” Gideon rose, his back stiff from the awkward position, and poured water from the pitcher into a tin cup.

He handed it to her to her and stepped back, giving her space.

She drank it all in four long swallows, then held the cup out for more.

He refilled it twice before she was satisfied.

“Thank you,” she said, her English careful, formal, as if she had learned it from a book rather than conversation.

Gideon nodded.

He took up his slate and wrote, “Can you tell me your name?” She looked at the question for a long moment, and something complicated moved across her face.

pain, confusion, something like grief.

Aayita, she said finally.

It means first to dance in my mother’s tongue.

Apache, Gideon wrote, and the name Maria.

Her eyes went wide.

How do you know that name? He pointed to the cross at her throat.

She touched it reflexively, protectively.

I, she hesitated, her brow furrowing.

I don’t remember.

Sometimes I think my name is Maria.

Sometimes Aayita.

Pike.

He made me forget.

He said Maria was dead.

He said I was only Aayita now.

Gideon’s hand froze on the slate.

He wrote slowly.

Who is Pike? Reverend Pike, she said, and her voice went flat, all emotion draining from it.

He runs the mission.

San Miguel.

He takes children, Apache children, Mexican children.

says he saves them, teaches them God and English and how to work.

Her hands clenched in the blanket, but he doesn’t save.

He sells like cattle.

Gideon wrote, “How long were you with him?” “I don’t know.

Long time.

Since I was small, maybe 8 years old.

I don’t remember before.

Only pieces.

A woman, red hair.

She sang to me.

She gave me this.

She touched the cross again.

Then Pike’s men came.

They killed her.

They took me.

Gideon’s breathing had gone shallow.

His hand shook as he wrote the next question, but he had to know what was the woman’s name.

Aayita closed her eyes, searching for the memory, like a woman searching for something lost in dark water.

I don’t remember, but the name on the cross, MH.

She said those were her letters.

Her name began with M.

Gideon stood abruptly, the chair scraping loud against the floor.

He walked to the far side of the cabin, his back to her, his shoulders rigid.

After a long silence, he turned.

He wrote on the slate, each word deliberate, then held it up so she could read, “Her name was Margaret.

She was my wife.

” The silence that followed, was absolute.

Aayita stared at the words, her lips moving as if repeating them soundlessly, trying to make them make sense.

Your wife, she whispered.

The woman with red hair was your wife.

Gideon nodded.

She died.

Pike’s men killed her.

He nodded again.

Aayita looked down at the cross, then back at Gideon.

Why? she asked.

And it was not clear if she was asking why Margaret died or why Margaret had given her the cross or why Gideon had saved her or all of these things at once.

Gideon wrote, “She was helping Apache families, children, trying to get them away from Pike.

” He found out.

The girl absorbed this, her face very still.

Then softly, I remember now.

Not all of it, but some.

She was taking us somewhere.

Five of us, children, to the border, Mexico.

She said we would be safe there.

Then men came, men with guns.

She told us to run.

I ran.

I hid in the rocks.

I heard shooting.

I heard her scream.

A pause.

I heard a man scream too, screaming her name.

Margaret.

Over and over until the screaming stopped.

Gideon turned away again, his hand pressed flat against the stone wall.

That was you, Aayita said.

You were the man screaming.

He did not answer.

Could not answer.

The memory was too large, too sharp, still capable of cutting him even after 3 years.

After a long moment, Aayita spoke again, her voice gentler.

Pike found me 3 days later.

He said Margaret was dead.

He said if I told anyone what happened, he would kill the other children.

So I stayed silent.

I became Aayita.

I forgot Maria.

Gideon wrote his letters hard and angry on the slate.

How did you escape? A soldier, Corporal Wade.

He was new.

He saw what Pike was doing.

He said it was wrong.

Illegal.

He said he would help me get away.

That he had proof that he would take it to the marshall.

She looked down at her hands.

Three nights ago, we ran.

Pike’s men came after us.

They shot Wade.

He made me keep running.

I got to the creek before they caught me.

They chained me there.

Said Pike would come for me in the morning, but Wade must have shot one of them before he died because they left.

Maybe to get help.

Maybe just scared.

She looked up at Gideon.

Then you came.

He wrote the soldier Wade.

He is dead.

I know, she said softly.

I felt it when you found me.

He was holding my hand.

Then his hand went cold.

They sat in silence as the morning light grew stronger, filling the cabin with gold.

