also looking forward to meeting your parents, but I will not just sit around and wait …

Is that a subtle criticism?

… for our situation to change. I must, and will, do something. And, by the by, it was your suggestion I keep myself busy while you are consumed by your passion for work. The gala was a fundraiser …

She spent a very lavish evening in the company of another man.

… and I spent most of my time encouraging patrons. Yes, I did spend some of the time with Mr. Kennard and he was a fine gentleman. My glass was never empty nor was I left alone in the corner. These are merely facts and are not meant to allude to anything.

Then why tell me at all? She should have kept the details unless I asked.

I will not speak any more about Mr. Kennard. But I will say one more thing about this trip with my father. With or without your blessing, I am going to Abilene. I will convince my father of your exceptional breeding and fine character even if that means trotting out your qualities as a show dog and overlooking your threat of axes …

It was more of a suggestion.

and cages. Really, Thomas, was that necessary?

My letter was perhaps a bit coarse, but I explained my grievances with clarity and stand by my sound reasoning. Even so, I know you will tell me an apology is in order. I think it will be more believable if you could shed light on why I should apologize. Sometimes we all need another perspective.

Your loving son,

Thomas

February 1, 1889.

FOWLER —

Your incompetence is intolerable! While hurrying to Winchester Manor the rear axle clip snapped clean in half and the carriage catapulted. If not for the good fortune of a large log, I would have careened off the cliff and plummeted to my death. Are you trying to kill me!

February 2, 1889.

MR. EVERETT —

I am indeed interested in what you “stumbled upon” with regard to Mr. Harting. Also, where is the criminal file on Mr. Kennard? Recent circumstances dictate urgency. I shall be in New York on personal business in a few weeks and would like to arrange a meeting. I expect you are gathering information at full chisel and have much to share.

Thomas M. Gadwell

February 2, 1889.

DEAR HENRY —

Paranoia has returned and this time with tangible reason. Has your carriage axle clip ever broken in two? Has anyone’s? I assure you a ridge-top ledge is a horrific place for a suspicious malfunction. This accident combined with my inquisitive “college roommate” and Fowler’s insistence he has not taken up smoking despite evidence to the contrary means I can no longer swallow my nagging concerns.

Though unfathomable outside the pages of one of your stories, I must consider Mr. Harting’s threat and the possibility he has discovered our letters. Still, Doyle’s new Sherlock Holmes would not jump to conclusions. Given Mr. Kennard’s desire to sit at the Hartings’ dinner table, perhaps the Muskrat is shrewder than I imagined and has discovered Mr. Everett. For now the doors are locked and my panic is growing. I welcome your counsel.

Your esteeming,

Thomas

February 8, 1889.

MY DEAREST —

Your resourcefulness in engaging a young embroidery student as messenger was inspired. I just hope you are not miffed by my actions as I awaited word of your safe arrival. Upon my request, the editor of the Abilene Chronicle sent some fascinating back issues. I have not read such obscure prose since Henry’s class on seventeenth-century essays.

Did you know Abilene cowboys herded over three thousand head of cattle each summer? This is impressive for a one-horse town run by hooligans living in clay shacks. Wild Bill Hickok served as marshal until he accidentally shot his friend, and a group of drunkards once tore down the jailhouse with their bare hands. Then the cattle yards closed, and the town crumbled. Today they grow some wheat and mourn a dead economy. So naturally, Abilene is the perfect locale for a winter holiday.

Your description of vacant, bullet-riddled buildings and weeds growing in the streets is dismal. Though the town is not the wild village I imagined, I still worry for your constitution in such a depressed area. My concern for your welfare, however, does not mean I underestimate your abilities. You are indeed capable of taking care of yourself. Men simply desire to protect their loved ones, and my inability to shield you is more frustrating than you realize.

Also, please accept my apologies for comments against your father. I was discourteous to you and your family and now understand young ladies have few liberties while living in their parents’ home. Of late I received some wise guidance. It was not my intent to add to your burdens with my hostile and suspicious mood. My actions were unfair. Still, Mary, I must encourage discretion when delivering mail to your embroidery student. I believe your father is watching. Please be careful.

Once you have set photos on the nightstand, I pray you will share more than a few thin comments on the atmosphere and weather. Mary, you seem despondent. Your pen is labored; the thickness of the ink betrays your contemplation and the deep creases tell of a letter that was opened and closed many times before it was sealed. When you are ready, I ask you tell me what weighs your heart. Darling, what you can never hide from a man of words are the ones that are missing.

With loving concern,

Thomas

February 21, 1889.

MY LOVE —

My work is sometimes consuming and days run on like too many of my sentences. Can you forgive me for not writing in almost two weeks? I was trying to finish another chapter before leaving the island and time slipped away. That you have written only a few brief notes about the comfortable inn eases my guilt but not my worry. Are you unable to hide your letters or are there other troubles you wish to conceal? My prayer is that your father realized his mistake and you are on a train heading home.

I had planned to slip away to Penelope’s wedding without incident, but Mrs. Winchester insisted I join her for a send-off dinner. Though she dressed like a pirate (complete with an eye patch and sword) and commented I should marry before I have jowls, she has a wonderful cook and interesting company.

We were joined for dinner by Miss Katya Petrova, the Russian opera singer I met at Thanksgiving. Mrs. Winchester has taken a personal interest in the girl; I dare say Mrs. Winchester has supported all of her music lessons since arriving in this country. After a passionate aria, Miss Petrova demonstrated her developing skills on the piano. The moment her fingers touched the keys, I thought of you.

She played the score you played on our last afternoon at the hotel. I felt the damp breeze from the open window and the chords vibrated off the polished oak in the empty ballroom. The memory of how I longed to kiss your cheeks and take your hands in mine was so clear it took Mrs. Winchester’s abrupt shove to startle me from my daydream. I regret Miss Petrova misinterpreted my distraction.

The poor girl became nervous and quiet before retiring earlier than Mrs. Winchester expected. As I was putting on my gloves, Mrs. Winchester plodded toward me and I prepared for a lecture to rival my grandmother’s sermon on civility. Instead, she asked a peculiar question.

She wanted to know if I were acquainted with you. In my surprise I blurted meeting you and your family in California but said nothing of conviction. She dismissed me without further inquiry or my usual plate of blueberry muffins for breakfast. Have you forgotten to mention your family’s acquaintance with Mrs. Winchester?

My ferry to New York leaves tomorrow morning. Though uplifted by a reprieve from the island’s shadows, thinking of Penelope’s wedding stirs memories I wish forgotten. The ceremony has developed into a grand affair with at least three hundred guests, and according to my mother, that many doves. I was corralled into serving as usher, and Penelope just wrote to ask if I would make the final toast. She was reluctant to impose but declared “only my talent with words will keep the evening from turning into a total and utter shambles.”

I have attended many weddings but been asked to participate just once before. It was during a time I call the lost year, a boundless chapter in my life I often wish I could go back and edit. Truth be told, I regret my arrogance even more today than I did eight years ago. Meeting you has opened my eyes to the impetuous young man I was. Though I have never shared this painful event with anyone, I feel compelled to share my dishonorable behavior with you. Few secrets are kept well for long.