Mara looked down at her bandaged foot.
For the first time since the fire, she felt something other than grief.
Not happiness.
Not safety.
But the smallest possibility that she might not have to face everything alone.
"Thank you," she said.
Caleb nodded.
Then he stood.
"Get some sleep."
"What about you?"
"I'll keep watch."
"You haven't slept."
"I've had practice."
Mara leaned against the rock.
She closed her eyes.
But sleep did not come immediately.
She listened to Caleb tending the horse, gathering a few dry branches, and checking the canyon entrance.
At some point, he began humming.
The melody was unfamiliar.
Sad.
Slow.
Almost like a lullaby.
Mara opened her eyes.
"What song is that?"
Caleb stopped.
"My mother used to sing it."
"What was it called?"
He hesitated.
"Home Beyond the River."
Mara listened to the wind.
"Will you sing it again?"
He looked surprised.
Then he sat beside the small fire.
And in a voice roughened by years of silence, Caleb Mercer sang the song his mother had once sung to two little boys who believed the world would always be kind.
Mara fell asleep before he reached the final verse.
Caleb remained awake.
He watched the stars move slowly across the canyon.
Then he unfolded his father's letter once more.
At the bottom, beneath the signature, was a line he had almost overlooked.
The truth is hidden where your mother used to keep the winter seeds.
He had assumed his father meant the old Mercer farmhouse.
But the farmhouse had burned fifteen years earlier.
There was no seed cellar left.
No garden.
No house.
Only the remains of a stone chimney.
Caleb stared at the words.
Then he remembered something his mother had once told him.
She had kept winter seeds in two places.
One beneath the kitchen floor.
The other at the old mission.
Saint Agnes.
He looked toward the sleeping woman beside him.
Mara's grandmother had known the name.
His father had written the clue.
And Jonah might have survived.
For the first time, the scattered pieces began to form a pattern.
Not a complete picture.
But enough to frighten him.
Because if he was right, the massacre at Black Mesa had not been a failed robbery or an act of random violence.
It had been part of something carefully planned.
Something that had continued for seventeen years.
And somewhere in the desert, the last living witness might still be waiting.
Sheriff Gideon Voss had always believed that fear was more reliable than loyalty.
Loyal men could be bought.
Honest men could be persuaded.
But frightened men tended to remember instructions.
That belief had served him well for nearly twenty years.
It had helped him become sheriff.
It had helped him acquire land, influence, and money.
And it had helped him bury the events of Black Mesa beneath so many layers of lies that even the people who remembered the killings no longer agreed on what had happened.
But Caleb Mercer had returned.
And Mara Tolan had found the document.
For the first time in years, Voss felt the old machinery of his carefully constructed life beginning to tremble.
He sat alone in his office shortly after midnight.
A bottle of whiskey stood on the desk.
Beside it lay a telegram from Horace Bell.
DOCUMENT RECOVERED BY TOLAN GIRL. MERCER PRESENT. POSSIBLE EXPOSURE OF ORIGINAL TRANSFER.
Voss read the message again.
Then he crumpled it.
A knock sounded.
"Come in."
Silas Rook entered.
His coat smelled of smoke.
"House is gone," he reported.
"And the bodies?"
"Nothing."
Voss looked up.
"Nothing?"
"Cellar collapsed. Could be buried under there."
"Could be?"
Rook shifted.
"We didn't find remains."
Voss rose slowly.
"Then they're alive."
"Maybe."
"Don't insult me."
Rook looked down.
Voss crossed the room.
"Caleb Mercer survived a hanging attempt, three years in the borderlands, and a winter campaign in the Rockies. Do you honestly believe a burning farmhouse killed him?"
Rook said nothing.
"Find him."
"Where should I look?"
"Start with the old trails."
"There's a hundred miles of country out there."
"Then you'd better start riding."
Rook turned toward the door.
"One more thing," Voss said.
The gunman stopped.
"Bring the girl alive."
Rook frowned.
"Why?"
"Because she knows something."
"What?"
Voss's expression darkened.
"That's what I intend to discover."
After Rook left, Voss locked the office door.
Then he crossed to a cabinet beside the jail cells.
He removed a brass key from a chain around his neck.
The cabinet contained a second door.
Narrow.
Iron-bound.
Hidden behind shelves of old arrest records.
Voss unlocked it.
Beyond lay a steep staircase descending beneath the jail.
The air grew colder as he went down.
At the bottom was a small stone chamber lit by a single lantern.
A man sat on a narrow cot behind iron bars.
He was thin, with dark hair streaked by premature gray.
A scar crossed his left eyebrow.
His hands rested loosely on his knees.
He did not look up when Voss entered.
"Good evening, Daniel."
The prisoner remained silent.
Voss set the lantern on a table.
"Your sister has become troublesome."
Daniel Tolan slowly raised his head.
"What did you do to her?"
Voss smiled.
"Nothing she didn't invite."
Daniel stood.
The chains around his ankles scraped against the stone floor.
"If you hurt her—"
"You'll do what?"
Daniel gripped the bars.
Voss approached.
"You've been down here eleven months. You've threatened me every week. Yet somehow, I'm still standing."
Daniel's face was gaunt, but his eyes burned with hatred.
"She doesn't know anything."
"She knows enough to be dangerous."
"Then leave her alone."
"That depends on you."
Daniel stared at him.
Voss removed a folded paper from his coat.
"Recognize this?"
Daniel's expression changed.
It was only a moment.
But Voss saw it.
"The land transfer," the sheriff said.
Daniel swallowed.
"Where did you get it?"
"Your sister."
Daniel lunged against the bars.
Voss stepped back.
"Careful."
"Where is she?"
"Alive, last I heard."
Daniel's breathing grew ragged.
Voss unfolded the paper.
"Unfortunately, this is only a copy."
Daniel stared at it.
"The original still exists," Voss continued. "And I believe you know where it is."
"I don't."
"You're a poor liar."
"Then stop asking."
Voss sighed.
"You know, your grandfather was a difficult man."
Daniel's expression hardened.
"Don't speak about him."
"He refused a generous offer."
"He refused to sell land that wasn't yours to buy."
"That depends on which records you believe."
"The truthful ones."