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I’m not a coward, and when she’s ready to talk, I will tell her what went wrong with the supplemental decree—but right now I’m not going to scrape open the wound before the bleeding is barely contained.

The partial ruling from Judge Colbeck arrives by email before the registered mail copy reaches me.

There is good news and bad news, which is how these things tend to go.

Colbeck declined to invalidate the supplemental decree.

He found the procedural defect real—fourteen days, twenty-one required, the record is clear—but he also found that the historical use documentation submitted in my supplemental brief establishes continuous beneficial use of the north pasture dating back to 1952, predating the 1971 filing by nineteen years.

His interim order holds that the supplemental decree codifies existing use rather than creates new rights, and that the procedural defect therefore affects the decree’s formal validity but not the underlying right itself.

He has requested an additional briefing from both parties on whether the defect is material, given the historical use record.

This is not a win or even a ruling in Clara’s favor. But it’s a judge signaling that the ground is less solid for High Mesa than they believed when they walked into that courtroom with my own case analysis in their briefing.

I forward the email to Mac and call him. He reads the ruling, then chuckles. “The sons of bitches thought they had you.”

“They sort of have me.”

“Nah, kid. They think they’re the bigger bear because they’ve always been that. But here, in Wildflower Canyon, you’ve got to read the legacy, you’ve got to read the people, you’ve got to see the heart.”

“And?”

“And that would tell me you’re not just the bigger bear—you’re a mama bear, which is considerably worse.”

I laugh despite the hollowness in my chest.

“Maybe you’re right.” I rescan the email, leaning back in my new leather chair—the break-in did produce one good thing: I finally replaced the ghastly metal contraption. “They may have narrowed the supplemental decree argument, but we’ll proceed to a full hearing, and they’ll have to justify their position against fifty years of water commissioner records.” I swivel to look out the window. “They’re going to be very busy.” They’re going to make sure I’m very busy.

“Any news from Clara?”

“No. But I’m going to reach out. I need to tell her about this ruling.”

As if on cue, as soon as I end the call, my phone rings.

Clara.

“I want to keep fighting,” she says, without preamble—a tremor in her voice but also the steel that has carried her through everything since Deke passed. “I talked to the kids, and they both want to keep”—a tiny sob— “they want to keep what’s ours.”

I wait a moment to gather myself because I want to burst out crying with relief. “Thank you for trusting me, Clara. But I need to tell you why they knew about that supplemental decree, and then you can decide if you want me to continue.”

“What?” A pause. “I don’t want anyone but you, Taya.”

“Clara, it was my fault that⁠—”

“I don’t care. I trust you.”

I close my eyes. Her words are a balm and a whip simultaneously. “I’ll come by this afternoon, and we can talk. We heard back from the judge and⁠—”

“Is it bad?”

“No,” I tell her. “It’s mostly good. I’ll come by and explain everything. Okay?”

“Okay. And Taya?” Her voice drops. “This case is ours. I know you care about us. That’s what matters.”

I drive to Silverbell after Clara lets me know she and the kids are back from school, and she’s ready for me.

Dakota comes up to my Wrangler.