"Happy to help," I said, and meant it.
Dawson tucked the ledger under his arm, the air around him lighter than it had been when we arrived. "I'll get this documented. With the lineage confirmed, the insurance and permits should clear without issue."
Torin straightened. "Let me know if you need anything else."
"Will do." Dawson's gaze flicked between us, lingering just long enough to make me aware of how close Torin and I were standing. But he didn't comment, just nodded and headed back toward the barn.
As we climbed back into the truck, I felt the satisfaction begin to shift into something else. Something heavier.
"Everything okay?" Torin asked, starting the engine.
I looked out at the valley, at the land that had divided families for as long as anyone could remember. "If they were still working together in 1912, then the feud didn't start until after that."
Torin's hands tightened on the wheel. "Yeah."
"Which means whatever happened—whatever broke them apart—it happened between 1912 and 1914."
He didn't answer right away. Just drove, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.
"Lois was looking for it," I continued. "Whatever caused the split. That's what the missing file was about. She knew there was more to the story."
Torin glanced at me. "And you're not going to stop looking."
I met his gaze, steady and sure. "No. I'm not."
Because Aunt Lois had left me more than a house and a piece of land. She'd left me a truth that had been buried for over a century. And I wasn't going to let it stay that way.
CHAPTER 9
CLAIRE
The estate boxes were almost empty.
I sat at the kitchen table, sorting through the last of Aunt Lois’s personal belongings. There were lacy handkerchiefs embroidered with her initials, a tin of fabric-covered buttons, and a box of holiday cards from relatives I’d never even met.
At the bottom of the last box, wedged under a stack of old quilting patterns, I found a small wooden chest wrapped in tissue paper. The wood was dark with age, the brass hinges tarnished. No lock. Just a simple latch that lifted easily under my thumb.
Inside, wrapped in faded linen, was the family Bible. I'd seen it once or twice as a child, displayed on a shelf in Lois's sitting room. But I'd never touched it and never looked inside. It had always felt like something meant for adults, for people who understood the weight of what it represented.
The leather cover was worn smooth, the edges cracked and peeling. I lifted it carefully, setting it on the table in front of me. The spine creaked as I opened it, revealing pages so thin they felt fragile beneath my fingers.
The front pages were filled with scripture, verses underlined in faded pencil. But toward the back, the handwriting changed. Someone had taken the time to mark birth records, baptisms, marriages, and deaths. Generations of Hollisters were documented in careful script, each entry marked with dates and locations.
I traced the lines with my fingertip, reading names I recognized and others I didn't. My grandfather. His father. The entries grew older, the handwriting changing with each new generation.
An entry from the early 1900s caught my attention. The writing was different. Smudged. Like someone had tried to erase it and written over it with something else.
I tilted the page toward the light, squinting at the faint impression beneath the newer ink. The original entry was barely visible, just ghost marks that suggested letters I couldn't quite read. Whatever had been written there first, someone had decided it didn't belong.
My pulse quickened. The record that replaced it was simple enough. A birth. A name I didn't recognize. But the fact that it had been rewritten at all made my skin prickle.
Lois had been looking for something. And now, sitting here with the family Bible open in front of me, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was part of it. I leaned closer, trying to make out the erased words, but they were too faint. Too far gone. Whoever had written over them had been thorough.
The weight of the discovery settled heavy in my chest. This wasn't just missing paperwork or a misplaced file. Someone had deliberately altered the family record. Hidden something. And I had a feeling Lois had known.
I closed the Bible carefully and sat back, my hands trembling just slightly. The air in the house felt too close, too still. I needed to move. To breathe.
I stood and walked to the back door, then stepped out onto the porch. The late afternoon sun slanted across the yard, casting long shadows through the bare lilac bushes. The air was cooler now, carrying the scent of pine and dry grass.
