Leaning against a post that supported the overhang of the porch, she smiled as her old dog nosed around the backyard and she thought of Luke Gates—elusive cowboy with the killer kiss. Her whole body tingled at the thought and she pushed herself upright, slapping the post and telling herself that it was time to forget about one stupid act of intimacy. Inside the house, she phoned Len’s Service Station and was told that her car was in the process of being checked out by the mechanic. Len would call her back as soon as he figured out what the problem was. “Wonderful,” she said with more than a trace of sarcasm as she hung up and imagined she heard the sound of a cash register dinging each time one of the mechanics fiddled with the wires and hoses attached to the engine. For the fiftieth time she promised herself that she would sign up for an auto mechanic’s class offered by the local community college.

But not right now. She picked up the receiver again and quickly punched out the number of her office. Winding the cord around her finger, she stared out the window and waited as the phone rang.

“Rogue River Review,” Becky, the gum-chewing receptionist answered in her typically bored voice.

“Hi, it’s Katie. I’ll be a little late because Josh had an accident. Nothing serious, but it’s gonna keep me home this morning.” After explaining to Becky what had happened, she was connected with the editor and repeated herself, telling him about her car and Josh’s injury. “I’ll work here until I get the word on the car, then I’ll be in,” she promised.

She’d had a second phone line installed months ago so that she could, over the summer months, work from the house while Josh was home for vacation and was grateful that the powers-that-be at the newspaper understood.

She hung up, feeling a little better, grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and settled in at her desk. Hidden in the top drawer was the letter. Was it a fake or the real thing? She reread the typed words she’d memorized since receiving it in yesterday’s post.

Dear Ms. Kinkaid,

I’ve read your accounts of my disappearance with some degree of fascination. Though others have written similar stories, your columns have been the most insightful.

Therefore I decided that you were the person to trust.

I would have come forward earlier, but circumstances have prevented me from doing so. I will contact you again soon.

Sincerely,
Isaac Wells