"I've seen the photographs."
"He threw a penalty notice at my feet."
"I understand."
"He called my farm insignificant."
The attorney leaned forward.
"Listen carefully. That man wants you angry enough to make a mistake. Don't give him one."
The older woman stared.
The attorney lowered her voice.
"The strongest answer you can give him is evidence."
Silence filled the office.
Then the ranch woman nodded.
"I can do evidence."
The attorney smiled.
"Good."
As they prepared to leave, the older woman stopped at the door.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Do you think my father knew this might happen?"
The attorney considered.
"Your father recorded a property right, preserved survey references, and kept copies of the important papers. He understood that land changes hands."
The ranch woman looked down.
"He always told me to keep the road open."
The attorney smiled gently.
"Then let's find out exactly what he protected."
That night, the old woman sat alone at the kitchen table with the ledger open before her.
She turned through pages filled with her father's handwriting.
Road gravel.
Fuel.
Culvert.
Fence posts.
Survey costs.
Attorney fees.
Then, near the back, she found a folded scrap of paper she had overlooked.
It contained five words.
Ask about the western crossing.
Below them was a date.
October 1959.
She stared at the note.
The western crossing?
There was no crossing there now.
Only an old dry creek bed, a collapsed fence, and a line of cottonwoods.
She looked toward the window.
The ranch lay dark beneath the moon.
Somewhere out there, her father had left another clue.
And she had no idea what it meant.
Chapter 9: The Crossing Nobody Remembered
On Saturday morning, the ranch woman took her father's ledger to the foreman.
He was repairing a water trough beside the south pasture, kneeling in the dust with a wrench in one hand and a damaged valve in the other.
She waited until he finished tightening the fitting.
Then she showed him the note.
He read it.
His expression changed.
"Where'd you find this?"
"Inside the back cover."
He looked toward the western hills.
"Well, that takes me back."
She folded her arms.
"What crossing?"
The foreman sat on the edge of the concrete trough.
"Before the flood, there used to be another route through the lower draw."
"I remember the flood."
"You were old enough."
"I was twenty."
He nodded.