I read the phrase twice, then searched the surrounding text for any mention of Parcel A. There was none. No deed from me. No reference to the 1962 retained parcel. No application to the state for a change of water-system ownership. Just that sweeping phrase, inserted among legitimate descriptions of common amenities.
At the signature line was Diane Caldwell's name. It identified her as acting association president during a board reorganization that predated her later election to the permanent post. There was a notary stamp and a county recorder's book and page reference. The paper looked official because, in the narrow sense that concerned the recording office, it was an officially recorded paper.
"That can't transfer my property," I said.
Nora kept her voice gentle. "I don't determine the legal effect of recorded documents, sir. I can only tell you what's on file."
"I never signed it. I never even received notice."
"You may want to speak with an attorney."
She was right, but the words made me feel as though the floor had shifted. In the space of ten minutes I'd walked from holding a clean deed to holding two documents that described the same physical system differently. One rested on a chain of title older than I was. The other had been created by people who had never owned the well. Yet both carried county stamps, and I already knew which one Diane planned to wave in front of the next officer.
I paid four dollars and thirty cents for the copies. I took them to the truck and sat in the parking lot with the engine off. Through the windshield I watched a woman carry a baby toward the administration building, shielding the little boy's face from the afternoon sun. I thought about the no-use notices taped to doors, the sample vials in my cooler, and the work order whose approval line held Diane's initials.
The recorder's stamp did not make her right. But it made the argument harder, and I'd been foolish to think that being right would necessarily make the argument short.
When I got home, Elaine was at the sink filling a pot from the bottled-water jug we kept beside the stove. I laid the documents in front of her. She read the amendment slowly, moving her lips at the longest sentence.
"Can they really do this?" she asked.
"They can record the paper. Whether it means anything is another question."
"When was it filed?"
"Four years ago."
She looked up. "Before she offered to buy the water rights."
I nodded.
"Then why offer to buy something she already says belongs to them?"
It was the first question that made the room feel suddenly small. Diane had offered me money to transfer rights after she had already recorded a document purporting to put those rights under association control. Maybe she'd wanted my signature to make the transfer easier. Maybe she'd planned to use the recorded amendment only after I said no. Either way, it was no longer plausible that the dispute had started on the night I closed the valve.