Page 29 of The Lonely Road

Stop thinking about her, Brooks. She’s a job.

“So when I was going through the documentation for the rodeo site,” I keep my tone conversational, “I didn’t see anything about water rights. The permit was clean on access and zoning, but nothing about water allocation.”

Feig nods vigorously. “That’s because it’s grandfathered in. The rodeo site sits on the old Hendricks parcel—had a small irrigation claim attached to it since the thirties. When Kaz bought the Hendricks spread three years ago, the water rights transferred with the land. That’s how it works in Colorado. The water stays with the land unless someone expressly severs it, and old Hendricks never did.”

So, Kaz Chase owns the water rights on the rodeo site. Interesting.

“Isn’t that risky?”

“Absolutely! That’s why everyone’s scrambling for senior rights right now. If you’ve got an early priority date in this valley, you’re sitting on gold.” He slows down behind a horse trailer. “I mean, two years ago, when it was dryer than a nun in a drought—people got fucked.”

“But you have a plan,” I prompt.

He grins and presses on the gas pedal when the horse trailer turns off onto a dirt road. “I sure do. An augmentation plan. We’ll buy water on the market, maybe lease some shares from one of the ditch companies. It’s all junior rights anyway. You just make sure you can replace what you use.”

Across the American West, water rights are a high-stakes survival issue governed by “first in time, first in right,” a doctrine that pits agricultural tradition against expansion, and ranchers against developers, one dry summer at a time.

“I thought for anything new, you need to get your rights in place.” I am trying to get him to talk to me about Clara Whitman.

“Oh yeah.” Feig takes the exit that says Cattle Auction Grounds. “New construction, new development—water comes before everything. Before permits, before groundbreaking, before you’ve even fully committed to the project.” He shakes his head. “Killed more deals than I can count. Smart developers come in, and the first thing they do is sort their water.”

“How does that work exactly if the rights go to the person who got it, I don’t know, a hundred years ago?”

Feig glances at me, mildly surprised at the question but too pleased to have an audience to question it. “Well, the way it works is that whoever put the water to beneficial use first has the senior right—they get their water before anyone else in dry years. Junior rights get cut off first when the river runs low.” He waves a hand. “So if you’re planning something that needs guaranteed water every year—a resort, say, or a housing development with a golf course—you need senior rights, or you’re rolling the dice every summer.”

“And if there aren’t any available senior rights to purchase?”

“Then you go after those that exist.” He says it plainly, without malice, the way a developer talks about these things when they’re not thinking about the people attached to the rights. “You challenge them. Argue abandonment—that the owner stopped using the water for its beneficial use. Argue that the use has changed from the original decree. Argue that the point of diversion is different. Water court is its own world. Cases take years. Costs a fortune.”

“Sounds like a way to run someone out.”

“It is.” He doesn’t flinch. “Not saying it’s pretty. But it happens. Smaller operations and family ranches can’t always sustain the litigation. They settle, take the money, move on.”

“Or get a good lawyer,” I say.

“Or get a good lawyer.” He turns at the sign toward the parking lot for the Livestock Auction Grounds.

“I met one the other day…ah….” I pretend not to remember her.

“Taya Morningstar?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she’s the only lawyer around here now that Mac is slowing down.” He slows for a cattle gate being opened ahead of us. “She’s representing Clara Whitman. She runs Silverbell Ranch up in the north valley. Lost her husband about eighteen months back.”

“And…you think this Clara Whitman will be able to keep her rights?” I ask it casually like I’m only mildly curious.

“Who knows!” He downshifts. “The development company—High Mesa—they’re backed by some serious money out of Texas—they’re challenging her water rights. The ranch had it since 1948. Deke…that’s Clara’s deceased husband; his grandfather filed the original claim.”

“What’s the challenge based on?”

“Prior appropriation argument—they’re saying there’s an upstream diversion that predates her claim. But from what I hear from people who know these things, that’s thin.” He eases through the gate.

“Can they win?”

“The development company has real money and real lawyers.” He pulls into the parking area, a flat field already half-full of trucks. “They’ve probably already sunk millions into a project that depends on that water. Clara Whitman has Taya Morningstar—who’s excellent—but she’s running a one-woman shop against a Texas barracuda firm.”

He kills the engine.