A jar in the pantry.
Water from the pump.
Garrick checked the well before supper.
Nola watched him return through the kitchen door.
“Anything?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He sat.
Neither believed good meant anything yet.
After the children went to sleep, they returned to the ledger.
Nola searched for medical payments.
Dr. Bell appeared often.
More often than she expected.
“Did he visit this many times?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes twice weekly?”
“Toward the end.”
Nola traced one entry.
“Who paid him?”
“I did.”
“Every time?”
Garrick frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“This handwriting changes.”
He leaned closer.
Most entries were Garrick’s.
But several medical payments were recorded in a neater hand.
“That was Miriam.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
Nola turned several pages.
There it was again.
Miriam’s handwriting.
Then another strange entry.
Five dollars.
S. Doyle.
Nola tapped the page.
“Your tax collector.”
Garrick looked puzzled.
“He was here?”
“Apparently.”
Garrick shook his head.
“I don’t remember that.”
Nola flipped backward.
Another payment.
S. Doyle.
Ten dollars.
Then another.
All during the months of Miriam’s illness.
“What was she paying him for?”
Garrick stood so quickly the chair scraped across the floor.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did Miriam keep papers?”
“Desk upstairs.”
They went to the bedroom.
Garrick opened the small writing desk beside the window.
Inside lay stationery, dried ink, sewing thread, receipts and several letters.
Nola stepped back.
“You should read them.”
Garrick looked at her.
“You found this.”
“They belonged to your wife.”
His face tightened.
“Stay.”
So she did.
They sorted through the papers.
Most were ordinary.
Bills.
A recipe.
A letter from Miriam’s sister.
A list of baby names with Weston circled twice.
Then Nola found an envelope hidden beneath the desk drawer.
It had been folded flat.
No address.
No stamp.
Inside was a single sheet.
Garrick read it.
His expression slowly changed.
“What?”
He handed it to Nola.
The writing was Miriam’s.
If anything happens to me, the papers must not go to Garrick until I am certain. He has enough burdens and will confront the wrong person too quickly.
Nola read the line twice.
Below it was another sentence.
Seth says the old survey was altered.
Garrick stared at her.
“What survey?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s nothing about a survey.”
Nola turned the paper over.
Blank.
Garrick searched the drawer again.
Nothing.
“Who is Seth Doyle really?”
“The county collector.”
“Are you certain?”
Garrick stopped.
Nola saw realization dawn.
“No,” he said quietly.
“You never checked.”
“No.”
“Did you know him before he began coming here?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you should.”
—
They went into Hollow Creek town the following morning.
Nola had not expected much.
She was still disappointed.
The settlement consisted of perhaps forty buildings stretched along a single muddy road.
There was a general store, blacksmith, feed merchant, church, bank, hotel and a tiny structure with COUNTY OFFICE painted across the window.
Garrick tied the wagon outside.
“Stay here.”
Nola looked at him.
“Why?”
“I’ll ask.”
“You’ll ask badly.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I have been speaking independently for years.”
“Yes. And look where it’s gotten you.”
She climbed down.
Garrick muttered something.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
They entered together.
The county clerk was a narrow man named Finch who wore spectacles so thick his eyes appeared enormous.
Garrick placed one of the assessment receipts on the counter.
“I need to know whether this is legitimate.”
Finch examined it.
His forehead creased.
“Where did you get this?”
“My property assessment.”
“No.”
Garrick’s voice changed.
“No?”
Finch adjusted his spectacles.
“This isn’t ours.”
Nola and Garrick exchanged a glance.
“The seal?” Nola asked.
“Old seal. County stopped using it almost three years ago.”
Garrick placed both hands flat on the counter.
“Who is Seth Doyle?”
Finch blinked.
“Who?”
“Your collector.”
“We don’t have a collector by that name.”
The office became very quiet.
Nola felt her heartbeat once, hard.
Garrick’s voice was low.
“A man came to my ranch four times last year. Claimed he represented the county.”
Finch shook his head.
“Wasn’t us.”
“How much do I actually owe?”
The clerk disappeared into a back room.
He returned carrying a file.
“Nothing.”
Garrick stared.
“You’re current through next January.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Paid in full.”
“By whom?”
Finch flipped through the papers.
