In reality she had lived until he was seventeen.

“Why didn’t she come for me?”

Whitehawk lowered his head.

“Because Samuel had you.”

Ethan closed his eyes.

The man who murdered his father had raised him.

His mother had been alive.

Nearby.

Unable to approach without risking her son’s life.

Something inside Ethan cracked open.

“She knew me?”

Whitehawk nodded.

“She watched you from a distance several times.”

Tears blurred Ethan’s vision.

He hated himself for them.

Then he stopped hating himself.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Your mother made me promise.”

“Why?”

“Because she believed Samuel would kill you if he knew you understood the land agreement.”

Ethan pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Ayana sat beside him.

Her shoulder touched his.

Nothing more.

It was enough.

Then Ethan remembered the watch.

“Why did Samuel carry her photograph?”

Whitehawk hesitated.

Too long.

Ethan looked at him.

“Tell me.”

Whitehawk inhaled.

“Samuel Walker was not your uncle.”

Ethan stared.

“What?”

Whitehawk’s voice became quiet.

“Samuel was your mother’s brother.”

“That makes him my uncle.”

“No.”

Whitehawk pointed at the inscription.

For S. My beloved brother.

“The man you know as Samuel Walker was not Samuel Walker.”

Ethan felt cold.

“The real Samuel died before you were born.”

Ayana stared at her father.

“Who is he?”

Whitehawk looked toward Ethan.

“His name is Silas Crowe.”

Ethan knew the name.

Every rancher did.

Silas Crowe had been a notorious land speculator rumored to have vanished after a fraud investigation twenty-five years earlier.

“No.”

“He worked with your uncle. After Samuel died, Crowe took his papers. His business. Eventually his name.”

Ethan shook his head.

“He raised me.”

“He needed you.”

“For what?”

Whitehawk pointed toward the land agreement.

“Jonathan Walker’s son was the only person who could legally inherit the ranch and void certain claims Crowe wanted removed.”

Ethan suddenly understood.

His childhood.

His education.

The ranch loan.

Every kindness.

Every birthday.

Every Christmas.

The man had not raised him from love.

He had raised him because Ethan was useful alive.

Until now.

Ethan looked toward the dark ridge.

“Then today wasn’t about killing Whitehawk.”

“No,” Ayana said.

Her face had gone pale.

“It was about killing you.”

Ethan nodded slowly.

The fake Apache evidence.

His duplicate horse.

The map.

The blast.

If Ethan died near Whitehawk’s village during violence between Apache and settlers, Crowe could present himself as the grieving uncle.

Then seize Ethan’s ranch as creditor.

The watershed would finally belong to him.

After twenty-four years of waiting.

Ethan looked at Whitehawk.

“Who sent Jasper here?”

Whitehawk did not answer.

Ayana suddenly stood.

“Father?”

Whitehawk lowered his eyes.

And Ethan understood before he spoke.

“Your mother did.”

Ethan stared.

“That’s impossible.”

“Not Anna.”

Whitehawk looked toward Ayana.

“Her mother.”

Ayana’s face changed.

“My mother died six years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Then how?”

Whitehawk shook his head.

“She began this long ago.”

He reached inside his shirt and removed a tiny leather packet.

Inside was a letter.

The paper had yellowed with age.

Ethan recognized the handwriting immediately.

He had seen it only once before, inside his childhood Bible.