Caleb closed his eyes.
There it was.
The ugliest truth was often the simplest.
Money.
Land.
Comfort.
Years stolen because returning Mave’s identity would expose everything.
Silas suddenly laughed.
Everyone turned.
“You think she’s innocent?”
He nodded toward his mother.
“She spent the money same as us.”
Edna slapped him.
Sheriff Reed hauled Silas backward.
Mave barely noticed.
One sentence filled her mind.
Saint Agnes Mission.
She looked at Caleb.
“How far?”
“Forty miles.”
She turned toward the barn.
Caleb caught her arm, then immediately released it.
“Mave.”
“I’m going.”
“To the mission?”
“Yes.”
“It has been seven years.”
“I know.”
“They may not have records.”
“I know.”
“Anna may have been adopted.”
“I know.”
Caleb’s voice broke.
“She may have died.”
Mave looked at him.
For seven years other people had decided which truths she was strong enough to survive.
No more.
“Then I’ll stand over her grave knowing her name.”
Saint Agnes stood in a valley surrounded by cottonwoods.
Mave arrived near dusk two days later.
Caleb rode beside her.
Neither had spoken much during the final miles.
Mother Agnes, the mission keeper, was nearly eighty.
Her memory, however, remained sharp.
When Caleb described the child, she frowned.
“Winter of ’71?”
“Yes.”
“Woman brought her after midnight?”
Mave grabbed the table.
Mother Agnes studied her.
“You.”
Mave’s heart stopped.
“You look like the baby.”
The old woman shuffled toward a cabinet.
She opened a ledger.
Pages whispered beneath her fingers.
“Here.”
Caleb stood.
Mave could not.
Mother Agnes read.
“Female infant. Approximately three weeks old. Healthy. Dark hair. Gray eyes. Left in wool wrapping by unidentified older woman.”
Mave cried silently.
Caleb asked, “What happened to her?”
The old woman followed the entry.
Her finger stopped.
“She was placed with a family.”
Mave’s heart broke and healed simultaneously.
“What family?”
Mother Agnes frowned.
“There’s no name.”
Caleb leaned over.
“Why?”
“A private placement.”
“Who arranged it?”
The old woman turned the page.
Then she smiled faintly.
“Well.”
“What?”
“She came back.”
Mave gripped the chair.
“Who?”
“The child.”
The room vanished around her.
“When?”
“Years later.”
Mother Agnes continued reading.
“Her adoptive mother died when the girl was five. Father couldn’t manage. Brought her back.”
Mave could barely form words.
“Where is she now?”
Mother Agnes looked up.
“Still here.”
Caleb staggered against the desk.
Mave did not move.
Could not.
Mother Agnes walked toward the window.
Outside, several children were gathering laundry from a line.
One little girl stood apart from the others.
Seven years old.
Maybe nearly eight.
Dark auburn hair.
Thin shoulders.
A serious face.
She was arguing with a stubborn bedsheet flapping in the wind.
Mave touched the glass.
The child suddenly turned.
Gray eyes met hers through the window.
Mave knew.
There are truths the heart recognizes before the mind has enough courage to name them.
The girl came inside minutes later.
Mother Agnes said softly, “Anna, these people came a long way to see you.”
The girl studied Caleb.
Then Mave.
Mave knelt.
She had imagined this moment during the entire ride.
