A leather-bound journal.
And another pendant.
Clara dropped the hatchet.
The second pendant was identical to hers.
Except larger.
She recognized it.
Her mother had owned two.
Clara remembered touching the larger one as a child.
Then one day it vanished.
Her mother said she had lost it.
Clara picked it up with shaking hands.
“No.”
Silas remained silent.
She unfolded the photograph.
A young woman stood outside a rough mountain cabin.
Not this cabin exactly.
An earlier one.
Beside her stood a bearded man Clara did not recognize.
Behind them: the same mountain ridge visible through Silas’s window.
The woman was Eleanor Whitfield.
Clara’s mother.
Younger.
Strong.
Smiling.
No Baltimore lace.
No expensive parlor.
She wore trousers beneath a long split riding skirt and heavy boots.
Clara had never seen her look so alive.
On the back:
Eleanor Vale, Silver Spring, Colorado Territory, 1869.
Clara whispered:
“Vale?”
Silas nodded.
“Her maiden name.”
“My grandfather was Dr. Whitfield.”
“No.”
Clara looked up.
Silas said:
“Your father gave her his surname before marriage in public records.”
“She let him.”
“Why?”
“He controlled what happened after she left.”
Clara sank into the cedar chair.
The blanket slipped.
She pulled it tighter.
“Start over.”
Silas sat opposite.
Not close.
He looked into fire.
“Your mother’s father was a surveyor named Elias Vale.”
“He discovered the spring.”
“The land around it had been considered worthless.”
“Rock.”
“Timber.”
“Short growing season.”
“But the spring never froze.”
“He claimed the parcel legally in 1858.”
“About four thousand acres eventually.”
Clara stared.
“My mother owned this?”
“After Elias died.”
“How?”
“Only child.”
Clara’s mind raced.
“Then why did she leave?”
Silas’s jaw tightened.
“Because men wanted what was beneath it.”
“Gold?”
“No.”
“Silver?”
“Some.”
“But not enough.”
“Then what?”
“Water.”
Clara frowned.
Silas continued.
“Not the spring alone.”
“The underground basin feeding it.”
“There are three valleys downstream.”
“Dry summers destroy ranches.”
“Whoever controls the spring watershed controls settlement.”
Clara looked toward the hidden hatch.
Her mother.
Land.
Water.
Nothing made sense.
“What does this have to do with my father?”
“Your father met Eleanor while representing a railroad syndicate.”
Clara’s stomach dropped.
Her father, Charles Whitfield, had indeed worked with railway investors before moving east.
Silas said:
“He was sent to purchase the land.”
“She refused.”
“So he married her?”
Silas looked at Clara.
“I cannot tell you why they married.”
“Maybe they loved each other once.”
Clara looked away.