Two people had spent decades believing the other was dead.
“When did my father learn?”
“Nine years before he died.”
Corvin looked back sharply.
“He found her?”
Sela nodded.
“Once.”
A terrible anger surged through him.
“He never told me.”
“He wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t he?”
“Because Crowe’s father was still alive. Because people were already fighting over land. Because proving who you were would have placed you between both worlds during the worst years.”
“That was my decision!”
“Yes.”
Sela did not defend Josiah.
“He was wrong to keep it from you.”
That answer stopped Corvin.
Not an excuse.
Not a legend.
Just truth.
“He promised Talia he would tell you when the danger passed,” Sela continued. “Then he discovered the land fraud. Crowe learned he had the records.”
Corvin thought of the canyon.
The horse returning alone.
Sela’s voice became very soft.
“Your father did not fall.”
Corvin closed his eyes.
He already knew.
But knowing inside your bones was different from hearing the words.
“Crowe killed him.”
“Yes.”
Corvin’s jaw tightened until it hurt.
“And my mother?”
Sela looked toward the western ridge.
“She died four winters ago.”
Something inside Corvin collapsed.
Thirty-four years old.
And somehow he had become an orphan twice in the same minute.
He sat beside the well.
Sela sat beside him.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally Corvin said, “Did she know about me?”
“Everything.”
He looked at her.
Sela smiled through tears.
“She knew you hated coffee.”
Corvin blinked.
“That you broke your left arm falling from a cottonwood when you were nine.”
His throat tightened.
“That you refused to sell the ranch to Pike.”
“How?”
“Your father sent letters.”
Sela touched the medallion.
“Until he died.”
Corvin stared at the dirt.
“What did she say about me?”
Sela was silent long enough that he finally looked up.
“She said she had one son who lived far away.”
Her voice broke.
“And every morning she asked the sun to reach you before it reached her.”
Corvin covered his face.
He had not cried when his father died.
Had not cried when drought killed half his cattle.
Had not cried through three winters alone in the house where he had grown up.
But now he bent forward beside the well and wept for a woman whose face he could not remember.
Sela put one massive arm around his shoulders.
Neither cared who watched.
Eventually Corvin looked at the ridges.
“Do they know?”
“Some.”
“All three hundred came because of that?”
Sela shook her head.
“No.”
That confused him.
“Then why?”
“Nantan’s death could have started a war. They came because my father needed enough men that Pike and Crowe could not quietly destroy us.”
She paused.
“But there is another reason.”
Corvin laughed weakly.
“Of course there is.”
Sela looked at the well.
“Talia made my father promise something before she died.”
Corvin waited.
“If we ever found you, we were not to tell you who you were immediately.”
His brows drew together.
“Why?”
“She feared blood could make a man feel obligated to people he did not know.”
