PART 3: THE SON THEY BURIED ALIVE

“Hello, little brother.”

The words drifted down from the ridge.

For eleven years, Gideon Locke had believed he was the only son of Silas Locke.

Eleven years of carrying his father’s name.

Eleven years of believing his mother was ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.

And now a stranger sat beneath the moonlight wearing his face.

Almost.

The rider had the same gray eyes, the same sharp jaw, and the same small scar above the left eyebrow.

But his hair was streaked with silver, and there was something terribly tired about his smile.

Gideon raised his revolver.

“Get down from that horse.”

The rider chuckled.

“Still giving orders before asking questions. Father would be proud.”

“Who are you?”

The man’s smile vanished.

“Your brother.”

“I have no brother.”

“That’s what he told you, isn’t it?”

Behind the chuck wagon, Josephine closed her eyes.

She had dreaded this moment for eleven years.

Not because she feared the stranger on the ridge.

But because she knew what would happen when Gideon discovered why his mother had begged her to keep the truth buried.

“Gideon,” she whispered.

He didn’t look at her.

“Stay behind me.”

“Please. You don’t understand.”

“No,” he snapped. “Apparently, I understand nothing.”

The rider slowly dismounted.

He kept both hands away from his weapons.

“My name is Nathaniel Locke.”

Gideon’s revolver remained steady.

“Nathaniel?”

“Your mother called me Nathan.”

A tremor crossed Gideon’s face.

There had been a name he remembered hearing as a little boy.

A name his mother used to whisper when she thought he was asleep.

Nathan.

Whenever Gideon asked who Nathan was, she would kiss his forehead and say, “Someone we must never stop loving.”

His father had forbidden the name inside their house.

Now the stranger stepped into the firelight.

“I was eight years old when Father sent me away,” Nathaniel said. “He told the town I had died.”

Gideon swallowed.

“Why?”

“Because I found something.”

“What?”

Nathaniel glanced at Josephine.

“She knows.”

Every eye turned toward the cook.

Josephine felt the weight of twenty-nine men staring at her.

She was accustomed to being underestimated.

She was accustomed to carrying burdens nobody noticed.

But she had never felt so exposed.

“I know part of it,” she admitted.

Gideon’s voice became dangerously quiet.

“Then tell me.”

Before she could answer, Doc Abernathy stumbled forward.

“Not to interrupt a family reunion,” he said, “but someone ought to notice the bleeding horse.”

The rider’s mount stood near the ridge, trembling.

A dark stain spread across its shoulder.

Nathaniel turned.

“They sH๏τ my horse before I reached the camp.”

Gideon glanced toward the darkness.

“How many men are with you?”

“None.”

“Convenient.”

“Not particularly. Your father’s men have been trying to kill me for six days.”

That silenced the camp.

Rufus Cobb stepped forward, rifle in hand.

“Boss, if this is some kind of trap—”

“It isn’t,” Nathaniel interrupted.

“You expect us to believe that?”

“No.” Nathaniel looked directly at Gideon. “I expect him to recognize this.”

He reached into his coat.

Gideon cocked his revolver.

Nathaniel stopped.

Slowly, he withdrew a small silver object.

A pocket watch.

Its crystal was cracked.

Gideon stared at it.

Then he reached into his own vest.

His watch.

The same watch.

Two identical timepieces.

Nathaniel opened his.

Inside the lid, beneath the faded engraving, were four words.

For my boys. Together.

Gideon’s fingers began to tremble.

His mother had given him his watch the night he left home.

But he had never seen the engraving.

The watch had been sealed shut for years.

He looked up.

“Where did you get that?”

Nathaniel’s voice softened.

“She gave it to me before they took me away.”

For the first time, Gideon lowered his gun.

Not completely.

But enough.

“Who took you?”

Nathaniel looked toward the eastern horizon.

“Silas Locke.”

They gathered beneath the wagon awning.

No one sat.

The drovers kept their rifles close.

Josephine placed a lantern on an overturned crate and poured coffee into tin cups.

Gideon refused his.

“Start talking.”

Nathaniel nodded.

“When I was eight, I discovered Father had been selling pieces of our ranch to men who had no legal claim to them.”

“The Cross Anchor land?” Gideon asked.

“Not just the ranch. The entire western tract. The river crossings. The water rights.”

“That land belonged to our family.”

Nathaniel laughed bitterly.

“That’s what you were told.”

Josephine’s hand тιԍнтened around the coffee pot.

Nathaniel continued.

“Our mother inherited the original deed from her father. Not Father. Her. The deed gave her control of nearly forty thousand acres.”

Gideon frowned.

“Father managed the property.”

“He managed it because Mother trusted him.”

“And you found out?”

