One of the younger women suddenly covered her mouth.
Cole saw her shoulders shaking.
For one horrifying second he thought she was crying.
Then he realized—
she was laughing.
Another woman laughed.
Then another.
Within moments half the line was smiling.
Cole’s confusion turned to anger.
“What in hell is going on?”
The chief barked something at the translator.
The young warrior looked mortified.
One of the women stepped forward.
She was perhaps forty, tall and straight-backed, with dark hair streaked faintly with silver. A pale scar crossed her left temple.
She spoke English.
Better than the translator.
“What he said,” she told Cole, “was not that we belong to you.”
Cole stared at the embarrassed young warrior.
The woman continued.
“He said you belong with us.”
The laughter died.
Cole felt something cold move through him despite the desert heat.
“What does that mean?”
The woman looked at him for a long moment.
Then her gaze dropped to his chest.
A leather cord showed beneath his shirt.
Cole instinctively touched it.
The cord held the only thing he possessed from before Silas Maddox had raised him.
A small silver disk.
Half of a sun etched onto one side.
Silas had told him it belonged to Cole’s mother.
The woman’s face changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
She whispered something in Apache.
Every woman in the line became utterly still.
The chief stepped closer.
He pointed at the necklace.
Cole’s heartbeat quickened.
“What?”
The woman with the scar stared into his eyes.
“Where did you get that?”
“My mother.”
“Who was your mother?”
Cole’s mouth tightened.
“Eliza Maddox.”
The woman slowly shook her head.
“No.”
Cole’s fingers closed around the silver disk.
“Yes.”
“No,” she repeated.
And then she said something that split Cole’s life cleanly in two.
“Eliza Maddox was not your mother.”
Cole laughed once.
It was a harsh, empty sound.
“Lady, you ought to drink more water.”
The woman didn’t smile.
The chief spoke quietly.
She translated.
“He asks whether you have a mark below your left shoulder.”
Cole’s amusement disappeared.
Nobody knew about that.
Nobody except Silas.
Cole had been born—or so he had been told—with a dark crescent-shaped patch beneath his left shoulder blade.
He slowly stepped backward.
“How do you know that?”
The woman’s eyes glistened.
“Because I remember you.”
Cole’s blood went cold.
“That’s impossible.”
“I was twelve.”
He shook his head.
“You’re mistaken.”
“You were called Kai.”
“My name is Cole Maddox.”
“Now.”
The single word struck harder than any fist.
The elderly woman in the line began crying.
Not loudly.
She pressed one trembling hand against her lips.
Cole looked around.
Twenty-two women.
Twenty-two pairs of eyes.
Some wet with tears.
Some angry.
Some frightened.
All fixed upon him.
“What is this?”
The English-speaking woman touched her chest.
“My name is Nantan.”
She pointed to the elderly woman.
“That is Isadora. Your mother’s sister.”
Cole stared.
“No.”
Isadora took a step toward him.
Cole retreated.
“No.”
She spoke his supposed childhood name.
“Kai.”
Something inside Cole’s skull flashed.
Firelight.
A woman singing.
A warm hand touching his hair.
A silver disk catching sunlight.
He pressed both hands against his temples.
“No.”
Another memory.
Not men on horseback attacking his wagon.
