The deputy looked at her.
“Women don't argue territorial land statute.”
Eleanor held out her hand.
“Then you should have no fear giving me the full order.”
He laughed.
Caleb moved.
Not aggressively.
One step.
The deputy stopped laughing.
He handed Eleanor the second copy.
She read every line.
Then asked:
“When was this petition filed?”
“January twenty-seventh.”
Eleanor looked at Caleb.
“That was before our auction.”
Caleb’s face hardened.
The deputy realized too late what she had found.
Eleanor continued.
“Judge Vane challenged my children’s claim before I arrived in Covenant Creek.”
Silence.
“Meaning he knew who we were before your settlement office supposedly discovered we had no sponsor.”
The deputy’s expression changed.
Eleanor smiled without warmth.
“Thank you.”
The man left quickly.
Caleb stared at her.
“What?”
Eleanor asked.
“You saw that in thirty seconds.”
“I kept factory ledgers.”
“And household accounts.”
“And survived landlords who charged imaginary fees.”
She folded the order.
“Men who steal with paper are rarely as clever as men who steal with guns.”
Caleb almost smiled.
“You may be more dangerous than I am.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Eleanor began rebuilding Jonathan’s records.
Every letter.
Every receipt.
Every tax payment.
Caleb had kept all of them badly.
Receipts were stuffed into coffee tins exactly as Eleanor had once joked a man might do.
She spent evenings sorting.
Jonathan had sent small payments toward the homestead for years.
Enough to prove he never abandoned the claim.
More importantly, one letter mentioned his intent that his children inherit.
Caleb wanted to ride immediately to the territorial capital.
Eleanor stopped him.
“With what evidence?”
“This.”
“Copies?”
“No.”
“Then Vane’s men rob you on the road and everything disappears.”
Caleb stared.
Eleanor tapped the table.
“We make copies.”
“There is no copying office.”
“We have ink.”
“Paper.”
“Sarah has excellent handwriting.”
Sarah looked proud.
For five nights they copied every document.
Three complete sets.
One hidden beneath a loose floorboard.
One inside a flour barrel wrapped in oilcloth.
One carried by Caleb.
The originals remained in a locked tin.
Eleanor created an index.
Caleb watched her work.
“Jonathan said you were clever.”
She looked up.
“He wrote about me?”
“Constantly.”
Eleanor’s eyes lowered.
“What did he say?”
Caleb reached into the chest and removed another letter.
He handed it over.
Eleanor read.
She thinks being large makes her burdensome. She does not understand that she is the strongest person in any room she enters. She can make one chicken feed nine people and somehow still apologize that there is not enough.
Eleanor covered her mouth.
Caleb looked away to give her privacy.
She continued.
If I ever become half the parent Eleanor is, perhaps I will deserve the children she keeps giving me.
Her tears fell onto the paper.
Caleb said quietly:
“He loved you.”
“I know.”
“I just forgot how much sometimes.”
“Poverty does that.”
Caleb looked at the fire.