PART 2 — THE 350 EGGS EVERYONE THOUGHT WERE WORTHLESS

Matthias Volker looked at Rowan for a long moment before answering.

“Better than cattle,” he said. “Geese were made for wet ground. They eat grᴀss, weeds, insects. They need clean water, shelter, and someone who understands their habits.”

Rowan glanced toward the marsh.

“Could a person make a living raising them?”

“Some people do.”

“Could a woman?”

Matthias’s eyebrows rose.

“Geese do not care whether the person feeding them wears trousers or a dress.”

For the first time since arriving in Caldwell Flats, Rowan laughed without forcing herself.

Matthias spent the next hour showing her where the water was deepest, where the ground stayed firm beneath the surface, and where wild geese gathered during migration.

Before leaving, he pointed toward the eastern end of the property.

“Do not drain that section.”

“Why?”

“Because the water comes from somewhere. You should discover where before you start moving it.”

Rowan remembered those words three weeks later when she found herself standing beside the ditch with three hundred and fifty cracked eggs.

She had no incubator, no brooding equipment, and barely enough money to buy another sack of flour.

But she had ten acres of marshland.

And she had learned enough from Matthias to understand that the eggs might not all be lost.

She carried the first dozen home in her apron.

Then she returned for more.

By sunset, her arms were aching, her boots were soaked, and she had managed to transport only sixty-seven eggs.

The remaining ones would have to wait until morning.

Inside her little house, Rowan built a temporary warming station near the kitchen stove. She lined wooden crates with straw, arranged the eggs carefully, and separated those with obvious damage from those that appeared intact beneath their muddy shells.

She knew the work would be difficult.

She also knew that goose eggs could sometimes survive minor shell damage if the inner membrane remained intact and contamination had not reached the developing embryo.

But she had never attempted anything on this scale.

The following morning, Matthias arrived carrying a wooden box.

Inside were two old brooding lamps, a thermometer, and a notebook filled with handwritten observations.

“I heard about your shipment,” he said.

Rowan stared at him.

“How?”

“Your neighbor has a voice that travels farther than his cattle.”

She accepted the notebook.

“Are you going to tell me I’m foolish?”

“No. I am going to tell you that you need help.”

Together, they spent the next several days sorting the eggs and establishing a proper arrangement for those that remained viable.

Not every egg could be saved.

Some had been damaged beyond recovery. Others had become too cold. A few showed no signs of development.

Rowan hated discarding them, but Matthias reminded her that hope and denial were not the same thing.

By the end of the week, they had selected 186 eggs worth continuing to monitor.

Rowan wrote the number on a scrap of paper and pinned it above her stove.

186.

It was less than she had started with, but it was something.

And something was better than nothing.

News traveled through Caldwell Flats quickly.

At first, people laughed.

Then they began making jokes.

“Miss Mercer is opening an egg hospital!”

“Perhaps she’ll marry one of those geese when they grow up!”

Even the shopkeeper at Burroughs Feed offered to sell Rowan a sack of grain on credit, provided she promised to name the first goose after him.

She refused.

The only person who did not laugh was Matthias.

He visited every afternoon, checked the equipment, and taught Rowan how to recognize changes in the eggs without disturbing them unnecessarily.

He also showed her how to improve the drainage around the house, where to build a simple shelter, and how to identify the marsh plants that could provide natural food.

One afternoon, while they were repairing a section of fence, Matthias mentioned something that changed the direction of their conversation.

“Someone has been asking about your property.”

Rowan stopped hammering.

“Who?”

“Silas Crowe.”

She knew the name.

Silas Crowe owned the largest cattle operation in Caldwell Flats. He had three hundred head of cattle, two wagons, a substantial house, and enough influence to make the town council listen whenever he spoke.

“What does he want?”

“Your northern water channel.”

Rowan looked toward the marsh.

“What northern water channel?”

Matthias pointed toward the eastern ridge.

“Your land collects water from the upper creek. It pᴀsses through that basin before continuing south. Crowe has been trying to expand his cattle pasture for years. Your marsh stands between his property and the water he wants.”

Rowan slowly lowered the hammer.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because most people believed you would sell.”

That evening, Rowan walked the length of her property.

For the first time, she noticed the shallow channel cutting through the reeds. She followed it until she reached a cluster of willow trees, where fresh water slipped between the roots.

Her uncle had left her more than a swamp.

He had left her control of a natural waterway.

The next morning, a polished black carriage stopped outside her house.

Silas Crowe stepped down wearing a spotless brown coat and a silver watch chain.

He was perhaps fifty, with neatly combed hair and the relaxed confidence of a man who had rarely heard the word no.

“Miss Mercer,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve come to discuss a business opportunity.”

Rowan wiped her hands on her apron.

“What kind?”

“I understand you’ve inherited ten acres of marshland. I would be willing to purchase it for a reasonable sum.”

“How reasonable?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

Rowan almost laughed.

She had seen the county ᴀssessment.

The property was worth considerably more, even without the water rights.

“I’ll think about it.”

Crowe’s smile remained, but something hardened behind his eyes.

“You should. That land is expensive to maintain. And I understand you’ve been collecting damaged eggs from the roadside.”

Rowan said nothing.

“People in this town have a habit of making poor decisions when they’re desperate,” he continued. “I would hate to see you become another example.”

“I’ll manage.”

Crowe placed his hat back on his head.

“Three hundred dollars. That’s my final offer.”

“No.”

For the first time, his smile disappeared.

He looked past her toward the wooden crates visible through the open doorway.

“You really believe those eggs will make you wealthy?”

“No,” Rowan answered. “I believe they deserve a chance.”

Crowe studied her for several seconds.

Then he climbed into his carriage.

“You’ll regret refusing me.”

Rowan watched him leave.

She did not know that Silas Crowe had already spoken with the county surveyor.

And she did not know that the man intended to challenge the boundaries of her inheritance.

Three weeks pᴀssed.

The eggs continued developing.

Rowan learned to recognize which ones were progressing normally and which required closer attention. Matthias helped her improve the brooding arrangements and keep careful records.

Then, on a quiet morning in April, she heard a sound from the eastern crate.

Tap.

Tap.

She froze.

Another tiny sound followed.

Then a faint crack appeared across one shell.

“Matthias!” she called.

The old man hurried inside.

They watched as the first gosling began working its way into the world.

It was weak, damp, and smaller than Rowan expected.

But it was alive.

By evening, eleven goslings had hatched.

Rowan sat on the floor beside their warm enclosure, watching them wobble against one another.

She had never seen anything so small look so determined.

Matthias placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You have done something remarkable.”

Rowan looked at the tiny creatures.

“No,” she whispered. “They have.”

But the following morning brought an unexpected visitor.

A young ranch hand named Peter arrived carrying a folded newspaper.

“Miss Mercer, you need to see this.”

The headline read:

LOCAL RANCHER SEEKS TO SECURE EASTERN WATERWAY FOR EXPANSION.

Below it was a short announcement stating that Silas Crowe had peтιтioned the county to establish a public drainage route across the eastern section of the Sink.

Rowan read it twice.

Then she looked toward the marsh.

Crowe was not trying to buy her land anymore.

He was trying to take away the very thing that made it valuable.

And he had no idea how much she had already discovered.