"And tell her some of us are ashamed we didn't ask more questions."
I nodded.
Then climbed onto Chester.
As we rode away, I looked back once.
The younger mother stood beside the garden gate.
She was holding her daughter's hand.
The little girl was still looking toward the braided cord.
And the wealthy woman stood a few steps away, watching them with tears in her eyes.
It wasn't a perfect ending.
Nothing involving stolen children could have a perfect ending.
But it was the beginning of a truthful one.
We turned west toward Black Canyon.
The older woman rode in the wagon beside me for part of the journey.
She had recovered enough strength to walk without assistance, but the long roads still tired her. The marshal arranged frequent rest stops, and we traveled more slowly than I usually would have preferred.
I didn't complain.
Every mile brought us closer to her son.
And every mile made her more anxious.
On the second evening, we camped near a spring beneath a line of sandstone cliffs.
The marshal and his officer tended the horses.
The ranch hand prepared supper.
I sat beside the fire repairing a torn saddle strap.
The older woman approached carrying two tin cups of coffee.
She offered one.
"Thank you," I said.
She sat beside me.
For a while, we watched the flames.
Then she asked, "Are you afraid?"
I looked toward her.
"Of what?"
"Black Canyon."
I considered the question.
"Yes."
She seemed surprised.
"You are?"
I nodded.
"We don't know what we'll find."
She stared into the fire.
"I am afraid my son will not be there."
I remained quiet.
Then she continued.
"I am also afraid he will be there."
I looked toward her.
She wiped her eyes.
"What if he is sick? What if they have hurt him? What if he is afraid of me?"
Her voice broke.
"What if he thinks I abandoned him?"
I set down the saddle strap.
"He was a baby when they took him."
She nodded.
"He won't understand the whole story yet."
She looked toward me.
"But someday he might."
I considered that.
Then I said, "Someday you can tell him the truth."
Her expression tightened.
"Will he believe me?"
I looked directly at her.
"You can tell him that you never stopped loving him. You can tell him that people took him away and lied to you. And you can tell him how hard you worked to find him."
She began crying.
I waited.
Then she whispered, "I wanted to be a good mother."
The words hurt more than I expected.
I looked toward the fire.
"You still can be."
She turned.