“Maybe.”
Clara looked at him.
“Maybe?”
“Documents can be challenged.”
“Good.”
He frowned.
“Good?”
“I’m not ready to own a mountain before breakfast.”
That finally made him smile.
A little.
Then Clara remembered something.
The cornmeal.
“How did the key get into the crock?”
Caleb looked at the ledger.
“Father hid it.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he expected someone to search the house.”
She looked toward the iron cabinet.
“Then what is in there?”
The key marked seventeen did not fit that lock.
They searched the room.
Found another key hanging beneath the table.
Caleb opened the cabinet.
Inside were deeds.
Tax receipts.
Old survey maps.
Letters.
And a metal cashbox.
No gold.
No money.
Evidence.
Clara understood before Caleb did.
“Your father preserved the claim.”
Caleb looked through papers.
“All of it.”
“Why hide it?”
A note answered.
Written by Thomas Morgan.
If Blackpine comes asking, the papers burned in the 1869 fire. Let them believe it. Samuel’s share remains Samuel’s until his child claims it.
Caleb stared.
“My father lied.”
Clara said quietly:
“To thieves.”
“He hid legal documents for twenty years.”
“To protect my father’s share.”
Caleb looked at her.
“My family lived on land that belonged partly to yours.”
Clara shook her head.
“Do not turn this into guilt before we understand it.”
“That sounds like something I say.”
“You’re learning.”
They spent the entire day underground.
By afternoon, playful breakfast intimacy had vanished beneath history.
But something else replaced it.
Partnership.
Clara organized documents.
Caleb carried boxes.
Every few minutes their hands touched.
The attraction between them had not disappeared.
It had become more complicated.
That evening they returned upstairs.
Neither had eaten since morning.
Clara reheated stew.
Caleb sat.
The key marked seventeen lay between them.
He looked toward her.
“What are you going to do?”
“With what?”
“The land.”
She stirred the pot.
“I found out eight hours ago.”
“I know.”
“You want an answer tonight?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He waited.
Clara served two bowls.
Then sat.
“What do you want me to do?”
Caleb looked surprised.
“It’s not my decision.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He thought.
“I want Black Hollow to stay whole.”
The ranch.
The valley.
The western timber.
Clara nodded.
“And if keeping it whole means buying me out?”
His expression tightened.
“I cannot afford half its current value.”
“And if I sold to Northwestern?”
His entire body became still.
Clara saw the fear.
Not anger.
“You think I would.”
“I barely know what you want.”
“That is honest.”
He looked down.