Mercer sighed.

“Your husband caused a great deal of unnecessary suffering.”

“You murdered him.”

“No.”

Mercer looked genuinely offended.

“I gave him employment. He stole from me. What occurred afterward was the natural consequence of poor judgment.”

Mason took one step forward.

“Stay away from my ranch.”

Mercer studied him.

“Still dramatic, Mason.”

The familiarity in his voice bothered Mason.

“You knew Anna.”

Mercer’s smile vanished.

“We all knew Anna.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ask the girl.”

Clara whispered, “I don’t know anything.”

Mercer chuckled.

“That is the tragedy, isn’t it?”

He tipped his hat again.

Then walked away.

Mason wanted to follow.

Instead, he looked at Clara.

She was staring after Mercer with confusion.

“What did Samuel tell you about Anna?”

“Nothing.”

“Think.”

“Mason—”

“Think.”

Clara closed her eyes.

After a moment, she whispered, “He once said the Callaghan papers weren’t about land.”

Mason’s pulse jumped.

“What were they about?”

“I asked.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘A mother.’”

That night Mason unlocked Anna’s room.

He had entered only twice since her death.

The air smelled of cedar, dust and memories.

Anna’s dresses still hung behind a sheet in the wardrobe.

Her hairbrush lay on the dresser.

A cracked porcelain bird sat beside the bed.

Clara remained in the doorway.

“I can wait outside.”

“No.”

Mason began searching.

Drawers.

Books.

Boxes.

Nothing.

“What are we looking for?” Clara asked.

“I don’t know.”

He pulled the mattress from the bed.

Empty.

Then Clara noticed the floor.

“Mason.”

One plank beneath the wardrobe was slightly different from the others.

He knelt.

The board lifted with the tip of his knife.

Beneath it sat a narrow tin box.

Mason stared at it.

Seven years.

Seven years beneath his feet.

Inside were letters.

Dozens.

All tied with faded blue ribbon.

Mason recognized Anna’s handwriting.

He sat on the floor.

The first letter was addressed to someone named Margaret Bell.

Clara inhaled sharply.

“My surname.”

Mason looked at her.

She knelt opposite him.

He opened the letter.

Margaret,

I have searched as far as Fort Worth. Father swore the child died, but I know now that he lied. The nurse remembered you. She said you carried my baby away before he could take her.

Mason stopped reading.

The room became utterly silent.

Clara stared at him.

“No.”

Mason continued.

If she is alive, tell her I did not abandon her. Tell her every day of my life has been shaped by the absence of her.

Clara’s breathing quickened.

“What is the date?”

Mason looked.

Twenty-two years earlier.

Clara was twenty-one.

He searched the box.

Another letter.

And another.

Anna had written to Margaret Bell for years.

Some had been returned.

Others never mailed.

Then he found a tiny photograph.

Anna at perhaps seventeen.

Beside her stood an older woman Mason did not recognize.

In the woman’s arms was an infant.