Daddy Mike . . . sometimes it was hard to realize that four years had passed since he died, yet at other times, remembering the uncounted miles Rusty had traveled since, the many rivers he had crossed, it seemed an eternity. The deaths of Daddy Mike and Mother Dora had left him with an acute sense of abandonment, of being alone in the world. That feeling of isolation had brought him to bond with the Monahans. They were not truly his kin, but they and Preacher Webb were the nearest to it that he knew. When he married Geneva he would become a part of their family. He needed that sense of belonging.

At the farthest end of the field, a man followed a mule and a moldboard plow. The distance was too great for recognition, but Rusty assumed this would be Geneva’s grandfather, old Vince Purdy.

A girl was hoeing in the garden. For a fleeting few moments Rusty thought she was Geneva. He spurred ahead, then drew Alamo to a stop as he realized this was one of Geneva’s sisters. The two younger girls had grown up during the war years. He had hardly known them the last time he had been here.

The girl saw the horsemen and the wagon. She dropped the hoe and climbed over the log fence that enclosed the garden. Lithe as a young deer, she raced barefoot to the cabin. She was shouting, though Rusty was too far away to make out the words.

By the time he and Tanner reached the cabin, Clemmie Monahan stood on the dog run. She was a small, thin woman of perhaps ninety pounds, so slight that she looked as if a high wind could sweep her away. Rusty knew from experience that her appearance was deceiving. She had a will of pure steel and a backbone to match it. Her two younger daughters stood on either side, beaming with delight. Rusty struggled with his memory a moment before he recalled that the older of the two was Josie. The younger was named Alice.

Clemmie had taken it badly when Rusty had arrested her son James long ago for an attempt on Caleb Dawkins’s life in revenge for Lon and Billy. She had mellowed in the years since, and he hoped she had put the incident behind her. That she greeted him with a thin smile gave him hope.

“You-all get down and come in,” she shouted.

Rusty dismounted and removed his hat. “Clemmie,” he said by way of greeting.

“Rusty,” she answered. Neither seemed to know much more to say at first. While he tried to decide how to continue the conversation, he stared at the two girls, hardly believing the change. Josie looked a great deal like her grown sister and appeared to be about as old as Geneva had been when Rusty had first met her. Alice was a pretty girl of fourteen or fifteen.