By the time they’d ridden two hours, Wes began to believe that Jasonwasof Allie’s tribe, for the boy said nothing. He mirrored each of Wes’s movements, learning as they traveled. Wes watched him closely out of the corner of his gaze. Jason’s bruises were starting to heal, but he looked pale, like someone who never saw the sun. His body had just started the stretch to manhood, leaving him thin, with legs and arms that didn’t match his body size. If Jason were given regular meals, he’d grow into a tall man, Wes thought.

As they rode along a path dusted with wagon tracks just clear enough to mark a trail, Wes couldn’t help but admire the landscape. It was good land, flat enough in places for farming and rich enough with rain to hold a tall grass for pasture. In many ways it reminded him of his own land farther north. He’d bought his land with back pay from the war, but he hadn’t had time to build on it. He’d spent one winter in a little dugout on the property and swore he’d finish a house before he married. But it hadn’t happened.

Wes pulled his horse beside the wagon. ‘‘When do we hit the Catlin spread, Sheriff?’’

‘‘We’ve been on it for half an hour,’’ the old man answered. ‘‘Victoria owns one of the largest ranches in these parts, but she hasn’t worked it in years. You should be able to see the house just over the ridge.’’

Wes kicked his horse and galloped up the hill. A lone adobe ranch headquarters sat in the middle of a valley below. The earthy buildings at the core looked inviting, but a thick wall surrounded the estate like a fortress.

Sitting back in his saddle, Wes let out a low whistle. ‘‘Whoa,’’ he mumbled. ‘‘That’s quite a place.’’

The sheriff pulled the buggy to a stop beside him. ‘‘Victoria’s first husband built it for her. He thought to keep his family safe from any attack. But her oldest, James, didn’t get along with Victoria’s second husband and moved farther north after he married. By the time he was killed and Allie captured, Victoria had married husband number four. Husbands came and went after that. Seemed like every year brought a wedding or a funeral but the ranch stayed pretty much the same. Her boys all hated the place. Called it ‘Mom’s jail.’ ’’

A sadness seeped into Hardy’s eyes. ‘‘I guess that’s what it’s become for her. It’s been some time since I’ve seen her. She no longer leaves the place.’’

Wes didn’t ask any questions as they moved closer. In truth, the ranch headquarters was massive but somehow lonely. They were within twenty yards before he even saw a guard. With a spread of this size a man should be posted at every side of the headquarters, making his presence known as soon as a stranger came into sight.

A stout man, dressed like a farmer, stepped from the small outer-wall door to greet them. He wore a gun belt strapped around his ample waist and carried an old single-shot rifle that would have been of little use if a band of outlaws came to rob the ranch. At first, he widened his stance and crossed his arms over the rifle as though he planned to stop them. But the moment he saw the sheriff, his posture changed.

‘‘Sheriff Hardy!’’ the large man yelled. ‘‘Welcome.’’

Hardy waved at the guard, and by the time his buggy had reached the main gate, the wooden doors were opened wide.

‘‘It’s been a long time, Sheriff.’’

The stout man motioned for others to take care of the buggy as the sheriff helped Allie down.

‘‘That it has, Gideon. That it has,’’ Hardy answered. ‘‘Too long, in my way of thinking.’’

Wes stayed in the saddle for a few minutes, looking around as the two men talked. He liked the view he had from his horse. A man spends so much time in the saddle that when he steps to ground it seems like he’s crawling for a while, Wes thought. The world looked more in balance from a few feet higher than a man stood.

The courtyard spread wide, but not very long. A main house loomed in front of them with what looked like a kitchen and laundry to the left and a bunkhouse to the right. Wes could see three men, besides the greeter Hardy had called Gideon, and two women. But the quarters on the right had been built to hold thirty hands or more. The main house looked to have at least a dozen rooms upstairs, each with a little terrace off full-length windows overlooking the courtyard. If the house was true to form for most of its kind, the back wall of the main quarters would be solid, with only tiny windows for observation. A freshly plowed garden stretched beside the kitchen. Wes also noticed a well, barns behind the bunkhouses, and a center courtyard with flowers.

It took Wes a minute to realize what was missing. Children. He’d never visited a ranch house so large that hadn’t had a dozen children playing in the courtyard. The silence was almost pestering.

