Corvin looked at the stone well.
After everything, Rusk might still win.
Mara did not seem worried.
Instead, she walked to Elias’s coffin.
“Your father said you would reach this point.”
Corvin followed.
“What?”
“He said you would become angry before you became confused.”
“Accurate.”
“He also said when Gideon believed he had won, I should give you this.”
From beneath Elias’s body, Mara withdrew a flat leather case.
Corvin stared.
“You had that the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“You might have mentioned it.”
“Your father specifically told me not to.”
Corvin muttered, “That sounds like him.”
Mara almost smiled.
Inside the case were three documents.
The first was a survey.
The second was a territorial filing.
The third was a deed.
Corvin unfolded it.
His name appeared nowhere.
Neither did Elias’s.
The original purchaser was listed as:
MIRIAM VALE.
Corvin frowned.
“Vale?”
Mara looked at Gideon Rusk.
Rusk had gone white.
Corvin felt the first tremor of another revelation.
“Who is Vale?”
Mara said nothing.
Rusk did.
“Her father.”
Corvin looked at Mara.
She nodded.
“My father traded horses and silver with settlers before you were born. He could not legally register several properties under his own name. When I was baptized at the mission, a clerk recorded me as Miriam Vale.”
Corvin looked again at the deed.
“But this says the land was purchased forty-one years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Before my father came here.”
“Yes.”
Corvin stared at the house.
The barn.
The fences.
The well.
“My father didn’t buy this ranch?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“He married the woman who owned it.”
Corvin looked at her.
Mara continued.
“Your grandfather paid for this valley.”
Corvin’s legs nearly failed him.
“Then the ranch is yours.”
“No.”
She pointed lower on the deed.
A later amendment had been attached.
Corvin read aloud.
“‘Property to be held for Miriam Vale Torne and all direct descendants, without right of alienation by spouse, creditor, or outside corporation.'”
He stopped.
Sheriff Bell took the paper.
Read it.
Then laughed.
A slow, amazed laugh.
“Gideon.”
Rusk said nothing.
Bell continued reading.
“This was recorded before the bank note.”
Rusk pulled against his ropes.
“The filing is invalid.”
A deputy examined the seal.
“No, it isn’t.”
Rusk’s face twisted.
“Elias forged it.”
Mara answered.
“Elias found the original last year.”
“Where?”
“In your office.”
Everyone turned.
Mara looked at Corvin.
“Your father broke into Rusk’s private records.”
Corvin blinked.
“My father committed burglary?”
“He was very pleased with himself.”
Despite everything, Corvin laughed.
It came from deep inside him.
Painful.
Wonderful.
His father suddenly felt alive in that sentence.
Mara handed Corvin one final letter.
The envelope read:
For my son, when he learns whose water he has been guarding.
Corvin opened it.
His father’s handwriting filled two pages.
He read silently.
Then stopped near the end.
His vision blurred.
Mara touched his arm.
“What does it say?”
Corvin handed her the letter.
She read aloud.
Mara’s mother showed me the spring when I was young enough to think a deed made a man the owner of water. She taught me better. This valley was purchased so no family—Apache, Mexican, white, or anyone else crossing this hard country—would be refused a drink. I was never the owner. I was a keeper.
Mara’s voice faltered.
She continued.
If Corvin is the man I believe he became, tell him the same.
Corvin looked toward the well.
All his life, he had thought it belonged to him.
His well.
His ranch.
His water.
Then he remembered the previous afternoon.
Mara slumped against the fence.
Dying of thirst.
He had filled the ladle.
He had not asked her name.
He had not asked for payment.
He had not told her to leave.
He had simply said:
