"I believe so."
Her daughter took out a notebook.
"Do you remember what kind of document?"
The neighbor closed her eyes.
"They had papers. Your father insisted on papers."
The ranch woman nodded.
"That sounds like him."
The neighbor continued.
"My husband wasn't worried about the road. He said it was better for everybody if they moved it uphill. But your father wanted to make sure the arrangement would survive them."
The ranch woman swallowed.
"Do you know where the agreement went?"
The neighbor looked embarrassed.
"When the farm finances got bad, a lot of papers were boxed up. Some went to the accountant. Some to the bank. I don't know what they kept."
The daughter made a note.
"Could there still be copies here?"
"Maybe."
The elderly neighbor stood.
They helped her to a small back bedroom.
Inside was a wooden chest filled with old correspondence, photographs, invoices, and papers tied into bundles with faded string.
They spent almost two hours searching.
There were property tax notices.
Insurance renewals.
Grain receipts.
Handwritten Christmas cards.
A receipt for a windmill repair.
And a letter from the ranch woman's father dated August 1979.
The neighbor stared at it.
"That's his handwriting."
The ranch woman took the envelope carefully.
Inside was a single page.
Her father thanked the neighboring couple for agreeing to the revised road location after the flood.
He wrote that the relocated curve would remain available for permanent ranch access under the agreement they had signed.
The letter referred to a survey correction being prepared.
But it did not include the final document.
The ranch woman felt both relief and frustration.
"It proves they agreed."
Her daughter nodded.
"At least it supports that history."
The neighbor's eyes filled.
"My husband would've been furious about this."
The ranch woman looked up.
"He was a good neighbor."
"He had his faults."
They smiled.
Then the neighbor grew serious.
"When the bank took the pasture, I gave them everything the accountant had."
The daughter stopped writing.
"Everything?"
"Every deed, survey, and old property agreement we could find."
The ranch woman stared.
"Then the bank might have the road relocation papers."
The neighbor nodded.
"That's what I'm telling you."
The room went silent.
The bank manager had claimed the historical records were incomplete.
He had insisted the woman had no established right to use the disputed curve.
He had demanded six hundred and forty dollars.
He had threatened to barricade the road.
But now they had reason to believe that the bank might have received documents directly from the former owner showing how and why the road had been moved.
The ranch woman stood.
"Thank you."
The elderly neighbor took her hand.
"There's something else."