She leaned closer.
“No need.”
He looked at her.
She smiled.
“Yes, Nathaniel.”
His eyes filled.
She continued.
“I'll marry you.”
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Then he pulled her gently into his arms.
And beside the roaring fireplace, surrounded by old timber walls and the warmth of the home they'd begun rebuilding together, Nathaniel Carter finally understood something he'd spent years refusing to believe.
Love didn't arrive when a man's life became perfect.
Sometimes it arrived carrying a toolbox, a sharp tongue, and a willingness to stay while the roof leaked.
But their happiness did not last untroubled.
Because three days after the proposal, Frey received a letter from the county clerk.
The older lawyer arrived at Carter Ranch late in the afternoon.
His expression was grave.
Nathaniel met him at the door.
“What's wrong?”
Frey removed his hat.
“Hawthorne has challenged the temporary order.”
Clara looked up from the kitchen table.
The attorney continued.
“He claims your family abandoned the original water arrangement years ago and that the current use depends entirely on his permission.”
Nathaniel's jaw tightened.
“That's a lie.”
Frey nodded.
“Perhaps. But we need the evidence to establish the contrary.”
Clara looked toward her father's notebook.
The missing original.
The old seal.
The abandoned mill foundation.
For a moment, she felt her heart accelerate.
Then she asked.
“How much time?”
Frey looked toward the snow outside.
“The hearing is scheduled before the new year.”
Nathaniel took a breath.
“And if we lose?”
The attorney's expression became serious.
“Then the ranch may face water restrictions severe enough to threaten its survival.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Clara slowly closed her notebook.
She looked toward Nathaniel.
Her expression was calm.
But her eyes were determined.
“Then we find the original.”
Nathaniel nodded.
“How?”
Clara looked toward the old toolbox resting beside the workshop door.
For the first time, she remembered a strange detail about its construction.
A narrow strip of walnut beneath the lower tray.
A piece that never seemed to fit quite correctly.
She'd noticed it years ago.
But she'd never removed it.
Her father built that toolbox himself.
He was a carpenter.
A man who understood hidden joints.
And a man who had spent his final years protecting a secret he believed could change the fate of several ranching families.
Clara stared at the toolbox.