“That is not a question I answer after ten minutes.”
Wade nodded.
“How long?”
“Give me twelve hours.”
She looked toward Hannah.
“And nobody touches this.”
Hannah smiled.
“I spent half the day pulling it.”
“You’re done pulling.”
At two in the morning, Hannah finally walked home.
She was covered from boots to neck in dried mud.
Her braid had partly unraveled.
Both hands hurt.
She entered the kitchen.
The foreclosure letter remained on the table.
Thirty days.
Hannah picked it up.
For the first time since receiving it, she smiled.
Then she stopped.
A spring did not erase debt.
Water did not automatically belong to her.
Seven farm marks.
Cooperative.
This was bigger than Red Willow.
She put the letter down.
The phone rang at six eleven.
Clayton Vale.
Hannah stared at the screen.
Interesting.
She answered.
“Morning.”
“Hannah.”
Clayton’s voice was smooth.
He was forty-two, educated, wealthy, and always sounded as though every conversation occurred inside a conference room.
“I heard something happened at your pond.”
“That was fast.”
“Small county.”
“Very.”
“What exactly did you find?”
“Water.”
He did not laugh.
“How much?”
“Enough to make you call before breakfast.”
Pause.
“I was already awake.”
“Of course.”
Clayton continued.
“I’d advise you not to make assumptions about water ownership.”
There it was.
Less than twenty-four hours.
Hannah leaned against the counter.
“I haven’t.”
“Subsurface water law is complicated.”
“I know.”
“You may create liability by diverting it.”
“I didn’t divert anything.”
“You opened infrastructure.”
“On my land.”
“Possibly serving other properties.”
Hannah smiled.
“You sound nervous.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“Funny. Wade says that too.”
“Hannah.”
“Yes?”
“My offer remains open.”
“One-point-four.”
“I can increase it.”
“How much?”
“One-point-seven.”
Yesterday, one-point-four.
Today, one-point-seven.
That told her more than anything else.
“No.”
“Hear me out.”
“I did.”
“This could become expensive.”
“So can land.”
“Hannah.”
She waited.
Clayton’s voice became softer.
“Do not romanticize this.”
She looked through the kitchen window toward the pond.
Morning sun touched water that had not existed yesterday.
“I’m not.”
She hung up.
At seven thirty, Louise returned with two assistants.
They measured flow.
Pressure.
Temperature.
Mineral content.
By noon, the estimate was preliminary but extraordinary.
The spring could sustain between 1.8 and 2.4 million gallons per day under present pressure.
Wade nearly dropped his coffee.
“How much?”
Louise repeated it.
Frank whistled.
Otis sat down.
Hannah did the math.
Seven farms.
Livestock.
Irrigation.
Possibly enough.
Not unlimited.
But enough to survive.
If they managed it.