So did her voice.

“The truth is not required to be merciful.”

Jedediah laughed once.

A broken sound.

“My whole life was built by that man.”

“Then decide which parts are yours.”

At sunrise they searched the old tack room.

Silas had once controlled every inventory book on Cross Ranch.

Jedediah knew where the current ledgers were.

But not the old ones.

Clara found a loose floorboard beneath a cabinet.

Under it lay oilcloth.

Inside the oilcloth were four ledgers.

And a letter.

Jedediah recognized Thomas’s handwriting before touching it.

His hands began to shake.

Jed—

I know what Father has been doing.

The horses people praise him for “breaking” are frightened half to death.

Silas has been using pain cues on the difficult ones.

Father says buyers only care about results.

I found breeding fees missing too.

Silas is selling unregistered stock through intermediaries and Father has covered it because the money kept this place alive during the drought.

I cannot be part of it.

I am leaving after Saturday.

I hope you come with me.

Jedediah stopped reading.

Clara stood beside him.

He stared at the final line.

I think you have known longer than you admit that Cross Ranch needs saving from the Cross name.

Jedediah lowered the letter.

“No.”

But memory was already moving.

He remembered questioning his father about horses that flinched at sudden sounds.

Remembered refusing to use certain methods.

Remembered Thomas saying, “One day you’re going to have to pick a side.”

Jedediah had thought it was an argument between brothers.

He had not understood.

Or perhaps he had not wanted to.

Beneath the letter was a smaller ledger.

Inside were dozens of horse names.

Some marked with a black dot.

Clara pointed.

“What’s that?”

Jedediah turned pages.

Black dots appeared beside the most difficult horses.

Three notes were drawn beside several names.

Then he reached the final page.

MERCY.

Thomas’s chestnut mare.

Black dot.

And beneath it:

IN FOAL — sire: KINGFISHER.

Clara stopped breathing.

“What?”

She took the book.

“Mercy was pregnant?”

Jedediah nodded slowly.

“She was sold after Thomas died.”

“To who?”

“I don’t know.

Father handled it.”

Clara ran from the room.

“Where are you going?”

“To Diablo.”

The stallion stood near the river corral, muddy but calmer.

Clara searched beneath his mane.

Then his shoulder.

Nothing.

She moved lower, feeling carefully along his left rib cage.

Suddenly she stopped.

“Bring water.”

Jedediah did.

She wet the dark coat and rubbed away dried dirt.

A faint mark emerged.

Not the current owner’s brand.

Older.

Nearly grown over.

A small K beneath a crossbar.

Jedediah stared.

“Kingfisher’s mark.”

Clara looked at him.

“Diablo was bred here.”

“No.”

“He had to be.”

“He’s six.”

“Mercy was pregnant six years ago.”

Jedediah’s knees nearly weakened.

The most dangerous horse in three counties—

the animal Jedediah had purchased from strangers—

was the son of the mare Thomas had died riding.

But Clara wasn’t finished.

“Why would someone hide his brand?”

Jedediah stared toward the blackened barn.

“Because Cross pedigrees were falsified.”

“And because somebody didn’t want you asking where Mercy’s foal went.”

A rifle cracked.

The fence rail beside them exploded.