Page 13 of The Lonely Road

She’s quiet. The tired kind of quiet that’s been building for eighteen months.

“Will they settle?”

“Probably not. They’ve put too much into this project to settle.” I pause. “The real question is whether there’s a number that works for you. I have to ask.”

“No.” Not sharp—just certain. The word of a woman who has already made this decision and doesn’t need to revisit it. “Deke’s grandfather filed that claim in 1948. I’m not selling it to make their golf course viable.”

“Then we go to the preliminary hearing first. They establish standing—show the judge there’s enough substance to litigate. They don’t have to prove they’re right, just that it’s worth a fight.” I watch her face. “After that, full discovery. Depositions, expert reports, the ditch company records, water commissioner reports, and aerial photographs going back decades. That’s where these cases are actually decided.”

Clara turns her coffee cup slowly in her hands. “And what are they going to try to prove?”

“One of three things. That your right is junior to theirs. That you abandoned it at some point. Or that your current use is different enough from the original decree that part of the claim is invalid.” I let that settle. “The first argument is weak—the 1948 documentation is solid. It’s the other two I’m watching.”

She goes still.

She stares into her coffee for a long moment. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

I set my pen down.

“A few months after Deke died, Tom Reyes helped out—worked the north pasture and used water off the upper ditch in exchange. He put up hay for me that winter, fixed the irrigation headgate, and helped with our 4H steer.” She looks up. “It was just neighbors helping neighbors.”

Of all the things I expected, it wasn’t this. Because this—a neighbor arrangement, no formal transfer—is exactly what a development company’s lawyers build an abandonment case around.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Tom. The kids, maybe. A couple of people from the ditch company, possibly.” She reads my expression. “How bad is it?”

“It’s manageable,” I say, and mean it. “But they could argue unauthorized change of place of use—that the water went to a different parcel without court approval. They could try to claim partial abandonment on the north pasture during the time it wasn’t irrigated.” I hold her gaze. “They’re going to look for exactly this kind of thing.”

“But we were still using it. The water stayed on the ranch.”

“Yes. And that’s our argument—it was agricultural use throughout, the water never left the property, no intent to abandon. Deke was dying, Clara. Judges are human. That matters.”

“What if we just...don’t mention it?” she whispers.

“I can’t hide it if they ask in discovery. That’s how lawyers lose their licenses.” I say it without heat, just clearly. “What I can do is make sure we’re never surprised by it in court. We get ahead of it. We build the record ourselves.” I pick up my stylus. “What’s the ditch company showing for those years?”

“For what?”

“Delivery records. Who ordered water, when, which headgate. If Tom was running water off your upper ditch, there’s probably a notation somewhere.”

The color drains from her face. “You’re saying there’s a paper trail?”

“In water law, there’s always a paper trail.” I hold her gaze. “In the West, water leaves a record longer than most marriages.”

She sits with that for a moment, and almost smiles, and then doesn’t. “I can ask.”

“Tell me the company. I’ll start digging.”

“Cottonwood Ditch. Jeb runs it. Honestly, Taya—I’d be shocked if he’s kept records of anything.”

“Men like Jeb always keep records,” I tell her. “Maybe not on a computer. But somewhere there’s a notebook, a ledger, a box of index cards. And in water court, a handwritten delivery log from 1972 is as good as anything printed this morning.”

We wrap up twenty minutes later. I walk her out, watch her truck pull away, and stand in the doorway with my hand on the frame and the cold mountain air coming in.

I need coffee.

I go to Wild Coffee, four doors down. There are plenty of things about Wildflower Canyon that are nothing like Aspen, but when it comes to coffee, I have zero complaints. They use Panama Geisha beans, known for their tea-like body and intense jasmine and stone-fruit aromas. This was clarified for me the first time I came in, when my eyebrows shot up at the price of a cup.