He stared into the fire.
Then muttered, "Stay away from her."
Trouble opened one eye.
Caleb looked down.
"That wasn't meant for you."
The dog sighed.
Caleb leaned back.
For a long moment, he considered riding into town the next morning and apologizing.
Then he imagined Clara asking again about the northern trail.
And he knew the apology wouldn't be simple.
Because the mountain she wanted to visit held the one memory he had never managed to escape.
Clara didn't obey his warning.
Not completely.
She remained away from the northern ridge itself, but she began exploring the lower valley on foot during her afternoons off.
She carried her father's copied maps inside a plain cloth portfolio.
She compared creek bends with old descriptions.
Measured distances as accurately as she could without full surveying equipment.
And asked longtime residents what the landscape had looked like before the newer roads were built.
Several people helped.
An elderly farmer remembered an old stone marker beside a cottonwood tree.
A retired teamster described a trail that once followed the creek northward.
And a woman whose family had occupied the valley for thirty years recalled men moving survey stakes after a severe flood.
Clara wrote everything down.
Sometimes the information conflicted.
People remembered landmarks differently.
Floods changed riverbanks.
Trees died.
Roads moved.
And a stone marker could be mistaken for another.
She knew recollections weren't enough to establish a boundary.
But they could show her where to look.
One afternoon, she walked toward a small bridge near the southern end of town.
Her father's notes referred to an older crossing nearby.
She hoped to find evidence of the original route.
The weather was cold but clear.
A few clouds moved over the hills.
Clara wore a wool coat and carried her portfolio beneath one arm.
She was halfway across the bridge when a voice called from behind.
"Miss Whitmore."
She stopped.
Silas Crowe stood near the road.
He wore a brown coat and a dark hat pulled low over his forehead.
Another man waited beside a horse farther back.
Clara's stomach tightened.
She recognized Crowe from the boardinghouse in the previous town.
He smiled.
"Didn't expect to see you so far west."
She took a step backward.
"I don't believe we have business."
Crowe approached slowly.
"That's where you're mistaken."
Clara looked toward the town.
The bridge lay beyond the nearest buildings.
A wagon could sometimes be heard on the road, but no one was visible.
She tightened her grip around the portfolio.
Crowe noticed.
His eyes moved toward it.
"Still studying maps?"
Clara swallowed.
"School lessons."
He laughed.
"Of course."
She stepped aside.
"Please let me pass."
Crowe moved into her path.
"Mr. Voss would like his property returned."
She felt her pulse quicken.
"My father's records belong to his estate."
Crowe's smile disappeared.
"Your father worked for the company."
"He was contracted to review survey information."
"Same difference."