Clara denied having company records.
They asked about her father's field books.
She refused to answer.
The taller man smiled.
"Your father should've known when to stop asking questions."
The words froze her.
Before she could respond, Crowe stepped closer.
"Wouldn't want his daughter making the same mistake."
They left.
Clara locked her door.
Then sat on the floor beside the bed, trembling.
For the first time, she understood that her father's death might have been deliberate.
And that whoever was responsible believed she possessed something dangerous.
They were right.
Because Samuel hadn't taken his original field books to the meeting.
He'd hidden them.
And three nights after his death, Clara found a letter tucked beneath the false bottom of his instrument case.
It contained a short message.
If anything happens to me, trust the measurements, not the printed map.
Beneath the sentence was a sequence of numbers.
Clara recognized them.
They were not ordinary measurements.
They were references to pages in the field books.
And when she examined those pages, she discovered that her father had marked a series of locations where the official survey descriptions failed to match the land.
The discrepancies led to an older stone boundary marker.
A marker that should have been preserved beneath territorial surveying rules.
But the newer documents showed it in a different location.
Samuel believed someone had physically moved or replaced the marker.
And the records suggested that the changed boundary would transfer control of the spring and access corridor to land claimed by Voss's associates.
Clara had no intention of surrendering the evidence.
She copied the important pages.
Wrapped the originals carefully.
And concealed them inside the lining of her traveling case.
Then she left.
Not because she wanted to abandon her father's work.
Because she wanted to survive long enough to prove he had been right.
Willow Creek had been her destination for one reason.
The old boundary descriptions referred to landmarks near the settlement.
If she could find the original stone marker, she might establish that the newer records had been altered.
But she also needed employment.
Money.
And a place to stay where strangers wouldn't immediately question her presence.
The schoolhouse needed an assistant teacher.
Its existing instructor was an elderly woman named Abigail Porter, who managed thirty children of different ages with the patience of a saint and the voice of a cavalry officer.
Clara presented her recommendation letter.
Abigail examined it.
Then asked whether she could teach arithmetic.
Clara smiled.
"Yes."
"Reading?"
"Of course."
"Can you keep twenty children from throwing chalk at one another while six others pretend they've forgotten how to spell?"
Clara hesitated.
Abigail raised one eyebrow.
"Well?"
Clara laughed.
"I can try."
The older woman nodded.
"Good enough."
She offered Clara temporary work and arranged a room at the boardinghouse operated by Widow Margaret Bell.
Margaret was fifty-eight, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, and famous for refusing to tolerate drunken men shouting beneath her windows.
She gave Clara a small room overlooking the street.
The rent was reasonable.
The bed was clean.
And the kitchen smelled of bread every morning.
For several weeks, Clara almost felt safe.
She taught children.
Helped Abigail prepare lessons.
Read in the evenings.
And quietly studied her father's maps after the boardinghouse settled into silence.
She visited the county records office twice.
Both visits ended in frustration.
The clerk claimed several older plats had been transferred elsewhere.