PART 3
I raised an eyebrow.
“A map?”
“A survey recorded with the county is worth more than family stories.”
Those words stayed with me.
Worth more than family stories.
Because my family had always confused the two.
At exactly 10:57 a.m., two vehicles turned onto my gravel driveway.
The first was Dara’s white SUV.
The second was a dark blue sedan with county plates.
My stomach tightened.
“There they are,” I whispered.
Patricia didn’t even stand.
She calmly closed one binder and folded her hands.
“Remember,” she said. “Don’t argue. Let documents do the talking.”
The SUV door opened.
Dara climbed out wearing expensive hiking boots she’d probably never hiked in.
Behind her came a tall man in his sixties carrying a briefcase.
Gray hair.
Navy blazer.
Professional posture.
He introduced himself before anyone else could speak.
“Good morning. I’m Richard Holloway.”
Patricia stood.
“Patricia O’Day.”
The two attorneys shook hands with the polite stiffness of people measuring each other before a chess match.
Dara barely looked at me.
Instead, her eyes wandered across the porch, the rocking chairs, the flower boxes, and finally the mountains beyond the railing.
“So this is it,” she said quietly.
I nodded.
“My home.”
She smiled, but there wasn’t warmth in it.
“It’s beautiful.”
For a brief second, I almost believed she meant it.
We sat around the kitchen table.
Richard removed several photocopied documents from his briefcase.
Patricia waited.
No interruptions.
No dramatic speeches.
Richard cleared his throat.
“My client believes there may be an unrecorded historical interest connected to this parcel through the Whitmore family.”
Whitmore.
Our grandfather’s last name.
He slid an old yellowed photocopy across the table.
“This is an 1894 tax ledger.”
Patricia examined it.
“So?”
“It references approximately eighty acres owned by Elias Whitmore in this region.”
She nodded.
“It does.”
Richard looked encouraged.
Dara leaned forward.
“That proves Grandpa’s family owned this land.”
Patricia finally spoke.
“No. It proves someone named Elias Whitmore owned some land in this county in 1894.”
She pointed toward the survey map.
“This county contains more than three hundred thousand acres.”
Silence.
Richard adjusted his glasses.
“We’re still tracing the exact location.”
Patricia smiled politely.
“Then you don’t yet know whether it has anything to do with this parcel.”
Dara crossed her arms.
“We’re close.”
I couldn’t stay quiet anymore.
“Dara, did you really come here because of ‘close’?”
She looked directly at me.
“I came because Grandpa always said our land was stolen.”
I blinked.
“He told us that when we were kids.”
“You remember.”
“I remember him telling ghost stories after dinner.”
“That wasn’t a ghost story.”
“No,” I said carefully. “It was a story. There’s a difference.”
Richard asked whether we could walk the property.
Patricia agreed.
The four of us followed the creek toward the eastern boundary.
Leaves covered the trail in bright orange.
Water rushed gently over smooth stones.
Richard compared landmarks against an old topographic map.
Every few minutes he stopped to make notes.
Dara seemed increasingly confident.
“You see those stone piles?” she said.
“Grandpa talked about old field walls.”
Patricia answered before I could.
“Stone piles exist throughout Appalachia. Farmers cleared fields everywhere.”
Dara frowned.
