Women looked curiously at Corvin.

Old men nodded.

Nobody seemed surprised to see him.

That unsettled him.

Then a door opened.

A man stepped outside.

Corvin knew immediately.

Age had bent him.

White hair hung to his shoulders.

A scar crossed his left cheek.

He walked with a cane.

But the eyes—

Corvin was looking into his own eyes.

The old man stopped.

His cane slipped from his hand.

“Corvin?”

Corvin had imagined this moment during the journey.

He had imagined shouting.

Demanding answers.

Perhaps striking the man.

Instead, he became five years old.

“Dad?”

Elias Torne crossed the space between them.

He did not walk quickly.

He could not.

But when he reached Corvin, he grabbed his son’s face with both hands.

He stared.

His mouth trembled.

Then he pulled him close.

Corvin resisted for half a heartbeat.

Thirty-two years of anger stood between them.

Then Elias whispered:

“I tried to come home.”

Corvin broke.

His hands gripped his father’s shirt.

He buried his face against an old man’s shoulder.

And

for the first time since his mother’s funeral, Corvin Torne cried.

That evening Elias told the truth.

In 1859, Elias had worked as a freight inspector.

Blackstone Freight Company was smaller then, run by its founder, Augustus Blackstone.

Elias discovered the company had been secretly selling weapons to anyone who could pay while engineering retaliatory attacks between settlements, Mexican ranchers, and Native groups.

Violence increased demand for weapons.

Military escorts increased government contracts.

Fear made Blackstone rich.

“But that wasn’t the worst,” Elias said.

They sat beside a low fire.

Nalin listened nearby.

“The company began paying men to murder families along disputed routes.

They’d blame whichever group was convenient.”

Corvin felt sick.

“My mother knew?”

“No.”

“What happened the night you supposedly died?”

Elias stared into the fire.

“I had evidence.”

“Where?”

“Your ranch.”

Corvin frowned.

“That wasn’t our ranch.”

“No.”

Elias looked at him.

“It belonged to a man named Samuel Gann.”

Corvin knew the name.

The previous owner.

The missing man whose bones had supposedly been found in a ravine.

Elias continued.

“Samuel worked with me.

We hid ledgers beneath his house.

Names.

Payments.

Contracts.

Enough to destroy Blackstone.”

“Then they attacked you.”

“They attacked our home.”

Corvin’s blood chilled.

Elias nodded.

“I drew them away from you and your mother.

I was shot near the river.

A friend swapped coats with me after he was killed.

The raiders believed I was dead.”

“But you survived.”

“Nalin’s grandmother found me.”

Elias looked toward Nalin.

“She saved my life.”

“Then why didn’t you return?”

“I tried six months later.

Blackstone men were watching your mother.”

“Thirty-two years, Dad.”

Elias closed his eyes.

“Every few years I tried.

Each time someone who helped me disappeared.”

Corvin said nothing.

Elias looked devastated.

“I convinced myself you were safer believing I was dead.”

“Did Mom know?”

Silence.

Corvin saw the answer.

“What?”

Elias’s voice cracked.

“Eventually.”

Corvin rose.

“My mother knew you were alive?”

“Corvin—”

“How long?”

“From 1868.”

“She died in 1877.”

“Yes.”

“Nine years.”

Corvin stepped backward.

“She knew for nine years.”

“She begged me not to return.

Blackstone had threatened you.”