“Where?”
“He said a lot of things.”
“Emmett.”
The older man looked at her.
“What exactly did he say?”
“That somewhere near the north side they used to water cattle before the main well.”
“When?”
“Long before me.”
“Surface tank?”
“I think.”
“Fed by what?”
He frowned.
“Don’t know.”
“Any records?”
Emmett laughed without humor.
“If my father kept a receipt, he kept it forever.”
Reina waited.
Emmett’s expression changed.
“There are boxes.”
“Where?”
“My sister Margaret’s place.”
“What kind of boxes?”
“Ranch records.”
“How far back?”
“Granddad.”
Reina tried not to sound too interested.
“Surveys?”
“Probably.”
“Water?”
“Probably.”
“Why didn’t they go with the ranch?”
“Because nobody remembered they existed.”
That was possible.
Old family properties accumulated history in barns, cabinets, and garages long before records became digital.
Emmett loaded the final toolbox.
“You want me to ask Margaret?”
“Yes.”
He studied her.
“You really think there’s water.”
“I think something happened on that north side.”
He nodded.
Then looked at the ranch.
“My father spent years thinking the same thing.”
“What stopped him?”
“Money.”
The answer stayed with her.
A week later, Grant called.
“Fletcher.”
“Pritchard.”
“Heard you’re hauling water.”
“Red Basin really needs more interesting gossip.”
Grant laughed.
“I’ll give you nine thousand.”
“No.”
“You paid fifty-five hundred.”
“I remember.”
“Take the profit.”
“No.”
“You put a new roof on that house yet?”
“Part of one.”
“Fence?”
“Working on it.”
“Well?”
“Still there.”
“Still dead.”
“Still evaluating.”
Grant sighed.
“Reina, I’m actually trying to help you.”
She smiled despite herself.
“No, you’re trying to buy land.”
“Both things can be true.”
“Not interested.”
“You will be.”
“Maybe.”
That answer annoyed him more than refusal.
“Three months.”
“What about them?”
“You’ll understand.”
Reina ended the call.
For several weeks, nothing happened.
That was perhaps the hardest part.
Not failure.
Absence of information.
She dug test holes around the northern portion.
Took soil samples.
Mapped elevation.
Studied county geology.
Ordered two regional survey sheets.
Measured the old well again.
Looked for abandoned pipe.
Found nothing decisive.
The cottonwoods kept their color.
The strange grass survived.
The mineral deposits remained mute.
She spent evenings drawing possible subsurface paths.
Was it perched moisture?
A shallow fracture zone?
Old leakage from some forgotten infrastructure?
Could the vegetation simply be exploiting a local clay lens that retained occasional rainfall longer?