Josie declared, “I told them it was you, Rusty. I recognized you from as far as I could see you.”

He was glad she could not read his mind and know that he had had trouble remembering her name.

He said, “I expect you-all have heard that the war is over.”

“We heard,” Clemmie responded. “Now maybe the menfolks will be comin’ home . . . them that survived.” She coughed away a catch in her throat. “I’m right glad to see that you’re one of them, Rusty”

Tanner was on the ground, stretching his long legs. Pickett had brought the wagon up near the cabin’s dog run. He and Tanner helped the captain to the ground.

Rusty looked past Clemmie, hoping to see Geneva somewhere. “You remember Captain Whitfield, don’t you? And Len Tanner? This other feller is Oscar Pickett.”

“I remember them all. Welcome, gentlemen, to our house.” She glanced back quickly at Rusty. “I should’ve said, ‘To Rusty’s house.’ It’s his, not ours.”

“It’s yours as long as you want it,” Rusty said. He gave the girls a second looking over. “My, but you two have changed a lot in a year.”

Josie smiled, looking even more like Geneva. “It’s been longer than a year.” She studied him up and down. “You’re thin. Haven’t you been eatin’?”

“When I could. Been times I couldn’t.”

Clemmie made a sweeping motion with her hand. “Then we’d better get busy and fix you-all a good dinner. Come on in.”

Captain Whitfield limped, each step bringing pain. Clemmie frowned. “What’s happened to you, Captain?”

“A Comanche had nothin’ better to do than to put an arrow in my hip, is all. It’s healin’, thank you.”

“It’ll heal quicker once we put some food into you.”

Rusty watched her stir up a blaze in the fireplace. He could not hold the question any longer. “Where’s Geneva?”

Clemmie looked up in surprise, her expression slowly turning to one of regret. “I guess you never heard.”

A cold knot suddenly built in Rusty’s stomach. “Heard what?”

“She’s up yonder at our old place. Her and her husband.”

Rusty caught hold of a chair. “Husband?”

“She’s married. Been married since winter.”

Pete Dawkins poked at the campfire with a dry stick, his backside prickling with impatience. Somewhere in the distance he heard a bugle, but he gave it no attention. He had heard far too many bugles since he and his friend Scully had been hustled unceremoniously into the Confederate Army. There had been no bands to play stirring martial music, no pretty women waving at the departing soldiers. They had been marched out of Austin in the middle of a driving rain without fuss and feathers and with damned little if any showing of respect. It was almost as if they were prisoners, not soldiers.