She took the documents to Miss Whitfield first.
The schoolteacher had experience maintaining written records and had copied several legal forms for the settlement.
She examined the agreement.
Then frowned.
"This is important."
Clara nodded.
"But is it still valid?"
Miss Whitfield looked toward the deed.
"I don't know."
"Would the store's debt override it?"
"I don't know that either."
Clara sighed.
The teacher smiled gently.
"That's why we have to ask somebody who understands contracts."
There was no lawyer in Pine Hollow.
The nearest reliable legal assistance required travel beyond the blocked pass.
But the settlement did have a county clerk who visited periodically and a retired justice of the peace living several miles south.
The justice, Mr. Elijah Ward, was seventy-one years old.
He no longer held office.
But he had spent decades recording property transactions, witnessing agreements, and helping neighbors understand official documents.
Clara arranged for Caleb to bring him to the church when travel permitted.
Ward examined the papers carefully.
He wore thick spectacles and held each page close to the lantern.
After nearly an hour, he looked up.
"This doesn't look like a simple donation receipt."
Clara leaned forward.
"What does it look like?"
"A record of a community association with grain held on behalf of contributors."
"Does it mean the grain belongs to the families?"
Ward hesitated.
"It may mean some quantity should have been maintained for the association. But we need to establish what happened afterward."
He turned another page.
"Whether the agreement was properly transferred when the store changed hands. Whether it was terminated. Whether the grain was sold and replaced as intended."
Clara nodded.
"And whether Pike has been counting it as his own property."
"Yes."
She looked toward the door.
The snow continued falling.
Ward closed the book.
"I wouldn't accuse the merchant of theft on these records alone."
Clara nodded.
"Neither would I."
"But I would certainly ask to examine the later accounts."
She took a breath.
"Then we will."
That evening, Clara sat at her kitchen table with her mother's account book open.
Caleb stood beside the stove.
He had changed into a dry wool shirt and trousers after spending the day clearing snow.
His long hair was still damp.
He watched Clara turning the pages.
"Your mother made this?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
He approached.
"Looks like a great deal of work."
Clara smiled faintly.
"She liked her books tidy."
He looked toward the old signatures.
"Did you know she was doing this?"
"Not the whole of it."
Her expression softened.
"I knew she helped neighbors during hard winters. I remember sacks of grain being brought to the house when I was younger."
She turned a page.
"But I thought she was simply storing food."
Caleb pulled out a chair.
He sat beside her.
Clara traced her mother's handwriting.
"She was keeping a record of everybody who contributed."
He nodded.
"And who needed help?"
"That too."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Clara looked toward the window.
"I wish I could ask her what happened."
Caleb watched her.