Two people bound by the ghost of a woman who had tried to save children and paid for it with her life.

Finally, Gideon wrote, “You cannot go back to Pike.

I know you cannot stay here.

If Pike knows I have you, he will come.

I know that, too.

” Then, after a pause, what will you do? Haya met his eyes and in them Gideon saw something he recognized the look of someone who had lost everything and found in that loss a terrible freedom.

I will find out who I am.

She said Maria or Aayita or something else and then I will make Pike answer for what he did to me to the others to your wife.

Gideon stared at her unmoving.

this girl who was barely more than a child who spoke of vengeance with the calm certainty of someone twice her age.

Then he nodded once slowly.

He wrote, “Then we find the truth together.

” That afternoon Gideon rode into town.

Red Creek was barely large enough to call a town.

One main street, dirt and ruted, lined with false front buildings that looked like stage sets.

general store, saloon, livery stable, assayers’s office, and a small sheriff’s station with a wooden sign that read Sheriff D.

Web in faded black paint.

Gideon had left Aayita at the cabin with the rifle and instructions written on his slate.

Trust no one.

If anyone comes, hide.

She had nodded, her face serious, understanding the gravity.

He tied ash to the hitching post outside the general store and went inside.

The store was dim after the bright sunlight, smelling of coffee and leather and pickles.

The proprietor, a round man named Hoskins, looked up from his ledger, and his smile died.

“Mr.

Hart,” he said, his tone careful, neutral.

“What can I do for you?” Gideon handed him a list written on paper.

Bandages, whiskey for medicine, not drinking, the note specified.

Lodinum if you have it, tinned food, coffee, salt, pork.

Hoskins read the list, his eyebrows climbing.

That’s a lot of medical supplies you hurt.

Gideon shook his head.

He wrote on his slate, “Ranch hand cut himself badly.

It was a lie, but a plausible one.

” Hoskins nodded and began gathering the items.

While he worked, Gideon walked to the back of the store where newspapers from Santa Fe and Denver were stacked.

He scanned the front pages looking for any mention of a missing soldier, a dead corporal, anything about Pike, or the mission.

Nothing, as if Wade had never existed.

He was about to leave when the door opened and Sheriff Dalton Webb walked in.

Webb was 55, his face weathered to the texture of old saddle leather, gray stubble on his jaw.

He wore a star pinned to a vest that had seen better days, and his gun belt rode low on his hips, the holster worn smooth from years of draw practice that had never been needed in a town as quiet as Red Creek.

Webb saw Gideon and stopped.

For a moment, neither man moved.

Then Webb nodded a small tight gesture and walked to the counter.

“Hart,” he said.

“Not friendly, but not hostile either.

Complicated.

” Gideon nodded back.

Webb pulled a piece of paper from his vest pocket and handed it to Hoskins.

“Need to post this official notice from the territorial marshall’s office.

” Hoskins took it and pinned it to the board by the door where wanted posters and sale notices hung.

Gideon glanced at it.

missing person reward and beneath a description, female, approximately 17 years of age.

Apache, possibly using the name Maria Cortez, last seen in the vicinity of Mission San Miguel.

Information leading to recovery should be reported to Reverend J.

Pike.

Gideon’s jaw tightened.

He looked at Web.

The sheriff was watching him, his expression unreadable.

Webb stepped closer, his voice dropping low.

Hart, I need to talk to you.

Private.

Gideon gestured to the door.

They walked outside together, leaving Hoskins to finish gathering supplies.

Once they were on the boardwalk out of earshot, Webb pulled out a small notebook and pencil and wrote, “Is she at your place?” Gideon stared at the question.

Then slowly he took the pencil and wrote beneath it.

How do you know? Webb wrote, “Because I was there the night Margaret died.

I know what she was doing.

I know why.

” He looked up, meeting Gideon’s eyes.

In them, Gideon saw guilt, old and deep, and never quite healed.

Webb wrote again.

Pike sent that notice this morning.

He claims the girl is his legal ward.

Says she ran away with a soldier who kidnapped her.

Says the soldier is dead, shot trying to escape.

He’s got federal papers, guardianship, signed by a judge.

Gideon’s hand shook as he wrote, “She is not his.

He bought her, sold others.

She was one of the children Margaret tried to save.

” Webb read this and closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them, he wrote, “I believe you, but believing and proving are different.

If Pike comes with federal papers, I can’t stop him.

Not legally.

