Small green shoots appeared between the reeds.
And every morning, more birds gathered around the shallow pools.
Rowan watched them from the farmhouse window.
She began to suspect that her aunt had understood something about the land that no one else had bothered to learn.
But she did not yet know what it was.
By late summer, the goslings had grown into young geese.
They followed Rowan across the yard, waddling behind her in a noisy procession.
The smallest ones slept beneath the kitchen table.
The largest had begun exploring the marsh.
Rowan built a fence around the western pasture and repaired the old barn.
She used fallen branches to reinforce the damaged walls and salvaged boards from the main barn to build nesting boxes.
She also discovered that the marsh contained more useful plants than she had expected.
There were wild grasses suitable for feed, patches of clover, and a low-growing plant that the geese seemed particularly fond of.
She collected samples and dried them.
Some she fed to the birds.
Others she stored for winter.
She began keeping careful records of what the geese ate, where they grazed, and which areas remained dry after rain.
The work consumed nearly every waking hour.
But Rowan was no longer simply trying to survive.
She was learning.
And the more she learned, the more the farm began to reveal itself.
One afternoon, she discovered a narrow channel hidden beneath a tangle of reeds.
It ran from the eastern marsh toward a stone culvert beneath the old road.
The culvert was blocked by mud and branches.
Rowan spent two days clearing it.
When the water finally began moving, it flowed slowly toward the western fields.
She watched the current with growing excitement.
The channel had once been part of a larger system.
If she could restore the other waterways, the farm might drain more effectively during heavy rain.
She returned to the maps.
This time, she noticed something she had overlooked.
The old channels were not random.
They formed a network.
Some carried water away from the fields.
Others directed it into shallow ponds.
The system was designed to distribute water across the property rather than allowing it to collect in one place.
Her aunt had not been trying to conquer the marsh.
She had been working with it.
Rowan began clearing the channels one by one.
She hired two local boys to help, paying them in food and a small amount of money.
The boys were named Peter and Thomas Reed.
They were brothers, fourteen and sixteen, and had been dismissed from a nearby farm after an argument with their employer.
At first, they believed Rowan's project was pointless.
But when they saw the water moving through the restored channels, their attitude changed.
Peter stood beside a shallow pond.
"How did you know it would work?"
Rowan wiped sweat from her forehead.
"I didn't."
"Then why did you do it?"
She looked at the water.
"Because the map said it had worked before."
The boys exchanged glances.
Thomas grinned.
"That's better than guessing."
By the end of the month, the western pasture had become usable.
The geese grazed freely.
Their numbers had increased, and Rowan began collecting eggs.
She sold the first dozen in Bellweather.
Silas Bell examined them carefully.
"They're good eggs."
"Thank you."
He turned one in his hand.
"Large, too."
"The geese have been eating well."
Silas nodded.
Then he placed a small amount of money on the counter.
Rowan stared at it.
It was the first money she had earned from the farm.
She took it home and placed it in a jar beside the stove.
That evening, she bought herself a new pair of boots.
For the first time in months, she did not feel like a woman waiting for winter to defeat her.
She felt like a woman preparing for it.
Amos Caldwell returned in September.
This time, he brought a surveyor.
The two men arrived shortly after noon and walked the eastern boundary of the property.
Rowan watched them from the barn.
When they reached the old stone culvert, the surveyor crouched beside it and examined the masonry.
Caldwell said something Rowan could not hear.
The surveyor shook his head.
They continued along the channel.
At last, Caldwell approached the farmhouse.
"Miss Mercer."
"Mr. Caldwell."
He looked toward the geese.
"I see you've made progress."
"Some."
"I understand you're selling eggs."
"A few."
He nodded.
"That won't be enough to sustain a farm."
"It is enough to begin."
Caldwell studied her for a moment.
Then he took a folded paper from his coat.
"I've revised my offer."
Rowan did not take it.
"Why?"
"Because I believe the property may have some value after all."
"What kind of value?"
Caldwell glanced toward the eastern boundary.
"That depends on the condition of the land."
"Then you should have said so before."
His expression hardened.
"I am trying to help you."
"No. You're trying to buy something."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Caldwell folded the paper and placed it back in his coat.
"You should be careful, Miss Mercer. This county has a long memory."
"So does the marsh."
Caldwell's eyes narrowed.
"What did you say?"
Rowan stepped toward the porch.
"My aunt left records. Maps. Notes about the channels."
He stared at her.
"Where are those records?"
"In my possession."
Caldwell looked past her toward the farmhouse.
Then he smiled.
It was not the smile of a man making a friendly offer.
"Be sensible. Old records can be misleading."
"Then you have nothing to worry about."
He said nothing.
The surveyor called from the eastern field.
Caldwell turned and walked away.
Rowan watched them leave.
That evening, she examined the maps again.
The eastern channels had been blocked at several points.
The work had been done deliberately.
The old culvert had been filled with stones and packed earth.
And the boundaries shown on the newest county map did not match those recorded in Ada's ledger.
Someone had changed them.
But why?
Rowan spent the next three days comparing the documents.
She found references to an old flood agreement between neighboring landowners.
According to the agreement, the marsh channels were to remain open so that water could flow naturally between the properties.
The document bore several signatures.
One belonged to her aunt.
Another belonged to a man named Elias Caldwell.
Amos's father.
At the bottom of the page was a note written in faded ink.
No owner shall obstruct the eastern channel without the consent of all parties, as such obstruction may cause flooding upon neighboring lands.
Rowan read the sentence slowly.
Then she looked toward the eastern fields.
Caldwell had been buying land for years.
If the channels were blocked, the water would remain on her property while the higher ground to the east stayed dry.
The obstruction had not made the marsh worthless.
It had made it inconvenient.
And the inconvenience had helped Caldwell acquire the surrounding farms at reduced prices.
Rowan closed the ledger.
She now understood why her aunt had refused to sell.
But understanding was not the same as proving anything.
She needed the original agreement.
And she needed someone who could explain the county records.
Someone who knew the law.
Someone who would not be afraid of Amos Caldwell.