He obeyed.
She continued.
βAnd don't discuss the property with anyone who comes by. Tell them to contact me.β
Noah swallowed.
βOkay.β
Grace took a breath.
βI'll call the attorney tomorrow.β
When the conversation ended, Noah sat at the kitchen table.
He stared at the letter.
The phrase historic access corridor bothered him.
Grandpa's notebook described a spring system.
Ezra's photographs showed neighboring families working together.
But Prairie Meridian seemed interested in the same location for reasons it hadn't fully explained.
That evening, he opened the green notebook.
He turned to a page near the back.
Grandpa had written a list of names.
Isaac Bennett.
Samuel Cole.
Edward Harker.
Joseph Lawson.
Two others.
Then, beneath the list, a short sentence.
No one man built this. No one man should be able to erase it.
Noah read the words again.
His chest tightened.
For the first time, he wondered whether the six garlic rows stood for more than six sections of buried water channels.
Maybe Grandpa had been trying to remind someone of the six families.
The six farms.
And the promise they made more than a century earlier.
Noah looked toward the window.
Beyond the barn, the northern fence stood beneath the fading sunset.
He could almost see Grandpa kneeling there.
One weathered hand resting on the soil.
His green notebook open beside him.
Then Noah noticed a folded page he'd never examined carefully.
It had been tucked into the back cover.
He opened it.
Inside was a photocopy of an old document.
The heading read:
BENNETT HOLLOW SPRING ASSOCIATION β ORIGINAL MAINTENANCE COVENANT.
His heart began pounding.
Below the heading were six names.
And beside them, a date.
October 3, 1915.
Noah stared.
Then he saw the sentence beneath the signatures.
The spring works and associated access shall be maintained for the common benefit of the participating homesteads, according to the rights and obligations herein described.