Page 257 of Taken Away

Afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows of Harold Blackwood's study, casting long bars of gold across the worn heart-pine floor.

Harold's reading glasses rested atop an open desk calendar. A fountain pen lay exactly where he'd left it. On the wall hung photographs of harvest crews, ribbon cuttings, and family Christmases, each faded a little more by time.

Burke slowly crossed the room.

Red Stephens had been right.

Harold hadn't thrown anything away.

Shelves sagged beneath leather-bound ledgers labeled Harvest 1996, Vineyard Expansion, Cattle Records, Equipment, Rainfall Logs.

Burke pulled one down.

Pruning schedules.

He opened another.

Fertilizer applications.

"Come on, Harold," he muttered. "You wrote everything down."

He searched another shelf.

More journals.

More farm records.

Nothing explained what had driven Harold and Walter apart during Harold's final months.

Burke turned toward the last bookcase.

One shelf remained.

Family histories.

Old hymnals.

A weathered Bible.

Unlike the others, its black leather cover was soft from years of use.

He hesitated.

"One last place," he murmured.

He carried it to the desk and opened it carefully.

Several folded papers slipped free.

They fluttered across Harold's desk.

Burke frowned.

One was a feed store invoice.

Another was a receipt for fencing supplies.

A third was a yellow legal-pad page folded neatly into quarters.