Some decisions could be made immediately.

That afternoon, Corvin stood beside the well with Mara and Sena.

He held the original land document.

“According to this,” he said, “the ranch belongs to your mother’s descendants.”

Sena shook her head.

“Our family.”

“I’m included?”

“Last I checked.”

Corvin looked toward Mara.

“You want it?”

Mara laughed.

“What would I do with cattle?”

“Complain about them.”

“I remember you being better at complaining.”

Sena said, “That part survived.”

Corvin pretended not to hear.

He looked across the valley.

For years he had thought isolation was freedom.

No neighbors.

No obligations.

No one close enough to disappoint.

Now children were playing beside his corral.

Women filled containers at the well.

Men repaired the fence Pike’s riders had damaged.

Mara was arguing with someone about coffee.

Sena had already informed Corvin that his roof leaked.

Elena sat beneath a cottonwood watching everything.

His ranch had never felt less peaceful.

It had also never felt more like home.

Corvin folded the deed.

“We keep the spring open.”

Sena nodded.

“To everyone?”

“Anyone who comes needing water.”

She studied him.

“Even enemies?”

Corvin thought of Pike.

“No.”

Sena raised an eyebrow.

Corvin sighed.

“Fine. Even enemies.”

“Good.”

“But they only get one ladle.”

She laughed.

Corvin looked toward his mother.

She was smiling.

He wished his father could see her.

Then realized part of him had spent years wanting Silas’s approval.

That desire finally felt dead.

Good.

Some things deserved burial.

Others deserved excavation.

That night Corvin opened his ledger.

For thirty-four years, his days had been rows of practical facts.

Rainfall.

Cattle.

Repairs.

Visitors.

Losses.

At the top of the new page he wrote the date.

Then stopped.

Usually he recorded events without emotion.

What else could a ledger do?

But this day demanded more.

He dipped the pen again.

Nearly three hundred Apache riders came to the ranch.

He paused.

Then crossed it out.

Mara leaned over his shoulder.

“Why?”

“Wrong.”

He began again.

Family arrived today.

Mara rested her chin against his shoulder.

“Better.”

Corvin continued.

Mother alive.

His hand trembled.

Sister alive.

Another pause.

He glanced at Sena.

She was repairing a leather strap near the fireplace.

Niece impossibly large and argumentative.

“Uncle.”

Corvin looked up innocently.

Sena’s eyes narrowed.

“You speak quietly when you write.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

Mara laughed.

Corvin added another line.

Niece also has excellent hearing.

Sena threw the leather strap at him.

For the first time in decades, laughter filled the cabin.

Then Corvin noticed the brass clock.

It was almost 7:42.

The hands crept toward the hour.

Seven forty-one.

He stared.

His father’s voice lived faintly inside memory.

Never forget seven forty-two, boy.

Corvin stood.

He lifted the clock from the shelf.

Mara watched.

“What are you doing?”

Corvin opened the cabin door.

Outside, night covered the valley.

Hundreds of stars burned overhead.

He carried the clock to the well.

Elena saw him approaching and slowly stood.