“I found a ledger hidden in his office. Payments to a judge. Forged signatures. Land transfers made without her consent.”

Nathaniel’s face hardened.

“When I confronted him, he called me a liar. The next morning, he sent me away with two hired men.”

“Where?”

“A mission near the border. They told everyone I had died of fever.”

Gideon stared at the table.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Nathaniel’s eyes flickered toward Josephine.

“Because Father had something worse than a gun.”

“What?”

“He had Mother.”

The words fell heavily.

Josephine set down the pot.

Nathaniel took a breath.

“Mother knew about the forged deeds. She was preparing to expose him. But Father told her if she spoke, he’d have both of us declared thieves and murderers.”

Gideon shook his head.

“Our mother died.”

Nathaniel’s expression changed.

“Did you see her body?”

“No.”

“Did you attend her burial?”

Gideon said nothing.

“Did Father show you a death certificate?”

Silence.

Nathaniel leaned forward.

“He told you she died because that was easier than telling you she escaped.”

Gideon stood so abruptly that his chair toppled.

“Stop.”

Nathaniel fell silent.

Gideon walked toward the open prairie.

He could hear his mother’s voice in his memory.

A lullaby.

The clatter of dishes.

The soft rustle of her dress when she leaned down to kiss him goodnight.

He had buried her a thousand times in his imagination.

Now someone was telling him she might have lived.

Behind him, Josephine spoke.

“Gideon.”

He turned.

“Did you know?”

She didn’t pretend.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Since the beginning.”

His face тιԍнтened.

“You took a job with my outfit knowing all this?”

“I took a job because your mother asked me to.”

“You let me believe she was ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.”

Josephine’s eyes shone.

“I let you believe what your father had already taught you to believe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” she whispered. “It isn’t.”

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Josephine reached into her apron.

She removed the old handkerchief.

And placed it on the table.

“Your mother made me promise something. If you ever found the truth, I was to give you this.”

Gideon stared at the embroidered initials.

“What truth?”

Josephine unfolded a hidden seam.

Something small dropped onto the wood.

A brᴀss key.

And a narrow strip of paper.

Gideon picked it up.

Three words were written on it.

Beneath the tree.

Nathaniel shut his eyes.

“Then it’s still there.”

Gideon turned.

“What?”

“The deed.”

Nathaniel’s voice shook.

“The original deed. The ledger. Everything Father stole.”

Josephine nodded.

“Your mother hid them beneath the old orange tree.”

Gideon looked from one to the other.

“Where?”

“Fredericksburg,” Josephine replied.

“That’s nearly a hundred miles behind us.”

“I know.”

“We’re driving two thousand head of cattle to Kansas. Half my men can barely stand. We’ve lost our supplies. Somebody is shooting at us.”

“I know that, too.”

“Then why bring this to me now?”

Josephine took a slow breath.

“Because your father knows where we’re going.”

Nathaniel reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded telegram.

The paper was damp and torn.

Gideon recognized the handwriting on the outside.

Silas Locke.

Nathaniel pushed it across the table.

Gideon read.

Then read it again.

His face turned gray.

The message contained only one sentence.

If Gideon reaches the orchard, make certain he never leaves it.

Beneath the words was a date.

Tomorrow.

At dawn, the camp began to move.

The sickest drovers were ᴀssigned to the wagons.

Doc Abernathy rationed what medicine remained.

The orange crate was nearly empty.

Josephine had given away most of the fruit to the men, and she had no regrets.

She knew citrus could help prevent scurvy, but the damage already done to those weakened bodies would take time to heal.

Some of the men were improving.

Others could barely lift their heads.

Rufus Cobb approached her while she packed the cooking utensils.

For once, he wasn’t smiling.

“Cook.”

She looked up.

“Mr. Cobb.”

He removed his hat.

“I owe you an apology.”

Josephine blinked.

“For what?”

“For every foolish thing I said about you.”

She studied him for a moment.

Then handed him a sack of biscuits.

“Carry these to the men riding drag.”

He nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He started away.

Then stopped.

“There’s something else.”

“What?”

“Last night, I saw a rider near the creek.”

Josephine went still.

“What rider?”

“Didn’t get a good look. But he wasn’t alone.”

“How many?”

“Three. Maybe four.”

Her stomach тιԍнтened.

“Did you tell Gideon?”

“I was about to.”

Before she could respond, a gunsH๏τ echoed from the far side of camp.

Rufus spun.

A horse screamed.

Men shouted.

Gideon came racing through the dust.

“Get the wagons moving!”

Nathaniel appeared behind him, blood trickling from a cut above his ear.

“Father’s men,” he said.

Gideon drew his revolver.

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Where?”

Nathaniel pointed toward the creek.

