"My grandfather believed in written agreements. He believed that if a promise was recorded and witnessed, powerful men would have to honor it."
"What happened?"
"They found ways not to."
Caleb said nothing.
Mara continued.
"When I was little, he used to take Daniel and me to the northern valley. He showed us the springs, the old trails, the places where our relatives had gathered long before the fences came."
She drew a line through the damp sand.
"He said land wasn't just something people owned. It was something they were responsible for."
Caleb watched her.
"And you believed him?"
"I still do."
She looked up.
"That's why I can't walk away."
Caleb understood more than he wanted to admit.
For seventeen years, he had told himself that the past was a place best left untouched.
Now he was beginning to realize that some wounds never healed because the people who caused them were still holding the knife.
They rested beneath the rocks until the worst heat passed.
Then they continued west.
By late afternoon, the mission appeared.
It stood on a low hill overlooking a valley of dry grass and scattered mesquite trees.
Once, Saint Agnes had been a substantial settlement.
Its stone chapel had possessed a bell tower, a small schoolroom, and a courtyard surrounded by adobe buildings.
Now the tower was broken.
The courtyard had filled with weeds.
Half the roof had collapsed, leaving the chapel exposed to the open sky.
A weathered wooden cross leaned above the entrance.
Caleb dismounted.
Mara looked at the ruins.
"Nobody lives here?"
"Not officially."
"That sounds encouraging."
He gave her a brief glance.
"You've developed a talent for sarcasm."
"I've had an excellent teacher."
Caleb tied the horse beneath a mesquite tree.
Then he examined the ground.
There were hoofprints near the old well.
Fresh ones.
Mara saw him kneel.
"What is it?"
"Someone's been here."
"How recently?"
"Within two days."
"Rook?"
"Maybe."
He studied the prints.
"One horse. Light load. Probably one rider."
Mara looked toward the chapel.
"Should we leave?"
Caleb rose.
"No. We came too far."
They approached the mission cautiously.
Inside, sunlight fell through gaps in the roof, illuminating broken pews and faded murals.
The air smelled of dust, dry wood, and old stone.
Mara stepped toward the altar.
A small statue stood in a recessed niche.
Its face had been worn smooth by time.
Beneath it lay a bundle of dried flowers.
Mara stopped.
"Caleb."
He joined her.
She pointed.
"Those flowers aren't old."
He touched one.
The stem bent without breaking.
"Someone left them recently."
Mara looked around the chapel.
"Who?"
A voice answered from the shadows.
"That depends on who's asking."
Caleb turned instantly.
A rifle emerged from behind a broken column.
An elderly woman stepped into view.
She was small, with silver hair braided down her back and a faded red shawl over her shoulders.
Her face was lined, but her eyes were sharp.
"Put your hands where I can see them."
Caleb slowly raised his hands.
Mara stepped forward.
"We don't want trouble."
The woman studied her.
Then her expression changed.
"Your mother was Elena Tolan."
Mara froze.
"Yes."
The rifle lowered slightly.
"And your grandmother was Rosa."
Mara nodded.
"Who are you?"
The old woman looked at her for a long moment.
Then she whispered, "I wondered whether you would ever come."
Her name was Isabel Navarro.
She had once been a teacher at Saint Agnes.
Seventeen years earlier, she had helped care for the survivors of Black Mesa.
And she knew exactly what had happened to Jonah Mercer.
Isabel Navarro led them into a small room behind the chapel.
Unlike the rest of the mission, it had been maintained.
A narrow bed stood beside the wall.
There were shelves of preserved food, two water jugs, and a wooden table covered with carefully arranged papers.
A lantern hung from a ceiling beam.
Isabel lit it.
"Sit."
Caleb remained standing.
"Where is Jonah?"
The old woman looked at him.
"You have your father's impatience."
"My father is dead."
"I know."
Caleb stiffened.
"How?"
"Samuel came here six months ago."
Mara looked between them.
"He was here?"
Isabel nodded.
"He knew he was dying."
Caleb stepped closer.
"What did he tell you?"
"Enough to make me afraid."
"Of Voss?"
"Of what Voss would do when he discovered Samuel had finally decided to tell the truth."
Caleb's voice hardened.
"Then tell me."
Isabel sat slowly.
For a moment, she seemed to be gathering memories too painful to handle carelessly.
Then she began.
"On the night of October eighteenth, 1870, a wagon arrived at this mission shortly before dawn."
Caleb's hands tightened.
"Who was driving?"
"Your mother."
He stared at her.
"My mother was at home that night."
"No."
Isabel shook her head.
"That's what your father told you."
Caleb felt the room tilt.
His mother, Margaret Mercer, had died the following winter.
He had always believed she had spent the night of Black Mesa at the farmhouse.
Isabel continued.
"She arrived with two wounded people."
"Who?"
"Your brother Jonah."
Caleb stopped breathing.
"And a surveyor named Nathaniel Crowe."
Mara leaned forward.
"Crowe survived?"
"Yes."
"What happened to him?"
"He left after three weeks."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
Caleb's voice trembled.
"And Jonah?"
Isabel looked down at her hands.
"He was badly injured."
"How badly?"
"A bullet had passed through his shoulder. He had a fever for days. There were moments when we thought he wouldn't survive."
"But he did."
"Yes."
Caleb closed his eyes.
For seventeen years, he had imagined his younger brother lying in an unmarked grave.
He had mourned birthdays, winters, summers, and all the years Jonah never got to live.
Now he was being told that Jonah had survived.
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Isabel's expression filled with sorrow.
"Because your mother begged us not to."
Caleb stared at her.
"What?"
"She believed Voss would kill Jonah if he knew the boy was alive."
"She could have told me."
"She tried."
"No."
Caleb shook his head.
"She never wrote."
"She wrote three letters."
He went still.
"Three?"
"Your father intercepted them."
The words struck harder than a fist.
Caleb stepped backward.
Mara rose.
"Caleb—"
He held up a hand.
"Don't."
Isabel watched him with quiet compassion.