“That all?”

Rose looked away.

“No.”

The room seemed suddenly smaller.

“What else?”

“She said there was something I could tell you if it got very bad.”

My hands went still.

“What?”

Rose’s breathing quickened.

“Martha said never tell anybody else.”

“You’re safe here.”

“She said people would get hurt.”

“Rose.”

Her eyes met mine.

“What did Martha tell you?”

She twisted the hem of her nightdress.

Then whispered:

“Mama’s name wasn’t really Kelly.”

I stared at her.

“What was it?”

“She made me promise.”

“Your mama?”

“Martha.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

Rose shook her head violently.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what the men wanted.”

“What?”

“The old name.”

My chair scraped backward.

“What old name?”

Rose began crying without making a sound.

I stopped.

Whatever answer I wanted, I wasn’t taking it from a frightened child at midnight.

“All right.”

She wiped her face.

I knelt beside her.

“Keep it.”

She looked confused.

“The secret,” I said. “Keep it until you’re ready.”

“Even if Samuel gets worse?”

“Samuel won’t get worse because you keep a secret.”

I hoped that was true.

Rose turned toward the cot.

Then stopped.

“Martha said you’d have a blue door.”

I looked toward the front of the house.

My door had been painted dark blue.

Once.

Years ago.

Now it was weathered almost gray.

“Lots of houses have blue doors.”

Rose shook her head.

“She said yours had a little star carved by the bottom hinge.”

Every hair on my arms rose.

Nobody in Holt County knew about that star.

I had carved it with a pocketknife eighteen years earlier because my daughter, Lucy, wanted our house marked so angels could find it at night.

Lucy had been eleven.

She and my wife Catherine disappeared three years later.

Fourteen years ago.

Their wagon was found overturned near a flooded crossing.

The horses were dead.

Catherine and Lucy were never found.

Nobody alive should have known about that star except me.

I did not sleep.

At first light, hoofbeats came up the lane.

Rose was beside me before I reached the door.

“Men?”

“Yes.”

She picked up Samuel.

“Bedroom.”

“No.”

“Rose—”

“I stay with him.”

I opened the door.

Deputy Lomax sat outside with Sheriff Edwin Pike and two county riders.

Pike removed his hat.

“Morning, Elias.”

“Little early for visiting.”

“We’re not visiting.”

His gaze shifted.

Rose stood behind me.

Pike sighed.

“There she is.”

Rose seized my shirt.

“We’re here to collect two county wards who left lawful custody.”

“Lawful custody abandoned them.”

“Martha Baines was arrested.”

“And you left a six-year-old alone with a sick infant.”

Lomax spat.

“Baines was supposed to make arrangements.”

Pike’s expression tightened.

“Hand over the children.”

“No.”

One word.

It felt good.

Pike dismounted.

“Don’t make this difficult.”

“Samuel nearly died last night.”

“That changes nothing.”

“It changes plenty.”

“We have an order.”

He unfolded a paper.

I did not look at it.

“Judge Creed sign that?”

Pike hesitated.

“Yes.”

Silas Creed.

Probate judge.

Land commissioner.

A man who had controlled half the county’s paperwork since before I grew my first gray hair.