Pike’s remaining riders surrendered their weapons and scattered.

For the first time since sunrise, the ranch became quiet.

But the Apache riders did not leave.

Corvin stood beside the well watching them.

Sela sat on his porch while he wrapped her arm.

“You’re pulling too tight,” she said.

“You’re bleeding too much.”

“I have had worse.”

“I believe you.”

She studied him.

Corvin tied the bandage.

“Why are they still here?”

Sela looked toward the hills.

“My father is waiting.”

“For what?”

“For me.”

Sela stood.

Her face had become strangely serious.

“There is something you must see.”

Corvin sighed.

“I’ve seen enough things today.”

“Not this.”

She walked to Nantan’s body.

By then, Corvin’s knife had been removed.

The buffalo hide had been drawn over him again.

Sela knelt.

From beneath the hide she withdrew a small leather pouch.

She brought it to Corvin.

Inside lay a piece of silver.

A broken medallion.

Half a circle.

Corvin stared.

The world seemed to tilt.

Without speaking, he reached beneath his shirt.

A cord hung around his neck.

He had worn it since childhood.

His father said it had belonged to his mother.

Corvin pulled it free.

Half a silver circle.

The broken edges matched.

Perfectly.

Corvin looked at Sela.

She was crying.

Silently.

The sight frightened him more than three hundred warriors had.

“No.”

Sela placed her half against his.

The pieces joined.

A tiny engraved symbol became complete.

Two mountains.

A river between them.

Corvin stepped backward.

“Where did you get that?”

“My mother.”

“My mother gave me mine.”

“Yes.”

Corvin’s voice disappeared.

Sela took a breath.

“Because she was my mother too.”

Nothing moved.

Not the horses.

Not the warriors.

Not Corvin.

He heard his father’s voice from thirty years ago.

Your mother died when you were born.

He remembered asking her name.

Elena.

He remembered asking where she came from.

South.

He remembered why there were no photographs.

There weren’t any.

Why there were no relatives.

They were gone.

Lie after lie.

“No,” Corvin whispered.

Sela stepped closer.

“Our mother was called Talia.”

Corvin shook his head.

“She was Apache.”

Another step backward.

“My father…”

“Loved her.”

Corvin looked at Sela.

She swallowed.

“Before you were born, my first father died during a winter fever. Years later, Talia met Josiah Torne.”

Sela’s voice softened.

“He was not yet the man who raised you. He was still carrying shame for what he had helped soldiers do. She did not forgive him quickly.”

Despite everything, Sela almost smiled.

“She said he annoyed her for two years.”

A broken laugh escaped Corvin before he could stop it.

That sounded like Josiah.

Sela continued.

“They married privately because both worlds had reasons to hate the choice.”

Then her expression darkened.

“When soldiers forced families away from the southern valley, you were an infant. Your father believed Talia had been killed.”

Corvin stopped breathing.

“She wasn’t?”

“No.”

“Then why didn’t she find us?”

“She tried.”

Sela’s eyes filled.

“For twenty-six years.”

Corvin turned away.

The empty Arizona land blurred.

His mother had not abandoned him.

His father had not stolen him.