For about one night. Walter sat again. He had us rough up the bank afterward. Scatter branches. Wanted it to look like storm wash.
Rebecca remembered the fresh shovel marks. Why? Because the water commissioner would have stopped him before he got enough through to matter. Can you prove any of this? Walter rubbed his beard.
There was an old survey stake near the bend. Rebecca leaned forward. Was still is unless they found it. Where? Under a fallen cottonwood.
I buried it deeper myself. Rebecca stared at him. Walter looked almost ashamed. Mercer told us to pull every marker. I pulled that one, then put it back after the others went home.
Why? Figured someday I might need proof I hadn't imagined the whole thing. Anything else? Walter hesitated. Then he stood and crossed to a wooden chest.
From beneath old shirts, he removed a thin ledger. He placed it on the table. Inside were dates, hours, supply lists, shovel repairs, timber loads, and on one page, east hail cut, night crew, em order. Rebecca touched nothing. Your handwriting?
Yes. Will you say that in front of the commissioner? Walter shut the ledger. No. Rebecca sat back.
Why? I told you your son's land. My grandchildren live there. His voice sharpened. You want me to stand in Copper Ridge and call Edwin Mercer a liar where everybody can hear?
Then you ride back to Hail Creek with your giant cowboy and I come home wondering whether Daniel's road is still open. Rebecca absorbed the words. She thought of Everett standing beside the shrinking pool, then of herself leaving his kitchen before dawn. She had understood fear well enough to obey her own. She could not pretend Walters was smaller, so she did not argue.
She packed the dishes. At the door, Walter said, “That's it.” Rebecca turned. “No.” “What then?” “I'll come tomorrow.” He stared at her. “Why?” “Because you're going to need breakfast whether you testify or not.” The next morning she came. They barely discussed Mercer.
Rebecca asked about Daniel instead. Walter showed her the child's letter on the table. His granddaughter Annie had written it. On the fifth morning, Rebecca finally said, “How old is she?” “8.” “She know why you left the barm.” “No.” “Someday she might.” Walter's face changed. Rebecca looked at the ledger.
I can't promise Mercer won't make trouble. Then what are you offering? Nothing. He gave a bitter laugh. That's persuasive.
I'm asking how long you intend to let Edwin Mercer teach your grandchildren that fear owns this valley. Walter's laugh disappeared. Rebecca stood. I'll be at the water hearing Tuesday. She picked up her basket.
If you come, bring the ledger. She reached the door. Miss Foster. Rebecca stopped. Walter looked older than he had five mornings earlier.