years after him.
Heart attack.
In the photograph, the two men were shaking hands.
On the back, someone had written four words.
ASK WHAT YOUR FATHER SOLD.
I stared at it for a long time.
“My father didn’t sell anything.”
Ben didn’t answer.
Rachel examined the picture later that afternoon.
“Photographs don’t transfer land.”
“I know.”
“But someone wants you thinking your father made a deal.”
“He didn’t.”
“You’re sure?”
“My father hated Cedar Ridge.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
I looked at her.
Rachel spoke carefully.
“Jack, good men make business decisions their children don’t know about.”
“He would’ve told me.”
“Maybe.”
“He would.”
She nodded.
“Then prove it.”
So we went looking.
The farm office contained eighty-seven years of paper.
Tax receipts.
Seed invoices.
Equipment warranties.
Soil tests.
Lease agreements.
Handwritten cattle records from my grandfather.
Dad kept everything.
Boxes filled two filing cabinets and six shelves.
We
