He spent his first twenty minutes looking at an old stone foundation.
“This is interesting.”
The girl pointed uphill.
“The trees are that way.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you looking at rocks?”
“Because trees move.”
She frowned.
“Buildings don't.”
He showed her foundation dimensions.
Storage house, possibly.
Maybe packing shed.
Near it they found rusted wire, pieces of wooden fruit boxes, square nails, fragments of glass, and an old metal hook.
Then the historian found a broken ceramic shard stamped with part of a name.
He became very quiet.
“What?”
The girl asked.
“I've seen this name.”
“Where?”
“County agricultural report.”
He drove back to town.
Returned the next morning carrying photocopies.
One article from 1948 described a local orchard family experimenting with regional apple varieties.
Another from 1952 mentioned “more than one hundred named apples maintained for commercial and preservation purposes.”
The girl read the line slowly.
“One hundred varieties?”
“Possibly.”
“How many could still be alive?”
The historian looked toward the orchard.
“No idea.”
The specialist said immediately:
“Do not tell the press one hundred varieties.”
The girl looked offended.
“I wasn't going to.”
The older farmer coughed suspiciously.
Everyone looked at him.
“What?”
He said.
“You already told somebody?”
The girl asked.
“No.”
“Who?”
“My sister.”
“Your sister talks to everyone.”
“She is seventy-four.”
“That has never stopped her.”
The story reached the local newspaper by Friday.
The headline appeared Sunday.
19-YEAR-OLD'S $3 LAND MAY HIDE FORGOTTEN APPLE ORCHARD
Her father held up the paper at breakfast.
“May.”
He tapped the word.
“Good headline.”
The girl frowned.
“Why?”
“Because they said may.”
Her mother took the paper.
“They used your school photograph.”
The girl's eyes widened.
“What?”
A photograph from graduation sat beneath the headline.
She looked horrified.
“I look twelve.”
Her younger brother leaned over.
“You still do.”
She threw a napkin at him.
By Monday, strangers began driving past the property.
By Tuesday, someone parked and walked through the gate without permission.
By Wednesday, the girl discovered two freshly cut twigs from one of the marked trees.
The horticulture specialist almost exploded.
“Who did this?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you authorize scion collection?”
“No.”
“Then this is theft.”
“Of twigs?”
“Of genetic material.”
The girl stared.
The specialist pointed toward the cut.
“If somebody believes a tree is rare, they'll take wood.”
“Why?”
“To graft.”
“Sell.”
“Collect.”
“Whatever.”
The girl looked toward the county road.
She had worried about goats.
Now humans needed fencing.
She spent more on locks, signs, temporary gates, and trail cameras during the next week than she had paid for the entire land.
The irony was not lost on anyone.
The older farmer helped install a gate.
As they lifted it into place, he said: