Attached to the registry was a copy of an old deed of trust.

It was signed by my great-grandfather and a representative of the worker community.

“What does it say?” Caroline whispered, her eyes fixed on the paper.

I read the faded legal text, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“It says the ridge was deeded to the families of the workers in perpetuity,” I said.

“That can’t be right,” Caroline said. “The Mercer family has owned the entire north ridge for two centuries.”

“Not according to this,” I said. “This is a covenant.”

It stated clearly that as long as the graves remained on the ridge, the land could not be sold or transferred without the consent of the descendants.

“They have legal claims to this land,” I said.

“That was over a hundred years ago, Clara,” Caroline said, her voice rising in panic. “Nobody knows those families anymore.”

“I do,” I said.

I looked at the list of names.

Several of the surnames were very familiar.

They were families who still lived in the valley, just across the river.