Its door hung from one hinge.
Inside, dust covered everything.
Broken measuring rods.
Rusting tools.
Old survey maps.
A cracked wooden desk.
Caleb entered first.
Norah followed.
She immediately noticed something.
“Someone’s been here.”
Caleb turned.
“What?”
She pointed.
The dust on the floor was disturbed near the desk.
There were boot prints.
Fresh ones.
Not more than a few days old.
Caleb’s hand went to the pistol beneath his coat.
Norah whispered, “Don’t.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because if someone wanted us dead, we’d already be dead.”
That earned the faintest trace of a smile.
“You always talk like that?”
“When I’m nervous.”
“You’re nervous?”
“Very.”
They searched the shed.
Nothing.
Then Norah opened the desk.
Inside was a ledger.
She lifted it carefully.
The first pages were survey measurements from more than twenty years earlier.
The final entries were newer.
Much newer.
She turned the page.
Her breath stopped.
“Caleb.”
He leaned over her shoulder.
A series of numbers had been written beside the spring measurements.
Dates.
Water levels.
Flow rates.
And beside each one, a name.
Wade Mercer.
Caleb went still.
Norah turned another page.
More entries.
More dates.
More calculations.
Then she found something that made her blood run cold.
The most recent measurement had been taken three days before the auction.
Caleb stared at it.
“Mercer has been monitoring the spring.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Norah looked at the figures.
“Because he wasn’t trying to destroy your water.”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed.
“He was measuring it.”
“Exactly.”
A floorboard creaked behind them.
They spun.
Nothing.
Then Caleb saw the window.
It was open.
A shadow moved beyond it.
He ran.
Norah followed.
They burst into the sunlight just as a horse disappeared behind the mesa.
Caleb fired once into the air.
The rider never looked back.
He was wearing a gray coat.
And riding a black horse.
Norah’s heart hammered.
“Did you see him?”
Caleb nodded.
“Mercer?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Caleb looked at the hoofprints.
“Someone who doesn’t want us asking questions.”
That evening, Dry Willow gathered around the cookhouse.
The mood was different.
Fear had replaced ordinary worry.
Caleb stood at the head of the table.
“We’ve found the real problem.”
Amos folded his arms.
“The spring box?”
“Yes.”
“Can we fix it?”
Norah answered.
“Not safely.”
A murmur spread through the room.
One ranch hand slammed his cup down.
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
Norah met his eyes.
“Find another source.”
A bitter laugh came from the corner.
“We don’t have another source.”
“You do.”
Everyone looked at her.
Norah unfolded the old survey map.
“There was a second spring.”
Silence.
Caleb stepped closer.
“Where?”
She pointed north.
“Under the mesa.”
Amos shook his head.
