A girl’s hand holding his.

Then darkness.

Corvin pressed two fingers against his temple.

Kessa noticed.

“What do you remember?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

Corvin looked sharply at her.

“Don’t tell me what I remember.”

The old man spoke gently.

“Then remember yourself.”

The first gunshot came from the southern ridge at 8:13 in the morning.

Every horse in the valley reacted.

Apache riders turned almost simultaneously toward the sound.

Corvin spun around.

Dust appeared along the southern road.

Riders.

Forty, perhaps fifty.

They traveled beneath a white flag.

“Red Mesa?” Corvin asked.

Kessa nodded.

The old warrior returned to his horse.

“We expected them later.”

“How comforting.”

The riders approached until they stopped outside Corvin’s fence.

The man at their head wore a dark coat despite the heat.

Silas Vale.

Forty-three years old.

Perfect mustache.

Silver watch chain.

Polished boots that never seemed to remain dusty longer than necessary.

A county deputy rode beside him.

Two other men Corvin recognized as cattle hands.

The rest were hired guns.

Vale examined the Apache riders occupying the ridges.

Then he looked at Corvin.

“Torne!”

Corvin walked toward the fence.

Vale removed his hat.

“You have created one hell of a morning.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same.”

Vale’s smile disappeared.

“Step away from them.”

“Why?”

“Because those people murdered two company employees last night.”

Kessa muttered, “Lie.”

Vale pointed toward her.

“That woman attacked one of my couriers and stole company documents.”

“Did she?”

“Hand her over.”

Corvin glanced at the paper in his hand.

“No.”

Vale sighed.

“Corvin. Look around you.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of that.”

“You’re surrounded by hostiles.”

Corvin turned slowly, deliberately, taking in the motionless riders.

Then he faced Vale again.

“Interesting thing about that.”

Vale’s jaw tightened.

“What?”

“They haven’t threatened me once.”

Vale leaned forward in his saddle.

“They’re Apache.”

“And?”

Several hired men shifted uncomfortably.

Corvin continued.

“You came here telling me who my enemies are while bringing forty men with rifles.”

Silas Vale’s expression changed.

For just a moment.

Barely noticeable.

But Corvin saw it.

Fear.

Not fear of the warriors.

Fear of what Corvin might know.

Vale recovered quickly.

“Your father would be ashamed.”

Corvin stopped breathing.

Silas smiled faintly.

“Ah.”

Kessa looked at Corvin.

Vale had noticed the reaction.

“You’ve been telling stories about Elias, haven’t you?”

No one replied.

Vale dismounted.

“Then perhaps we should stop pretending.”

He opened his saddlebag and removed a thick leather notebook.

Corvin recognized it before Vale even held it up.

The initials burned into the cover were E.T.

Elias Torne.

Corvin stepped toward him.

“Where did you get that?”

“Company archive.”

“Give it to me.”

“Your father worked for mine.”

“I know.”

“Oh, I doubt you know very much.”

Vale opened the book.

“He surveyed this valley. He moved boundary markers. He redirected territorial maps. He testified that this spring was seasonal and therefore exempt from communal access provisions.”

The old warrior said nothing.

Vale smiled.

“Your hero was a thief, Torne.”

Corvin felt something hollow open inside him.

Vale continued.

“Everything your Apache friends told you about your father is probably true.”