” Gideon grabbed the pencil and wrote hard, the lead nearly breaking.

Then illegally, Webb looked at him for a long moment.

Then he wrote, “3 years ago, I made a choice.

I let Pike go.

I let him buy his way out.

I took his money.

Every day since, I’ve regretted it.

I won’t make that mistake again.

But we need proof.

Real proof.

Documents.

Witnesses.

something that will make a federal judge listen.

Gideon wrote, “Where do we find it?” Webb wrote, “Pike’s office.

” At the mission, he keeps records.

He’s too arrogant not to.

But the mission is 50 mi south.

Well-guarded.

We’d need help.

Before Gideon could respond, “The door to the saloon across the street opened, and a woman stepped out.

She was 42, though hard living made her look older.

Her hair was black, stre with silver, pulled back severe.

A scar ran from her left eyebrow to her cheekbone, white against brown skin.

Mexican or Spanish, Gideon thought.

She wore a simple dress, dark blue, and an apron stained with what might have been wine or blood.

She saw them and went very still, her eyes locked on Gideon, then dropped to the silver cross visible at his throat, where he wore it on a leather cord, having taken it from Aayita that morning to examine it more closely in the light.

The woman crossed the street, moving fast, her skirts kicking up dust.

She stopped in front of Gideon and stared at the cross, her face gone pale beneath the brown.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded, her accent thick.

“That was Margaret’s.

I would know it anywhere.

” Gideon and Webb exchanged a glance.

Webb wrote quickly.

“This is Rosa Marine.

She owns the saloon.

She and Margaret were close.

Rosa reached out and touched the cross with one finger.

Reverent.

Diosmo Mio.

She wore this everyday.

Where did you find it? Gideon hesitated, then wrote on Web’s notebook.

A girl, a patchy.

Margaret gave it to her before she died.

Rosa’s eyes filled with tears.

The children, the ones Margaret was trying to save.

Is she Is one of them still alive? Gideon nodded.

Rosa gripped his arm, her fingers digging in hard.

Where is she? Is she safe? Gideon wrote, “Safe for now.

” But Pike is looking for her.

Rosa’s face hardened.

The tears dried as if they had never been.

Pike, she spat the name like poison.

That man is the devil in a collar.

He took me too 10 years ago.

I was 16.

He bought me from a brothel in El Paso.

Said he would save my soul.

Instead, he sold me to work copper mines in the hills.

I would have died there if not for a cavalry raid.

A soldier helped me escape.

Corporal Wade.

Gideon went very still.

He wrote, “Wade is dead.

Killed three nights ago helping the girl escape.

” Rosa closed her eyes.

Of course, Pike kills anyone who threatens him.

He has friends, powerful friends, in the cavalry, in the government.

Men who use his missions to hide their crimes.

She looked at both men, her jaw set.

I will help you.

Whatever you need, I owe Margaret.

I owe Wade, and I owe myself.

Webb wrote, “We need Pike’s records.

Proof of what he is doing.

Can you get inside the mission?” Rosa shook her head.

“Not without being recognized, but I know someone who can, someone Pike trusts.

” She looked at Gideon.

Do you trust your ranch hand, Tobias? Gideon’s expression went flat.

He wrote, “Why?” Rosa said, “Because I have seen him talking to a man in a dark coat, taking money.

I thought nothing of it then, but now,” she paused.

“If Pike is watching you, he would need eyes close to you, someone you trust.

” The world seemed to tilt beneath Gideon’s feet.

He thought of Tobias, the questions about why he did not speak.

The notebook he pulled out when he thought no one was watching.

He wrote his letter sharp and angry.

When did you see this? This morning.

An hour ago.

In the alley behind my saloon.

Gideon turned and walked to ash without another word.

He mounted and rode not toward home, but toward the small line shack on the eastern edge of his property where Tobias sometimes stayed when working the far pastures.

The shack was empty when Gideon arrived, but Tobias’s saddle bags were there.

Gideon did not hesitate.

He opened them and searched.

In the bottom of the left bag, wrapped in oil cloth, he found it.

A notebook, small, leather bound.

Inside, in Tobias’s careful handwriting, were notes, dates, times, movements.

Hart rode south to check fences.

Hart brought a girl to the cabin.

Girl is Apache.

matches Pike’s description.

And at the bottom of the most recent page, an address, telegraph office, Santa Fe, and a name, Captain R.

Vance, 7th Cavalry.

