“Like eight inches,” Mercy protested. “That’s not a ‘little,’ Rafe.”

He looked over his shoulder, waggling his brows. “You shouldn’t open doors like that, Mercy.”

She frowned at him. “Like what?”

He chuckled. “Never mention ‘eight inches’ around a guy. We’ll just snicker.”

She considered what she’d said, then shook her head. “You really are a big kid, aren’t you?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Keep ’em coming, Mercy. I am a very big kid.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, but she laughed. “I’ll be right back.”

She returned to the bathroom and freshened up as best she could. She hoped that Sasha was a heavy sleeper, because she was going to have to slip into the apartment and pick up some clean clothes.

She slid back on the counter stool, a little disappointed to see that Rafe had put on a shirt. “So now you’re modest?” she asked, sipping the coffee he’d put next to a plate and silverware.

“No, now I’m frying bacon,” he said, pointing to a pan. “I don’t care for third-degree burns, thanks.” Then he grinned. “But I’ll take my shirt off again after I’m done cooking if you ask me nicely.”

She shook her head, charmed, as she opened her e-mail on her phone. Then squinted at an e-mail address that she didn’t recognize. Her heart sank for a second or two, thinking that the messages were in response to that damn article, but then she smiled. “Hey, we got two replies to all those Pinterest e-mails we sent yesterday.”

“All right! What do they say?”

“This one is from Kay in Maine. She bought one of Amos’s tables. She said she bought it about five years ago, in a shop near Crater Lake. That might be too long ago to help us.”

Rafe flipped the pancakes. “What about the second one?”

Mercy read it, then looked up, barely able to contain a squeal of excitement. “This one is from Diana in Phoenix. She bought the quilt that Eileen’s mother made. She bought it back in October.”

Rafe left the stove to read the e-mail over her shoulder. “In a shop in Snowbush. Where is that?” The bacon popped and he hurried back to the stove. “Can you look it up on Google Maps?”

“Already doing it,” Mercy said, then exhaled slowly. “It’s just a speck on the map. The closest town is Likely, California. It’s up in the northeast corner, catty-corner to where the Oregon and Nevada borders meet. Close to the Modoc National Forest.”

Rafe’s eyes were sparkling. “So, maybe a four-hour drive?”

“Four hours and forty-four minutes.” She drew a deep breath, trying to stay calm enough to think. “Can we go and ask the shop where they got the quilt?”

He met her gaze. “Absolutely.”

She laughed, feeling giddy. “Do we have to tell Tom Hunter?”

“Do you want to?”

She forced herself to sober, to think. “No. I want to check this out myself. Is that wrong?”