But Josephine wasn’t looking at the creek.

She was looking at the chuck wagon.

The orange crate lay open.

Its wooden slats had been broken.

The canvas beneath it had been slashed.

And the little compartment where she’d kept the remaining oranges was empty.

Someone had taken them.

But they hadn’t taken the brᴀss key.

Josephine dropped to her knees.

She searched through the torn canvas.

Then she found it.

A second piece of paper.

Not the telegram.

Not the warning.

This one was folded around something wrapped in oilcloth.

She opened it.

Inside was a pH๏τograph.

A woman stood beside an orange tree.

Her hair was pinned beneath a bonnet.

Her face was older than Gideon remembered.

But there was no mistaking her.

Eleanor Locke.

Alive.

And standing beside a little girl.

Josephine’s fingers began to shake.

On the back of the pH๏τograph, in faded ink, were seven words.

Josephine, protect my granddaughter from Gideon.

Josephine couldn’t breathe.

A shadow fell over her.

Gideon stood beside the wagon.

He had seen the pH๏τograph.

He had seen the words.

His eyes moved slowly from the paper to her face.

“What granddaughter?”

Josephine tried to speak.

Nothing came.

Gideon took the pH๏τograph.

The little girl had dark curls and a serious expression.

And around her neck hung a silver locket.

Gideon knew that locket.

His mother had worn it every Sunday.

He turned the pH๏τograph over.

Then looked at Josephine.

“Who is this child?”

Before she could answer, Nathaniel came running from the creek.

“Gideon!”

He was pale.

“There are tracks leading south. Someone’s heading for Fredericksburg.”

Gideon didn’t move.

Nathaniel followed his gaze to the pH๏τograph.

His face crumpled.

“Oh, God.”

Gideon grabbed his brother’s arm.

“Who is she?”

Nathaniel stared at him.

Then whispered:

“Your daughter.”

The world seemed to stop.

Gideon released him.

“My daughter?”

Nathaniel nodded slowly.

“Father told Mother the child had died.”

Josephine pressed a hand over her mouth.

Gideon’s voice broke.

“I have never had a child.”

Nathaniel’s eyes filled with sorrow.

“That’s what you were made to believe.”

Gideon looked at the pH๏τograph again.

The girl’s locket.

The orange tree.

His mother’s handwriting.

Everything he had ever trusted was crumbling.

Then Josephine spoke.

And the words she said next were worse than any bullet.

“Gideon, there’s something else your mother told me.”

He turned.

“She said the little girl wasn’t the only one who survived that night.”

Josephine’s lips trembled.

“Your wife survived, too.”

A sudden wind swept across the prairie.

The pH๏τograph slipped from Gideon’s fingers.

He caught it before it hit the dirt.

For eleven years, he had believed he had lost everything.

His mother.

His brother.

His home.

But somewhere in Texas, a woman he thought was ᴅᴇᴀᴅ might still be breathing.

And a little girl he had never known existed was being hunted by his own father.

Gideon slid the pH๏τograph into his vest.

Then he turned toward the men.

“Change of plans.”

Rufus hurried forward.

“Boss?”

“We’re riding for Fredericksburg.”

“But the herd—”

“Let the herd wait.”

Gideon mounted his horse.

His eyes found Josephine.

“You’re coming with me.”

She nodded.

Nathaniel swung into his saddle.

But before they could leave, Doc Abernathy shouted from the wagon.

“Gideon! Hold on!”

The doctor was holding a small envelope.

“I found this inside the lining of the orange crate.”

Gideon took it.

His mother’s handwriting covered the front.

To my son, Gideon. Open only when you know who your daughter is.

His hands shook.

He broke the seal.

Inside was a single sheet.

The first line made him forget the horses, the cattle, and the men waiting around him.

My dearest Gideon, if Josephine has brought you this letter, then the woman you married was never the woman your father told you she was.

Gideon stared at the page.

Below that sentence was a name.

The name of his wife.

And beside it, written in another hand, was a chilling message.

SHE IS THE REASON YOUR MOTHER HAD TO DISAPPEAR.

From the southern trail came the thunder of approaching horses.

Josephine turned.

Three riders were racing toward them.

And the man in front was carrying a child’s silver locket.

Gideon drew his revolver.

But the rider shouted something that made him lower it.

“Locke! Don’t go to Fredericksburg!”

The stranger pulled his horse to a halt.

“Your daughter isn’t there anymore.”

He tossed something into the dust.

A small leather shoe.

And from its buckle dangled a strip of blue ribbon.

Josephine recognized it immediately.

It belonged to the little girl in the pH๏τograph.

Then the rider delivered the words that would change everything.

“Your father found her first.”

End of Part 3.