But one question mattered more.
“Where is she?”
Sena’s smile vanished.
“Who?”
“My sister.”
She looked toward the northern ridge.
Corvin followed her eyes.
Only scattered riders remained there now.
Most had descended to water their horses.
A terrible thought struck him.
“Is she dead?”
“No.”
The world stopped.
Corvin turned back.
“What?”
“My mother is alive.”
He could barely form words.
“You said—”
“I said she believed you were dead.”
“Where is she?”
Sena looked at the elder.
The elder nodded.
Sena pointed north.
A small group of riders emerged from behind the ridge.
Corvin counted six.
Five men.
One woman.
She rode a gray horse.
She was perhaps forty years old.
Maybe a little older.
Corvin knew before she came close.
The scar.
A tiny pale notch through her left eyebrow.
The same scar he remembered from the wagon yard.
The same scar Sena had inherited.
Corvin could not move.
The woman dismounted thirty feet away.
She looked at him.
Both hands covered her mouth.
“Cory?”
Nobody had called him that since he was eight years old.
Corvin’s knees weakened.
“Mara?”
She began crying.
So did he.
There was no dignity left in either of them by the time they crossed the distance.
Mara ran.
Corvin caught her.
Thirty-four years disappeared.
She buried her face against his chest.
He held the little sister he had mourned since childhood.
Not little anymore.
Not dead.
Not stolen.
Alive.
“I thought you burned,” she sobbed.
“I thought they killed you.”
“Father said—”
“I know.”
They clung to each other while hundreds of people respectfully looked elsewhere.
Corvin laughed through tears.
“You bit me once.”
Mara pulled back.
“What?”
“You were five.”
“Four.”
“You bit my hand.”
“You stole my peach.”
“It was my peach.”
“It was not.”
Corvin laughed harder.
That was when he knew beyond any document, photograph, or confession that she was really his sister.
Only Mara could have remembered the peach.
They embraced again.
Minutes passed.
Perhaps longer.
Finally Corvin whispered, “Where’s Mama?”
Mara froze.
Corvin felt it.
A small change in her breathing.
He pulled back.
“What?”
Mara looked toward Sena.
Sena looked toward the elder.
The elder lowered his eyes.
Corvin’s heart sank.
“No.”
Mara took his hand.
“Cory…”
“She’s dead.”
Mara didn’t answer immediately.
That silence hurt more than words.
“When?”
“Not yet.”
Corvin stared.
“What does that mean?”
Mara’s eyes filled again.
“It means there’s something else you don’t know.”
That evening the ranch looked entirely different.
Nearly three hundred horses dotted the valley.
Small cooking fires glowed beside the creek.
Pike and his remaining men were guarded beneath the trees.
The brass clock sat on Corvin’s table.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
But nobody wound it at 7:42.
For the first time in decades, Corvin let that hour pass unnoticed.
Mara sat opposite him.
Sena leaned against the wall.
The elder waited outside.
Corvin folded his hands.
“Tell me.”
Mara hesitated.
