She could have broken the wooden runners and pulled the drawer free.
But she knew her father would have hated that.
He had always insisted that there was a difference between taking something apart and destroying it.
So she approached the problem from the back.
She turned the chest carefully on the workbench and examined the rear panel.
The nails were old.
Some had darkened with rust.
She slipped the flat end of a screwdriver beneath the edge of the wood and began loosening them one at a time.
It was slow work.
The panel resisted.
Maggie changed the angle, applied gentle pressure, and continued.
Finally, the first nail came free.
Then another.
And another.
When the last fastener loosened, the panel shifted.
A thin strip of wood dropped onto the workbench.
Maggie picked it up.
Pencil writing remained visible along one edge.
"Haskins, 36 in."
She stared at the words.
Haskins.
She knew that name.
The Haskins family had farmed in the county for generations.
But why would her father have written their name on a small strip of wood hidden behind a drawer?
Maggie set the piece aside and lifted away the back panel.
For a moment, she simply stared.
There was no money.
No envelope filled with old bills.
No jewelry.
No deeds.
No hidden fortune.
Instead, the compartment contained nearly thirty wooden pieces packed into tight, orderly rows.
Some were curved.
Some resembled hooks.
Others had straight edges interrupted by carefully shaped openings.
Several contained holes bored at precise angles.
Every piece looked different, yet all had been cut with the same careful attention to measurements.
Maggie removed the first one.
Along its edge, written in her father's small, precise handwriting, were several words and numbers.
"Bell, four row, 38."
She picked up another.
"Haskins, left shoe."
Another.
"Pike, 92 acres."
Another.
"Mercer, corn."
Maggie spread the pieces across the workbench.
They were not toys.
They were not decorations.
And they did not appear to be unfinished woodworking projects.
The shapes were too precise.
The measurements were too deliberate.
Each piece had been made for a specific purpose.
But what purpose?
She turned them over one at a time.
Some carried dates.
Others had initials.
Several included farm names she recognized from conversations at the feed store and gatherings after church.
Haskins.