of something connected to Gideon Rook.
She lowered her voice.
“Mother wrote to him.”
The whiskey glass stopped halfway to Silas’s mouth.
There.
That was it.
Rosalie felt something inside her become perfectly still.
“You knew.”
Silas set down the glass.
“I don’t know what nonsense Eleanor wrote while she was ill.”
Gideon was watching their faces.
Rosalie translated quickly into the notebook.
When Gideon read her mother’s name, he reached into his coat and produced the letter.
Silas saw it.
He stood.
“Give me that.”
Gideon did not move.
“That’s private family correspondence.”
Rosalie almost laughed.
“It was addressed to his family.”
Silas moved around the desk.
Gideon stepped forward.
The difference between them became almost comical.
Silas was still a substantial man, but drink had softened him.
Gideon was a rancher who spent twelve hours a day lifting timber, wrestling cattle, and repairing fences in winter.
Silas stopped.
