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"Oh, it doesn't matter any more." She wiped the corners of her eyes.
"Here," she said, passing him a packet extracted from her overcoat. "Three chamois.
They're the best Texas kid I could find. I embroidered your initials into the corner. Not like my mom could do, but I did my best. You can use them for your boots or guns."
Valentine didn't know what to give her. The only piece of jewelry he owned was that brass ring acquired from Seattle. "Molly, I-"
"Sorry about Edward. I can tell him the truth."
"You know my name's under something of a cloud, officially."
"Yes. I had this reporter ask me about you, by the way. I wonder how he got my name."
"A reporter?"
"For the Clarion. His name's Qwait. Ever met him?"
The column had finally passed. Valentine felt the eyes of the small crowd who'd turned out in the rain focus on them. "No. It's not important. I'll leave Edward to your judgment. I'm honored, in a way." He paused. "I need to catch up to my men. I'll write you, if I get back."
"When you get back," she said. "You won in Texas. You'll do the same in Louisiana-or wherever you're really going."
Molly always was smart, or maybe just sensitive to lies.
He trotted back across the road and retrieved his horse.
"I'm sorry, Momma," Edward said.
"Edward, there's nothing for you to be sorry about. I should be saying sorry to you."
Mrs. Long stepped back, staring at him as though wishing to shorten him by at least the length of his shins.
Valentine wondered what he could leave Edward with. He opened a shirt pocket and took out his battered old compass.
"Edward, do you know what this is?" he asked.
"An officer compass."
"An officer's compass, yes. With one of these and a good map, you're never lost." He handed it to the boy and mounted.
"Thank you, Father," Edward said, wide-eyed again.
"He's got your hair," Mrs. Long said, approving for a change.
Molly tightened his girth. "You're good, Major," she said.
"Good God, man, kiss her good-bye," Mrs. Long huffed. "What's this world coming to?"
Molly blushed. Valentine had never kissed a woman from saddleback before. It wasn't as easy as it looked in the movies; he almost fell on top of her.
"Uh. Thanks," Molly squeaked.
Valentine rode on in the tangled tracks of the column, trying to catch up. He passed a member of the general's color guard dumping rainwater out of his drumhead.
Irony. That's what it was. He had a daughter in the Caribbean who thought he was an uncle, and a son in St. Louis that ninety-nine out of a hundred would insist was an abomination and demand to be destroyed. Now this tousle-haired boy was calling him Daddy. Or Father, when he remembered his manners.
God is just, but that doesn't mean he lacks humor, Father Max used to say.
"Amen," Valentine muttered, clicking his horse into a trot.
