That she'd recognized the Carter name before answering his advertisement.
And that she suspected his ranch held the key to a dispute older than either of them understood.
But she hesitated.
She'd only known Nathaniel six days.
She didn't know whether he'd trust her account.
And she was frightened of ruining the fragile affection beginning to grow between them.
So she answered.
“I think we should examine your water records.”
Nathaniel smiled faintly.
“More paperwork?”
Clara smiled back.
“Mr. Carter, your ranch may depend on paperwork more than you realize.”
He laughed.
Then offered his arm as they returned toward the cabin.
Clara accepted it.
And for a moment, the weight of her secret seemed almost bearable.
Almost.
That evening, after Nathaniel went to check the horses, Clara opened the old Arizona box in her room.
She removed her father's maps.
His letters.
And the faded notebook containing the Carter name.
Then she found something she'd overlooked before.
A small pencil mark beside the stream.
A reference to an upstream crossing.
And two initials.
A.H.
She stared.
Then turned to the next page.
At the bottom, Samuel had written:
If the original survives, it will be where the survey line meets the old stone foundation.
Clara felt her heart accelerate.
The old stone foundation.
She remembered seeing one during the journey to the ranch.
A ruined structure near the eastern road.
Nathaniel called it the remains of an abandoned mill.
She looked toward the dark window.
Then toward the toolbox beside her bed.
For the first time, she wondered whether her father had hidden more than memories inside the belongings he'd left her.
And whether William Hawthorne had recognized her name because he knew exactly what those belongings might contain.
The following morning, Clara asked Nathaniel to show her the earliest surviving records connected to Carter Ranch.
He frowned.
“Earliest?”
She nodded.
“Deeds. Surveys. Water agreements. Anything your father kept.”
Nathaniel considered.
“There's a box in the loft.”
Clara looked toward the narrow ladder leading upstairs.
Then back at him.
“Would you mind bringing it down?”
He nodded.
“Of course.”
He climbed into the loft and returned carrying a battered wooden chest.
The hinges were rusted.
A layer of dust covered the lid.
And one corner had been repaired with a strip of old leather.