On closer observation he noticed all the people he saw were beyond childbearing years. The two women who stood by the kitchen door had been joined by a little round woman with an apron that must have used half a sheet’s material to make. They stared for a while, then the round one pulled them all back inside.

‘‘I’ll tell Miss Victoria you’re here.’’ The stout man moved toward the main entrance of the huge two-story house.

‘‘Thanks, Gideon.’’ Sheriff Hardy tried to guide Allie up the steps.

Allie waited, rooted in place until Wes joined her. Then she followed the sheriff.

Wes glanced back at Jason and motioned with his head for the boy to join them, but Jason stayed several feet behind, testing the depth of invisible water with each step.

The house was cool and damp, holding the morning humidity. Wes thought he could hear the faint sound of whispering blowing in the breeze when he stepped inside the wide main hall.

Gideon ushered them to a large room with wide windows facing the sun, but the house still felt cold. Wes knew the others sensed it also, for Allie pressed close to him and Jason crossed his arms over his chest.

Allie stood like a statue in the center of the room, as though afraid to look at anything. Wes guessed she didn’t want to get her hopes up, but he could see a touch of excitement in her eyes.

Hardy moved around, handling first one item, then another, as if on some kind of investigation. The furnishings were fine quality, the lace neatly done, even the chairs had been stitched in a flower pattern that had long ago lost its color.

Wes, with his years of military training, checked each exit as though preparing for battle. He listened carefully, trying to figure out the whispering sound. It wasn’t words exactly, more like years of lost conversations blending together, circling the room as though the past and present mixed somehow in this place.

With the door open wide, Wes could see both a wide staircase going up and the front door. Anyone sitting in the center of this room would know everything going on in the house.

Gideon brought in tea and hard white cookies, but no one ate. Wes noticed the china set looked yellowed with age and wear. The last plate in the set was chipped. For a fine house, he’d expected greater care.

The slow opening of a door and the slight rustle of skirts drew Wes’s attention. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected-a stately widow, a crazy woman, an older version of Allie.

The tiny woman in black who entered the room on the arm of another was none and all of those things wrapped together. She walked with the carriage of a woman who’d known of her beauty since birth. With hair combed high like a crown on her head, she was a queen in her world, a rare vision of perfection in aging, with pure white hair and thin skin feathered in wrinkles.

But first of all, and most of all, Victoria Catlin was blind.

Wes faced her as she held her head high and moved sightlessly through the room to what had to be her chair. The plainly dressed guide at her side stood next to her as Victoria, covered in black satin with layers of black lace, sat to hold court.

‘‘Gideon tells me you’ve come to visit me, Maxwell.’’ She spoke directly to the center of the room, unaware that the sheriff was to her right. ‘‘It has been far too long since I’ve had the pleasure of your company.’’

Max Hardy straightened, growing younger as he moved toward her without allowing his limp to show. ‘‘Hello, Victoria.’’ His voice was warm with years of unspoken words. ‘‘It’s good to see you again.’’

Victoria offered her hand, frail and blue-veined. Max’s massive leathered hand embraced hers in more of a caress than a handshake. For a moment, no one moved or spoke. For a moment, Maxwell and Victoria were the only two in the room.

Victoria broke the spell by pulling her hand away. ‘‘Maxwell,’’ she said, gesturing to her left, ‘‘you remember my sister, Katherine.’’

Max forced his gaze to leave Victoria and turned to the woman who’d acted as guide. Katherine seemed a too often washed, too heavily starched version of her sister. Her beauty had long ago faded to dull gray. Her face was smooth, void of both laugh lines and worry wrinkles. Void of having felt life at all. The thin lines that had once been lips didn’t move to speak, but she nodded slightly at the sheriff.

‘‘Katherine.’’ Max cleared his throat as he spoke. ‘‘I hope you’re doing well?’’ All emotions had vanished from his voice as he asked a question so dry it didn’t seem to need a reply.

Katherine hardened, unwilling to lower herself to even speak to the sheriff.

If Wes were guessing, he’d guess she was a woman who died on the vine without ever being touched by love or even passion. In her old age, she’d found reason to her life with Victoria’s blindness.

Max lowered to one knee beside Victoria’s chair. ‘‘I’ve come with good news, Victoria.’’

She rested her hand on his shoulder as if needing to feel where his voice was coming from. ‘‘I’m so glad. I was afraid something had happened to Michael. It’s been so long since I’ve heard from him.’’