"Did he like puzzles?"
A faint smile appeared.
"More than was healthy."
She crouched beside the stove.
The iron body was cold.
The ash compartment stood partly open.
She examined its lower edge.
One small screw looked different from the others.
Its head was newer.
Its metal less corroded.
She pointed.
"Would you loosen that?"
Gideon knelt beside her.
He examined the screw.
Then looked at her.
"What did you see?"
"It doesn't match."
He removed a small tool from his coat.
Carefully loosened the screw.
Then pulled on a narrow iron plate.
It shifted.
Behind it was a shallow compartment.
Inside lay a small oilcloth packet.
Gideon stopped moving.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Lydia's heart began pounding.
He reached into the compartment.
Removed the packet.
And unfolded it.
Inside was a leather-bound field journal.
A narrow brass measuring tool.
And a folded sheet of paper sealed with dark blue thread.
Gideon's hands began to tremble.
He looked at the journal.
His brother's initials were stamped into the cover.
E.H.
For several seconds, he could not speak.
Then he whispered, "Elias."
Lydia placed one hand gently on his shoulder.
Gideon closed his eyes.
A tear slipped into his beard.
He pressed the journal against his chest.
And for the first time since she had met him, the mountain man allowed himself to weep openly.
They remained in the old cabin until the afternoon light began to fade.
Gideon sat beside the stove, examining the journal.
Lydia sat across from him with the folded papers.
The entries began months before Elias disappeared.
They described survey measurements, freight routes, water crossings, and disputes over the boundaries of the North Fork basin.
Several pages had been marked with red pencil.
Gideon recognized his brother's shorthand.
He read slowly.
Then stopped at one entry.
"May twelfth."
Lydia looked up.
"What does it say?"
Gideon's expression hardened.
"'Rusk's northern boundary contradicts the original chain measurements. Creek bed shifted on paper, not on ground.'"
Lydia frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means somebody moved the creek on the map."
She stared.
"Can they do that?"
"Not lawfully. But a false survey could make a claim look different."
Gideon turned another page.
"'Timber company using altered measurements to support exclusive access to North Fork spring.'"
Lydia looked toward the folded sheet beside her.
She untied the blue thread.
Inside was a detailed map.
Its lines were carefully drawn.
A river wound through the center.
Several parcels were marked with names.
One belonged to the Hayes family.
Another to a widow named Ruth Calder.
A third was listed as public land.
Across the upper valley, a bold red line identified a proposed private access route.
But beneath it, in faint pencil, was another line.
The true creek boundary.
Lydia traced it.
"They moved the boundary across your land."
Gideon leaned closer.
Then shook his head.