His finger stopped.
“Well.”
“What?”
“This is strange.”
He turned the page toward them.
Payment had been submitted five months earlier.
Nola read the name.
Vernon Crow.
Garrick did not move.
“Why,” he asked slowly, “would Crow pay my taxes?”
Finch removed his spectacles and cleaned them.
“I couldn’t tell you.”
Nola could.
Or at least she could guess.
Because Crow wanted something.
And whatever it was, buying Garrick’s debt might give him leverage.
They left the county office without speaking.
Outside, wagons rattled through mud.
Someone hammered metal at the blacksmith.
Normal life continued around them.
Garrick stood beside the wagon.
“I’m going to Crow.”
“No.”
He turned.
“You’re not giving orders.”
“No. I’m preventing a foolish decision.”
“He paid my taxes.”
“Which means he wants you to know eventually.”
“So I’ll ask why.”
“And he’ll tell you exactly what benefits him.”
Garrick’s hands curled at his sides.
Nola stepped closer.
“Miriam wrote that you would confront the wrong person too quickly.”
His expression changed.
“That was before—”
“It was exactly this.”
“She was my wife.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t know her.”
“No.”
The words struck hard.
Nola did not retreat.
“That is precisely why I may see something you don’t.”
Garrick looked furious.
Then wounded.
Then tired.
“What?”
Nola lowered her voice.
“Miriam was hiding an investigation from you.”
He stared at her.
“An investigation?”
“She was paying Doyle.”
“You think he wasn’t stealing from her?”
“Maybe he was. But why write his name beside an altered survey?”
Garrick said nothing.
“What if Doyle wasn’t pretending to collect taxes?” Nola continued. “What if that’s merely what Miriam told you?”
His face went still.
Nola continued carefully.
“What if she hired him?”
“To do what?”
“Find something.”
The anger drained from Garrick.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Nola looked down the road.
Across from the general store stood a weather-beaten building with a sign reading LAND & TITLE.
“Perhaps we start with the survey.”
—
The title office smelled of dust and old paper.
An elderly woman named Mrs. Kemp guarded the records as though they were family heirlooms.
When Garrick asked for the Hale property survey, she looked immediately interested.
“Which one?”
Garrick frowned.
“There’s more than one?”
Mrs. Kemp glanced at Nola.
Then back at Garrick.
“There shouldn’t be.”
She disappeared among shelves.
Several minutes later she returned carrying two documents.
She spread them on the desk.
“These are both recorded copies.”
Nola leaned closer.
At first, the maps looked identical.
The creek.
The western ridge.
The Hale house.
Pasture boundaries.
Then she saw it.
One boundary line shifted nearly a quarter mile east.
Garrick saw it too.
“That cuts off the north field.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Kemp said.
“Who owns it in the second survey?”
The elderly woman pointed.
V. CROW HOLDINGS.
Garrick’s face hardened.
“When was this filed?”
“Last December.”
“Miriam was alive.”
“Yes.”
“Who authorized it?”
Mrs. Kemp checked the record.
Her eyebrows drew together.
“This says you did.”
Garrick stared at her.
“I never signed this.”
Mrs. Kemp turned the document.
At the bottom was Garrick Hale’s name.
A signature.
Convincing.
But false.
Nola looked at him.
“You’re certain?”
“I know my own hand.”
Mrs. Kemp appeared suddenly uncomfortable.
“Mr. Hale, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“Your wife came here in January.”
Garrick seemed to stop breathing.
“She knew?”
“She asked to compare the surveys.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mrs. Kemp looked genuinely surprised.
“I assumed she had.”
“She didn’t.”
“She made me promise not to send any notice to the ranch.”
Garrick stared at the map.
“Did she say why?”
Mrs. Kemp hesitated.
“She said she needed proof before someone found out she knew.”
Nola felt the room cool around her.
“Someone?”
“That was the word she used.”
“Did she say who?”
“No.”
Garrick reached for the edge of the desk.
Nola saw his fingers tremble.
“Miriam died six weeks later.”
Mrs. Kemp’s expression softened.
“I’m sorry.”
He did not seem to hear her.
Nola looked back at the survey.
A forged signature.
False assessments.
Vernon Crow quietly paying legitimate taxes.