The next compared native grasses growing beneath mesquite with exposed areas where the soil had become hard and cracked.
Page after page contained observations.
Measurements.
Sketches.
Short notes in her father's unmistakable handwriting.
He had recorded where rainwater collected, which gullies deepened after storms, and which plants survived during years when the cattle had almost nothing to eat.
Marlene kept reading.
The clock above the refrigerator ticked.
Her coffee grew cold.
Outside, the wind rattled the kitchen window.
Then she noticed something strange.
One plant appeared again and again.
Nopal.
Prickly pear cactus.
Her father had drawn it in the margins.
Measured its growth.
Recorded how long individual plants remained green during dry periods.
He had even compared pads taken from different slopes, noting which survived the harshest heat and which recovered after cold damage.
Marlene turned another page.
July 1996. Grass gone from south pasture. Nopal still firm. Cattle eating young pads after spines removed from fallen pieces.
She stared.
Then turned another.
August 1998. No meaningful rain for seven weeks. Nopal continues new growth in protected drainage basin. Heavy losses in exposed grass.
She leaned closer.
The notes became more detailed.
Her father had begun recording the relationship between the shape of the land and the places where cactus flourished.
He noticed that shallow depressions retained moisture after thunderstorms.
That small rock barriers slowed runoff.
That soil protected from wind and direct sun remained usable longer.
And that nopal, unlike the grass he spent so much money trying to maintain, could survive long periods without regular irrigation.
Marlene continued reading.
Near the middle of the notebook, Curtis had written:
The problem isn't that water never comes. The problem is that when it comes, we let too much leave before the ground can use it.
She stared at the sentence.
Then she looked toward the dark window.
She remembered summer storms that dumped enormous amounts of rain in less than an hour, sending muddy water rushing through the gullies before the surface dried again.
She remembered her father standing on the porch, watching it disappear down the wash.
He used to shake his head and say the ranch had received enough rain to feed the valley for a month.
But by the following week, the soil would be dry.
Now she realized he'd spent years trying to understand why.
She turned toward the back of the notebook.
The handwriting changed.
The entries became longer.
There were rough diagrams of the ranch divided into sections.
Notes concerning cactus propagation, drainage, soil protection, and the possibility of producing emergency livestock feed.
Then she reached the final pages.