“Months?” Dylan started back through the maze of desks toward Tipton. “And he’s just now bothering to let me know?” Dylan tamped down his rising irritation. Elijah Bliss was a drunk and had been for years. Getting angry at the man wouldn’t do any good. In fact, Dylan was mighty lucky Mr. Bliss had the wherewithal to bring it to the police station at all, much less late.

As Dylan took it, his heart gave an extra beat at the sight of his friend’s handwriting. The envelope was open—no doubt Mr. Bliss had read the letter from his son. Tipton poked at the pastrami before he took a big bite, avoiding Dylan’s gaze. No doubt Tipton had read the contents too.

Dylan made it to his desk, flipped open the flap, retrieved the sheet within, and unfolded it to reveal more of Jericho’s handwriting. Dylan had no right to pray or hope Bliss wasn’t giving him bad news, but what other reason did family have for writing except to tell of deaths?

He scanned the date from November of last year—over six months ago. He closed his eyes and took a deep, painful breath. When he began reading again, he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. There was no denying it. He missed his family and had since the day he’d arrived in Chicago.

Flynn had sent a few letters directly to the police station a couple of times after Bliss had told the family about their life in Chicago. But he hadn’t known what to say in reply to his brother’s letters and so hadn’t responded at all. What was the use in communicating with family? He wouldn’t be able to return to South Park and see them again. Not with the death warrant hanging over his head for unpaid gambling debts.

Dylan focused on the words penned on the paper telling of Bliss and Ivy getting married on his first night back, Ivy’s small ranch, and her venture in raising sheep. Bliss was still working for Pinkerton and searching for outlaws, but his traveling didn’t take him far from home for long.

Dylan’s muscles tightened. When was the bad news coming? It was just a matter of time before it would. Bliss probably saved it for the end of the letter.

His attention skipped to the final paragraph. “Ivy and I both agreed on what to do with the reward money. We took the gold to Bat and paid off your gambling debts and ended the death warrant. That means you’re free. You can come back to Colorado. We want you to come home. Everyone does. . . .”