Machine maintenance.
Then the handwriting changed.
Distances.
Angles.
Descriptions.
From limestone at north bend, eighty-seven feet southeast to white oak.
From white oak, one hundred twelve feet to iron pin.
Old cottonwood lies fourteen feet west of true line.
Rachel frowned.
“What is this?”
“I think Grandpa measured the old property markers.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at the next page.
Several words were underlined.
Creek moved again after flood.
Do not use water as line.
Old deed calls fixed monuments.
Rachel read that sentence twice.
Then closed the notebook.
“No.”
Everett stared.
“No what?”
“No more sticks.”
“Mom.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Harold Briggs already thinks you’re accusing him.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re thirteen.”
“That doesn’t make the measurements wrong.”
Rachel’s face tightened.
“You think I don’t know that?”
Everett said nothing.
She sat opposite him.
“Your father’s been gone four years.”
“I know.”
“Your grandfather’s been gone two.”
“I know.”
“We still owe money on the north field.”
“I know.”
“And Harold Briggs owns half the valley, sits on the livestock board, knows everybody at the bank, and has enough lawyers to bury this kitchen under paperwork.”
Everett’s jaw tightened.
“So we should ignore it?”
“We should survive.”
“That land could be ours.”
Rachel lowered her voice.
“Could be.”
“That matters.”
“Everything matters.”
She looked toward the dark window.
“That’s the problem.”
Everett stared at the notebook.
Rachel softened.
“Where did you get the willow idea?”