"If anyone asks for my field books, tell them I have them with me."
She frowned.
"But you don't."
He looked toward the locked chest beneath the bed.
She followed his gaze.
Her stomach tightened.
"Father?"
Samuel approached.
He placed one hand against her cheek.
"I may be worrying over nothing."
She stared.
He continued.
"But if I don't come back by tomorrow, don't trust anybody who claims I've simply decided to leave."
Clara's blood turned cold.
"What are you saying?"
He tried to smile.
"Only that you should be careful."
She grabbed his hand.
"Don't go."
Samuel looked toward the satchel.
Then back at her.
For a moment, she saw how tired he was.
He had spent thirty years measuring land for men who often cared more about profit than accuracy.
Now he was frightened.
Not of losing money.
Of what the truth might cost.
He squeezed her hand.
"If I don't take this to the people responsible, they'll say they never knew."
Then he left.
Clara watched him ride away.
It was the last time she saw him alive.
Samuel Whitmore's body was found two days later near a ravine north of the Granite Valley work camp.
His horse was discovered wandering several miles away.
The official explanation was an accident.
According to the local report, Samuel had likely been thrown from his horse on a dangerous trail.
The terrain was steep.
The weather unstable.
And witnesses said he had been traveling alone.
Clara didn't believe it.
Her father was an experienced rider.
He knew mountain trails.
He knew the importance of choosing safe routes.
And he had spent the previous weeks warning her that the survey records might involve more than ordinary mistakes.
She asked to see his belongings.
His satchel was missing.
So were the report copies he'd carried.
His watch had stopped.
And the small notebook he usually kept in his coat pocket was nowhere to be found.
The county official who spoke with her offered little explanation.
He expressed sympathy.
Then suggested she return east.
"A young woman shouldn't remain alone in a place like this."
Clara stared.
"My father was investigating disputed land records."
The official's expression hardened.
"Miss Whitmore, your father died in a riding accident."
She swallowed.
"The records he carried are gone."
He sighed.
"People lose belongings during accidents."
Clara looked toward him.
"His satchel?"
The official avoided her eyes.
"Perhaps it fell into the ravine."
She left the meeting trembling with anger.
For several days, she tried to find someone willing to listen.
A lawyer asked for money she didn't have.
A clerk suggested the records might be confidential.
A deputy warned her not to make accusations against respectable businessmen.
Then two men appeared outside her boardinghouse.
One was Silas Crowe.
The other wore a black coat.
They told her they represented a party interested in recovering survey materials belonging to Granite Valley Land and Improvement.