Page 122 of The Lonely Road

She’s in waders and work boots, her hair in a braid, a notebook tucked under her arm that she uses to log the headgate readings the way her father taught her—which headgates opened, which ones are silted, how much water is moving through the north pasture corridor.

She does it every day.

Luis handles the equipment side, and Dakota handles the water records.

She’s been doing it since Deke died, because she understood early that this knowledge needs to live somewhere, and she is the somewhere.

“She doesn’t want to take their money,” she tells me, by way of greeting.

“I know.”

“This is ours, and we want to stay. I want to run this ranch with Eli someday.” She shrugs, matter-of-fact about the size of the dream. “Like Elena does with horses. In my own place.”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re going to make a great rancher, Dakota.”

She beams—just sixteen years old for one unguarded second—and then nods toward the house. “Mama’s in the kitchen. Eli just finished his homework.”

She walks back to her headgates and her responsibilities, and I go up the porch steps to face mine.

“I baked.” Clara pushes a plate of chocolate chip cookies toward me after she pours the coffee.

“How are you holding up?”

She shrugs. “Better now that I have help.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Mav sent two of his people for the tagging. It’s that time of year—running the calves through for ear tags and brands before they go to summer pasture, two-person minimum just to work the chute, more if you want to keep your sanity.” She leans back. “Deke used to hire three extra hands for the week. Last year, it was me, Dakota, and Luis, and it took four days and nearly killed all three of us.” She picks up a cookie. “This year, Hunt showed up Monday morning with two of the Wilder ranch hands without asking.”

“Hunt?”

She gives me a wickedly pleased look. “Hunt knows how to work a squeeze chute. And he’s considerably larger than Luis, which helps when a five-hundred-pound calf has opinions about the process.”

“Hunt sure knows his way around cattle work.”

“Better than he knows his way around women.” There’s a lightness about her that hasn’t been there before—the easing of a woman who has made a decision and accepted help. “I asked him about Joy, and he blushed like a virgin bride on her wedding night. For a man that size, he’s kinda sweet.” She smiles wide. “We finished all the work in two days. Luis almost cried. I did cry!”

I study the cookies and think about what it costs a woman like Clara to accept help, and what it means to her that a community gives it without being asked.

“I’m glad you’re not alone in it.”

Her gaze lingers, assessing. “That’s the way here. Deke knew. He grew up here and understood it in his bones. I came from Grand Junction thinking I understood community, but I didn’t—not really, not until I needed it.”

We drink coffee quietly for a moment.

“Well,” she says, raising both eyebrows. “Spill.”

I tell her the real version. What happened, why it happened, and what I’m going to do about it. I tell her about Colbeck’s interim order, explain that it’s neither victory nor defeat, but a judge who has seen the historical record and declined to hand High Mesa what they came for. I tell her what the supplemental brief needs to accomplish and how long that will take.

She listens without interrupting.

“Can we win?” she asks when I finish.

“Yes,” I say. “But I want to be honest with you—we can also lose. I don’t think we will. But I need you to know the full picture.”

She studies me for a long moment.

“Okay,” she says—one word, flat and certain.