“If I’d always really known half as much as I thought I did, I’d be the smartest man in Texas. We’re here to bury your daddy, not to set off another killin’. And that’s what it’ll lead to if you keep makin’ accusations. It’ll come down to you or him, and I’d have to lay my bet on him.”

Rusty knew his resentment showed, and he didn’t care. Mike wouldn’t have, either. But he said no more, and the sheriff turned away to resume his lecture on politics. He had a receptive audience. Just about everybody here was ready to cut ties with the union.

Despite their political feelings, a few friends like Tom Blessing from around the settlement had come to be with Rusty when word spread about Mike’s death. Blessing and a couple of others had dug the grave while Rusty and Preacher Webb fashioned a coffin out of rough-cut pine torn from the side of the cow barn. There had been no extra lumber lying around. It cost too much to waste.

Rusty stood numb at the graveside, unable to absorb all of Webb’s eulogy, the recounting of Mike’s brave deeds and exploits, of his and Dora’s devotion to one another, of their unselfishness in taking an orphaned boy to raise as their own. Rusty’s mind ranged back to the earliest events he could remember with any clarity. Always, it seemed, Daddy Mike and Mother Dora had been there to pick him up when he fell, to encourage him when he faltered, to cheer him when he did something well. Blood kin could have done no more.

Carried back in time by his memories, he did not hear the minister call for a closing prayer. He did not bow his head until he blinked his eyes clear of tears and saw that the others were all looking downward.

A strong arm fell upon his shoulder. Tom Blessing stood beside him, sorrow in his light blue eyes. “Son, it’d do you good to get away from this place for a while. I’ve got a job for you.”

Rusty coughed his throat clear. Blessing had tried to send Daddy Mike away to keep him from harm until the secession fever subsided. Now he had the same idea, except this time it was to put distance between Rusty and Isaac York. “What’d become of this place?”

“It does a field good to lie fallow a year or two and rest, same as it helps a man to pause in his labor now and again to give thanks for the Lord’s bounty. The place won’t go anywhere. It’ll still be here when you come back.”

“I’ve got a thing or two that needs doin’ first.”