Page 73 of The Lonely Road

“Let’s get this down on paper. I’ll submit it to the judge.”

That’s the best I can do. So I make her retell it again and again until I have it down word for word, as close as she can remember. I write it as precisely as I can because, when I file this conversation, it will become evidence.

“They’re not supposed to talk to you ex parte.”

“I…I told him that. I said that this kind of conversation needs to happen with my lawyer.”

Now, she looks afraid.

“Clara?” I urge.

“He said he knows who Taya Morningstar is and that…I shouldn’t trust you. That you’re on their side.”

I pause.

“I don’t think that, Taya. You know that, right?”

I hate this man so much. I hate High Mesa so much. They’re making what is a difficult time for this woman harder, and for what? Money? I may have worked on their side once, but I never stooped to tactics like this.

“I do.” My jaw tightens. “I’m going to use what he said to make their case considerably harder.”

She smiles at that, and then it falters. “He threatened my children, Taya. That’s…that’s not how this is supposed to be, is it?’

What is supposed to happen and what does…well, those are very different things.

“I have to ask you, Clara, wouldn’t it be easier to sell, take the money?” I have to do what’s right by my client and make sure she’s weighed all her options.

She shakes her head. “This is not about the money. If it was then Deke would’ve sold Silverbell years ago. This is…it’s about legacy.” She lets out a scoff. “And I know some people say legacy doesn’t pay the bills—but the thing is that it does. It won’t afford us a life of caviar and champagne, but it’s not a life we want, anyway.”

I lean back and let out a long breath, impressed beyond measure with this woman.

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she reaches across the table and opens the folder she had waiting when I arrived.

“Jeb Cottonwood’s boy came by yesterday,” she says. “Young Jeb. He manages the digital side of things for the ditch company now—his father has no idea he’s built a proper database out of those attic records.” She almost smiles. “He said he’d been going through the old delivery logs, trying to get everything entered before his father’s system collapsed entirely. And he found something.” She slides a printed page across the table. “He thought I should have a copy.”

I pick it up.

It’s a scan of a handwritten delivery log—the cramped, certain script of a man who has been recording water for decades. The year 2020. The north valley corridor, property by property. And there, in the margin, a notation:

Tom Reyes—N. pasture via Whitman upper gate—neighbor arrangement—Deke sick—no share transfer.

I read it twice.

No share transfer. Three words that bolster their case and hurt ours.

Then I set it down and look at Clara.

“Young Jeb brought this to you.” I want to be sure how it arrived.

“Said he thought we should know it existed before anyone else found it.” She folds her hands on the table. She laughs. “Asked if he should destroy it.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

Clara waves a dismissive hand. “I told him that would be illegal, and he said he wouldn’t mind doing it for me. Ain’t he sweet?”

“Yeah.” Sweet and illegal! Here are small towns for you.

“Is it—is this bad?”