They grabbed each other. They were still embracing, tears flowing down their cheeks without shame when James reached them. He had taken his time. For the moment it was as if he did not exist, so far as father and daughter were concerned. They had not set eyes on each other in all the years Marie had lived here.

James heard Annie’s voice behind him. “I wish you’d look who’s comin’ yonder.”

The second wagon trailed some distance behind, but James recognized the driver. Sly Shipman. He glanced back at Annie. A broad smile brightened her face to a degree he had not seen in years. But she brought it under control as Shipman neared. By the time he halted the mules and climbed down, the smile was gone. She looked almost severe.

“Back already?” she asked. He had been gone three years.

Marie called her children about her. It was the first time they had met their grandfather. Old Villaret, who seemed grayer and more bent than when James had last seen him, embraced each in turn, speaking French to them and taking delight in their responses. Marie had seen to it that all learned to know French and Spanish as well as English. That was part of their heritage. It had always struck James strange, the times he had heard French coming from young Mordecai’s lips. Mordecai was like a young copy of Michael, and James could not picture Michael ever speaking French.

James shook hands with Shipman. Annie had already spoken all the welcome she was going to give him, at least for now. She moved back to share in the glow that had built around Marie and her father and the youngsters. She had met Villaret briefly five years ago, when she and James and Frank and his family had passed through Natchitoches on their way to Texas.

Shipman’s eyes were on Annie. He asked James, “Has she been mad for the whole three years?”

James had to smile. “I’ve seen her a few times when she wasn’t.”

“I was hopin’—” Shipman shrugged and said no more.

Marie had gotten over her first excitement. Clinging to her father’s arm, she asked, “Papa, why have you come? After all this time, why are you here?”

“To bring the wagons,” the old Frenchman replied. “To take all of you to safety in Natchitoches.”

“To safety? I do not understand.”

“We hear many things in Natchitoches, bad things from Mexico. Your mama and me, we think it is too dangerous for you to stay here. I want you to come with me back to Louisiana. Santa Anna will not cross the Sabine.”

“But, Papa, this is our home.”

“If you stay it could be your grave.”

“There is one grave here already.” She pointed up the slope to a little fenced-off spot where a baby lay buried. “We have paid much for this place. We do not leave it.”

Villaret stared at her, studying the rigid lines of resolve in her face. “I will talk to Michael.”