“Child brought to widow shortly afterward.”
The rancher stared.
Two years.
His niece had lived twelve miles from his ranch for almost two years.
And he never knew.
The county agent continued.
“The widow apparently tried finding you.”
The rancher looked sharply toward him.
“What?”
The agent turned the page.
“There are dates.”
“Three letters sent to your old address.”
The rancher felt sick.
He had changed mailing routes when the old post station closed.
Some letters had been forwarded.
Others never arrived.
The widow had written again.
Then stopped.
The county agent read the final note.
“If the girl's uncle is found, tell him her mother spoke of him at the end.”
The rancher turned away.
His hat was still in his hand.
Rain ran down his face.
He could not tell where it ended and something else began.
The twelve-year-old boy moved closer to the toddler.
The rancher noticed.
The child expected danger.
Not physical danger.
Something worse.
Separation.
Blood had entered the story.
Blood changed everything.
The oldest boy looked at him.
“If she's yours…”
His voice trembled.
The rancher faced him.
The boy forced the question out.
“…are you only taking her?”
The older girl gathered the toddler closer.
The rancher understood then exactly what the children believed.
They had just received proof that one of them belonged somewhere else.
To a real relative.
A blood relative.
Everyone would say it was good fortune.
For the eight remaining children, it might mean losing their youngest sister first.
The rancher walked toward them.
The oldest boy stepped forward again.
The rancher stopped.
He crouched so they stood closer to eye level.
The boy's fists were clenched.
The rancher said:
“She may be my blood.”
The boy said nothing.
“But I meant what I said before I knew.”
The older girl's eyes filled.
The rancher looked at all nine children.
“If the county allows it, nobody gets left on these steps.”
The twelve-year-old boy stared.
“You swear?”
The rancher had not sworn anything serious in years.