Silas placed his hat back on his head.
"Your aunt said you'd probably say that."
He climbed into his wagon.
Before leaving, he turned around.
"One more thing. There's an old barn behind the willow grove. Ada kept geese there. Don't go inside unless you have to. The roof's dangerous."
Rowan watched him drive away.
Then she turned toward the willow grove.
She had not noticed the barn before.
It was almost entirely hidden by reeds.
And for reasons she could not explain, she felt that she had just been given the first clue to something her aunt had left unfinished.
The old barn stood on a low rise surrounded by shallow water.
Rowan approached it the next morning with a lantern, a hammer, and a rope tied around her waist.
The building was smaller than the main barn, but its walls were thicker. The roof had partially collapsed, allowing sunlight to fall through the broken beams.
A narrow wooden door hung from one hinge.
Inside, she found straw, rotting crates, and a dozen empty nesting boxes.
A row of wooden shelves ran along the western wall.
Beneath them sat a battered ledger.
Rowan lifted it carefully.
The cover was swollen with moisture, but the pages inside were surprisingly intact.
She opened the book.
The first entries were dated nearly thirty years earlier.
Ada had recorded the number of geese she owned, the quantity of eggs collected, the cost of feed, and the amount of money earned at market.
But after several pages, the numbers began to change.
The entries became less frequent.
Then came a series of notes about the marsh.
Water rising from the eastern channel.
New plants appearing near the old stone boundary.
Birds returning earlier this spring.
The final entry was written in a hand so faint Rowan had to hold the page near the doorway.
The water remembers its way. People forget.
Rowan closed the ledger.
For several minutes, she listened to the wind moving through the damaged roof.
Then she began cleaning.
She worked for four days.
She removed rotten boards, cleared the nests, and repaired enough of the roof to keep the rain out. She found a second door at the back of the barn, nearly hidden beneath a mound of earth.
Behind it lay a narrow passage leading to a storage room.
The room contained a rusted wheelbarrow, three broken shovels, several sacks of old feed, and a wooden chest.
Inside the chest were more ledgers.
There were also maps.
Rowan spread them across the floor.
The oldest map showed the property as it had been fifty years earlier. The marsh was marked with blue lines representing channels and pools. A series of narrow ditches connected the water to the western fields.
The newer maps showed fewer channels.
Some had disappeared beneath thick black lines.
Others had been crossed out entirely.
Rowan recognized the name written along the eastern boundary.
Caldwell Grain Company.
She frowned.
The markings appeared to indicate that several waterways had been redirected decades earlier.
But the maps were incomplete.
She would need someone who understood land surveying to explain them.
That meant going to Bellweather.
Rowan disliked the idea of asking for help from people who believed she had made a foolish decision.
But she needed supplies, and the farm had almost no money.
She hitched the wagon and drove into town.
Bellweather was a small settlement built around a railway station, a church, a grain warehouse, and a row of wooden storefronts.
When Rowan entered the general store, conversations stopped.
Two women standing beside the flour barrels looked at her muddy boots.
A man near the stove whispered something to his companion.
Silas Bell emerged from behind the counter.
"Back already?"
"I need feed for geese."
Silas stared.
"Geese?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"None yet."
He blinked.
Rowan placed a list on the counter.
"I also need wire, nails, and a shovel."
Silas read the list.
Then he looked at her.
"You intend to raise geese?"
"I intend to raise whatever can live on that land."
Someone laughed near the stove.
Rowan turned.
A tall man in a brown coat stood beside the door. He wore polished boots and a silver watch chain. His hair was neatly combed, and his smile carried the confidence of someone who had never been required to work for his supper.
"That's a fine ambition," he said. "But you might as well try to grow wheat in a bathtub."
Silas stiffened.
"Mr. Caldwell."
Amos Caldwell removed his hat.
"Miss Mercer."
Rowan studied him.
He was younger than she had expected, perhaps forty, with pale eyes and a face that seemed permanently arranged for business.
"I understand you have taken possession of Ada's property," he continued.
"I have."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"Why?"
"Because the place will consume every dollar you possess."
"Then I shall have to be careful with my dollars."
Caldwell smiled.
"I admire your spirit. But enthusiasm does not change the nature of soil."
"Neither does a man's opinion."
A few customers looked up.
Caldwell's smile faded slightly.
"I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
"Rowan Mercer."
"Amos Caldwell."
"I know."
He nodded toward the window.
"My company has operated in this county for thirty years. We understand the land."
"Then perhaps you can tell me why the eastern channels on my aunt's maps were blocked."
For the first time, Caldwell's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Rowan noticed.
"What maps?"
"Old surveys. They show waterways crossing my property before your company acquired the fields to the east."
Caldwell glanced at Silas.
Then he returned his attention to Rowan.
"Those are old matters."
"Are they?"
"Water changes. Boundaries change. Your aunt was an eccentric woman. She believed she could control the marsh."
Rowan folded her arms.
"Did she?"
Caldwell's eyes narrowed.
"Miss Mercer, I will make you an offer. A fair one. You can sell the farm, settle your debts, and leave this place before winter."
"I haven't agreed to any debts."
"You will."
He placed a business card on the counter.
"Think about it."
Then he walked out.
Rowan watched him cross the street.
Silas placed the feed order into a sack.
"That was not wise."
"What wasn't?"
"Questioning Caldwell in front of people."
"Why?"
Silas lowered his voice.
"Because he owns half the county."
Rowan looked at the business card.
"No," she said quietly. "He owns half the county because people keep telling themselves that he does."
She paid for the supplies and left.
Behind her, Bellweather resumed its conversations.
But the laughter had stopped.
Two weeks later, the eggs arrived.
Rowan had not planned to buy them.
She had gone to the livestock yard to inquire about young geese, expecting to find perhaps twenty or thirty birds she could afford.
Instead, she found a farmer named Harlan Pike standing beside a wagon filled with straw and broken crates.
He was arguing with a merchant.
"Nobody wants them," Harlan said. "They're cracked, and the hatchery won't take them back."
The merchant shrugged.
"Then throw them away."
Rowan approached.
"What happened?"
Harlan looked at her.
"Storm damaged the transport wagon. These eggs were meant for a commercial hatchery, but the roads were bad, and the crates got knocked around."