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Obviously there was, if Molly wasn't willing to call him her husband. . . .
"Molly, it's not my business. But how?"
"I told you, I was stupid," she repeated. "I... I didn't show you when you visited that time, but I've got a drawer with some pictures of you. That old scarf of yours you gave me that winter in Minnesota. Two paper clippings too, one showing you getting a decoration, or was it a promotion? It was while you were fighting in Texas. I keep the letters from you in there too. It's not like a shrine or anything. I've just always wanted you to do well with your Cause."
"I still don't see the stupid part," Valentine said.
"Edward got to the age where he got snoopy. He was poking around in the drawer and saw all the stuff they'd written about you. He said he remembered you being at our house, God knows how."
"He called me his father," Valentine said.
"Yes. I don't keep pictures of his father around the house. I thought, What'll it hurt if I shave the truth a little? If things had fallen together a little differently, you might have been."
Valentine, who'd calmly given orders with the gigantic shells of a massive Grog cannon called the Crocodile making the earth ripple beneath his feet, stood dumbstruck.
"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.
