“Did you sleep?”
Noah looked up.
“A little.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Try again.”
He sighed.
“Not much.”
Grace poured coffee.
Then examined the drawings.
“What's all this?”
Noah took a breath.
“Mr. Cole came yesterday.”
She frowned.
“Ezra?”
He nodded.
“He recognized Grandpa's six rows.”
Grace sat.
“What do you mean?”
Noah explained the cap.
The old channels.
And Ezra's memory of the historic spring system.
Grace listened quietly.
When he finished, she looked toward the window.
For a moment, she seemed thoughtful.
“Your grandfather talked about an old water system.”
Noah leaned forward.
“He did?”
“Yes. But he always said it needed to be left undisturbed until someone could inspect it properly.”
The boy nodded.
“That's what I thought.”
Grace smiled faintly.
“Good.”
Then she took a breath.
“I'll call the conservation district.”
Noah's face brightened.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the clock.
“And I'll see whether we can arrange a visit before my next day off.”
He grinned.
For a moment, Grace watched him.
Then her expression softened.
“You remind me so much of your grandfather.”
Noah's smile faded.
“Really?”
She nodded.
“You both look at a field and see a question.”
His eyes filled.
Grace reached across the table.
“And you both refuse to stop asking until you find the answer.”
For several seconds, Noah couldn't speak.
Then he looked toward the notebook.
He wished Grandpa were there.
Wished the old man could sit beside him and explain the drawings.
But for the first time since the funeral, he felt as though Frank had left him something more than grief.
He'd left him work worth understanding.
Ezra returned two days later carrying a wooden box filled with old photographs.
He arrived in a battered green pickup, parked beside the barn, and stood for several minutes looking toward the northern fence. His face was lined with age, but his eyes were remarkably sharp.
Noah hurried from the porch.