That made him glance toward the back office.
A minute later Sheriff Don Collier came out.
He was big, slow-moving, with the tired look of a man who’d spent too many years pretending local politics were simpler than they were. He listened without interrupting, hands on his belt.
When I said Vernon Pike had been at our property two days earlier, Collier’s mouth flattened.
“You got proof these men worked for Pike?” he asked.
“They said ‘boss,’” Cody snapped. “They found our cellar because he already knew it was there.”
“That’s not proof.”
“No,” I said. “But it’s a start.”
Collier looked at us for a long moment. “I can file the report. I can drive up and take a look. But if you’re asking me to accuse Vernon Pike without evidence, that’s not happening.”
“Convenient,” Cody muttered.
The sheriff ignored him. “You boys should be careful. Men get territorial when land titles are disputed.”
I felt heat climb my neck. “The title’s only disputed because people like Pike keep pretending it is.”
Collier’s eyes met mine then, and for the first time I saw something besides indifference.
Not honesty. Not exactly.
Warning.
“Take this advice or don’t,” he said quietly. “If you’ve got documents, keep them somewhere safe. And don’t assume everyone asking questions is your friend.”
He handed me the report copy.
That was the closest thing to help we were getting.
Outside, Cody kicked the courthouse step.
“That was useless.”
“Not entirely.”
“How?”
“Because he didn’t say Pike was innocent.”
Cody rubbed a hand through his hair. “So what now?”
I looked across the street toward the diner, where two old men sat in rocking chairs under the awning, watching the world like it was a show they’d seen before.
“Now,” I said, “we find out who Grandpa trusted.”
Inside the diner, the coffee was burned, the pie looked dangerous, and the woman behind the counter knew exactly who we were before we sat down.
“You’re Walter’s boys,” she said.
Not grandsons.
Boys.
That hit me in the chest.
“My name’s June,” she said, filling our mugs. “Your granddaddy used to come in here every Thursday and argue with my husband about baseball like either of them had ever played it.”
Cody actually smiled. “You knew him well?”
“Well enough to know he was meaner than a snake if somebody lied to him, and kinder than most preachers if they didn’t.” She set the pot down. “I also know Vernon Pike wanted your land for years.”
I sat up straighter. “Why?”
June glanced around, then lowered her voice. “Because Walter wouldn’t sell the creek access. And because there’s a stand of blight-resistant chestnut saplings on the lower tract that forestry people came asking about years ago.”
I blinked. “Chestnut?”
“American chestnut. Real ones. Walter had been breeding and protecting them for years from old root stock and surviving crosses. Said one day they’d matter.”
I thought of the seed trays in the second cellar. The good soil note. Better for chestnut.
June nodded slowly. “That land’s worth more alive than cut up. Walter knew it. Pike knew it. Different kind of men draw different kind of maps.”
Cody leaned forward. “Who else knew?”
“Dr. Ben Mercer over at the state extension office. Forestry man. Honest. Walter trusted him enough to argue with him, which is how he showed affection.”
I looked at Cody.
For the first time since the truck rolled into our clearing, I felt something stronger than fear.
A path.
Pike wanted our land for what he could take out of it.
Grandpa had been protecting what could grow there.
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