She found nothing with a flashlight.
The next morning she dug shallow holes.
One filled slowly.
Groundwater seep.
Maybe.
But not enough to explain the pond.
She began checking old documents.
County maps.
Soil surveys.
Property records.
Her father grew irritated.
“You came home to help with harvest.”
“I am helping.”
“You spent half the morning at the courthouse.”
“After checking cattle.”
“You don't even own cattle.”
“You do.”
He stared.
She smiled.
He tried not to.
Failed.
“What are you looking for?”
“Old drainage records.”
“Why?”
“Because the pond behaves wrong.”
“Ponds do not behave.”
“This one does.”
He shook his head.
Her grandfather was no help.
He had died when she was fourteen.
But he had left boxes.
Receipts.
Tax records.
Seed catalogs.
Photographs.
Maps.
Most stored above the farm office.
She spent evenings going through them.
Her father complained about dust.
Then eventually sat beside her.
One photograph caught her attention.
Black and white.
Likely early 1950s.
The barn looked newer.
The pond was visible behind three men standing beside a tractor.
Except the pond looked different.
Smaller.
More circular.
And something stood near the eastern bank.
A small structure.
Not a pump house exactly.
A wooden shed.
She brought the photograph closer.
“What’s that?”
Her father squinted.
“No idea.”
“Was there ever a shed by the pond?”
“Not when I was young.”
“When was the picture?”
He turned it over.
No date.
One of the men was his father as a young man.
He studied the clothing.
“Maybe fifty-two.”
She looked again.
The shed sat almost exactly where she had found the cooler soil.
“What would they put there?”
“Pump.”
“For what?”
“Irrigation maybe.”
“Grandpa irrigated?”
“Not that I know.”
“Stock water?”
“Could be.”
She searched more.
A handwritten ledger from 1956 included an expense:
Pipe repair east basin — $17.40
Her pulse quickened.
She showed her father.
He stared.
“That could mean anything.”
“East basin.”
“Maybe drainage.”
“Near pond.”
“Maybe.”
He was becoming curious.
That mattered.
The neighboring farmer heard about the research in September.
He stopped by while she was measuring the pond.
He leaned on the fence.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking water level.”
“With a ruler?”
“Gauge.”
“What for?”
“Tracking recharge.”
He laughed.
“Tracking what?”
“How quickly water comes back.”
“After what?”
She pointed toward the portable pump.
She had pumped down about six inches for a test.