Another day passed and another. The lump on the back of Rachel’s head had gone down. She was awake longer but very confused. She was seeing two of everything, and she couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to discuss the information she had about the women who had disappeared after working for Hawkins.

Her cheeks were hollow, and her skin had a gray tone that grew worse by the hour. The wound on her chest was healing, and Molly removed the stitches.

Midafternoon on the seventh day since Rachel had been brought home, Molly was in the kitchen while Win and Kevin sat with Rachel. She looked out the window when she heard hooves clopping softly in the deep snow.

A man came riding in on the cold, windswept trail from Bear Claw Pass. Someone she’d never seen before. He was dressed in a buffalo robe and rode a sturdy, high-stepping brown stallion. He led his horse to the barn, and a cowhand came out to meet him. They talked a bit, and the newcomer handed his horse over, then came to the house.

Calling upstairs, she said, “Kevin, someone’s here, a stranger.”

Her brother’s heavy boots pounded down the stairs. She stepped aside, and Kevin went straight to the door and had it open before the stranger could knock.

Without bothering with polite greetings, the man said, “I’ve come because of the telegram we received from Rachel Hobart. I’m a Pinkerton agent. I’m John McCall from Nevada.”

Molly stepped up behind Kevin and looked around his shoulder. She saw cool competence in the man’s ice blue eyes.

“Come in,” Kevin said. “We were hoping the agency would send some help.”

“Is Rachel dead?” From McCall’s tone, Molly was sure he knew Rachel and felt grief over the question he’d asked.

“She’s not dead.” Molly stepped back as McCall came in.

A wave of relief crossed his face that made it hard for her to tell him the rest.

“But we’re worried sick about her.”

Molly poured coffee while Kevin got the notebook they’d found among Rachel’s things.

“Her notes are in some kind of code,” he said. “We couldn’t make much out of them, and she’s somewhat addled from a blow to the head.”

McCall took the pages and studied them. “It’s a type of shorthand. We’re all taught it at the Pinkerton Agency, though often an agent only uses it on certain cases when they are undercover.”

“So you can read it?”

“Yes.”

“Here are the letters I stole from Hawkins’s floor safe, the one Rachel told me to search for,” Molly said. “She found evidence it existed while she was there. She’d narrowed her search and told me where she suspected it was. Hawkins was coming, so I grabbed a few, hoping he wouldn’t notice they were gone.”