Gideon was still standing there, the notebook in his hand when he heard the horse approach.

He turned.

Tobias rode up and dismounted, saw Gideon holding the notebook, and went white.

“Mr.

Hart,” he stammered.

“I can explain.

” For the first time in three years, Gideon spoke one word.

His voice was a ruined thing, horsearo and broken, barely more than a whisper, but it was clear enough.

Traitor.

Tobias flinched as if struck.

Please, please, boss, you don’t understand.

He has my sister, Captain Vance.

He has Lucy.

He said, if I didn’t tell him what you were doing, he would kill her.

I had no choice.

I swear I had no choice.

Gideon stared at him.

Then he pulled out his slate and wrote, his hand shaking with rage.

Who is Vance? He’s Pike’s partner.

They’ve been working together for years.

Vance uses his position to move the children Pike takes.

Sells them to mines, ranches, brothel.

Anyone who pays.

He threatened me 6 months ago.

Said if I didn’t watch you, report on you, he would hurt Lucy.

She’s only 14, Mr.

Hart.

She’s all I got.

Gideon wrote, “Where is she?” At the mission with Pike.

I’ve been trying to get her out, I swear.

But they watch her, use her to keep me in line.

Gideon looked at the younger man for a long moment.

Tobias was crying now, his face twisted with shame and fear.

Finally, Gideon wrote, “You are coming with us to save your sister, and then you are gone.

” Tobias nodded, relief and terror mixing on his face.

“Yes, sir.

Anything.

Thank you.

” They rode back to the ranch together in silence.

When they arrived, Gideon went straight to the stone cabin.

Aayita was sitting on the porch, the rifle across her knees, watching them approach with eyes that missed nothing.

Gideon dismounted and wrote quickly, “This is Tobias.

He has been spying on us for Pike’s partner, but his sister is prisoner at the mission.

He will help us get her out and get proof of what Pike has done.

” Aayita stood slowly, the rifle pointed not quite at Tobias, but not quite away either.

Can we trust him? Gideon wrote, “We have no choice.

We have 12 days before Pike comes with a federal marshall.

We need those records before then.

” She studied Tobias, who would not meet her eyes.

Finally, she nodded.

Then we plan.

That night they gathered at the ranch.

Gideon, Aayita, Webb, Rosa, and Tobias.

Five people with different reasons to hate Pike.

United by necessity and the memory of those he had destroyed.

Rosa spread a handdrawn map of Mission San Miguel on the table.

The mission is built like a fort.

Stone walls, one main gate, guards.

But there are tunnels, old mining tunnels from before Pike bought the land.

They connect to the mission basement.

That is how I escaped.

Webb pointed to a building on the map.

Pike’s office is here, second floor.

If we go during Sunday service, most of the guards will be in the chapel, but we will need someone to get us inside the tunnels.

Tobias spoke quietly.

I can do that.

Vance trusts me.

Or he thinks he does.

I can tell him I have information.

Get him to let me in.

Then I can open the tunnel entrance from inside.

Aayita looked at Gideon.

And you? What will you do? Gideon wrote, “I will get the records, and I will make sure Pike answers for Margaret.

” His hand was steady as he wrote it, but his eyes were not.

They burned with something cold and final.

The planning went late into the night.

When the others had left, only Gideon and Aayita remained, sitting on the porch of the stone cabin, watching the stars wheel overhead in their ancient paths.

Aayita spoke first, her voice soft.

You loved her, Margaret.

It was not a question, but Gideon nodded anyway.

Tell me about her.

He hesitated, then wrote on his slate, the chalk scratching in the darkness.

She had red hair, green eyes.

She laughed easily.

She saw good in everyone, even when they did not deserve it.

What happened to her the night she died? Gideon’s hand stilled.

For a long moment, he did not write.

Then she went to help the children.

I told her not to go.

I said it was too dangerous.

We fought.

She went anyway.

When I heard the shooting, I rode after her.

I was too late.

She was already dying.

I held her.

I screamed her name.

I screamed until I had no voice left.

But she did not answer.

She never answered again.

Aayita reached out and took his hand.

Not romantically, just human contact.

Comfort.

I am sorry, she said.

They sat like that for a long time.

Two damaged people under an indifferent sky, holding on to each other like shipwreck survivors to driftwood.

Finally, Aayita spoke again.

If we do not come back tomorrow, if Pike wins, I want you to know you gave me something I had forgotten.

You gave me my name back.

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