“Did he ask you to protect me?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes.”
Jonah’s voice became firmer.
“He never told me your name.”
“He never showed me your picture.”
“I did not know you existed.”
“Then why does the trunk frighten you?”
He looked toward it.
“Because Daniel hid things.”
Ruth frowned.
“What?”
“Documents.”
“Money sometimes.”
“Maps.”
“He used false bottoms.”
Ruth stared at the trunk.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve had this since I was eight.”
“Have you ever removed the interior floor?”
“There is no removable floor.”
Jonah stepped closer.
“May I?”
Ruth hesitated.
Then moved aside.
Jonah kneeled.
The contrast between the enormous man and the delicate ivory wedding dress pooled beside him was almost absurd.
He opened the trunk.
Inside lay Ruth’s folded clothes.
A few books.
Her mother’s shawl.
Letters.
A brush.
Small things.
Jonah removed them carefully.
Ruth watched every movement.
At the bottom lay plain dark wood.
Jonah pressed two fingers into the rear left corner.
Nothing.
Then the right.
A tiny click.
Ruth’s breath caught.
Jonah lifted a narrow strip of wood.
Beneath it sat a second panel.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“I told you.”
They lifted it together.
Underneath lay oilcloth.
A packet perhaps two inches thick.
A small silver compass.
And one sealed envelope.
Ruth’s hands began shaking.
On the front, faded but unmistakable, were two words.
Jonah Clay.
Jonah stopped breathing.
Ruth looked at him.
“You said he never asked you to protect me.”
“He didn’t.”
“The letter has your name.”
“I never saw it.”
“You expect me to believe that too?”
“Yes.”
She picked it up.
The wax seal cracked immediately.
Age had made it brittle.
Inside were three pages.
Ruth looked at Jonah.
“Read it.”
“You should.”
“It has your name.”
“It was hidden in your trunk.”
Ruth unfolded the pages.
The handwriting was strong at first.
Her father’s.
She knew it from the few surviving notes her mother kept.
The first line made Jonah sit down on the floor.
Jonah, if this reaches you, then I have either become a coward or a dead man. I would prefer you assume the second.
Ruth laughed through tears.
Jonah covered his mouth with one hand.
She continued.
Daniel wrote that Harcourt Agricultural and Banking had altered property records across three counties.
He had copied enough documents to prove at least eleven fraudulent foreclosures.
The originals in county archives had been replaced or amended after filing.
But Daniel possessed field notes.
Signed survey duplicates.
Ledger numbers.
Names.
And one thing more dangerous.
A deed.
Ruth stopped.
Jonah looked at her.
“What?”
She continued reading.
The deed transferred three hundred twenty acres along a mountain spring and meadow corridor from Elias Clay to Daniel Holloway in settlement of a surveying debt.
Elias Clay.
Jonah’s father.
Ruth stared at Jonah.
“This ranch.”
He looked pale.
“Part of it.”
“You’re living on my father’s land?”
“Apparently.”