Chapter 1 - Give Me Seven DaysBy July of 2006, Dry Creek had stopped pretending to be a river.
For nearly three miles through Harper Valley, the channel was nothing but cracked brown clay, dusty stones, dead reeds, and the occasional shallow hole where cattle pushed their noses into mud searching for moisture.
The community had already lost two wells.
Three ranchers had reduced their herds.
The elementary school had stopped watering its field.
And twenty-six-year-old Clare Bennett had watched her family ranch turn yellow one pasture at a time.
That was why she was standing seventy miles away, kneeling in front of an elderly wildlife rehabilitator named Amos Bell.
Behind him, inside a shaded enclosure, were two old beavers.
Not young.
Not impressive.
Both had worn coats and scarred tails.
One moved with a slight stiffness in its left rear leg.
Amos folded his arms.
“You drove all this way for them?”
Clare nodded.
“Please let me take those two beavers. They may be our last chance to save this community.”
Amos looked toward the animals.
“They’re old.”
“I know.”
“I can’t keep putting them through this. They’ve already been relocated once.”
“Just give me two months.”
Amos studied Clare.
Her boots were dusty.
Her eyes were red from exhaustion.
She had barely slept in three nights.
Finally he exhaled.
“All right.”
Relief hit so suddenly that Clare nearly cried.
“Thank you.”
But she had no idea that convincing Amos would be the easy part.
Six hours later, the transport truck rolled into Harper Valley.
One heavy metal cage sat secured in the rear.
Exactly two beavers were inside.
People were already waiting.
Clare slowed.
At first she thought maybe twenty residents had come out of curiosity.
Then she saw their faces.
Anger.
Fear.
Disbelief.
The community had given Clare access to a small emergency water fund six days earlier after she promised to find a cheaper alternative to a new municipal well.
Everyone assumed she would hire pumps.
Clear channels.
Rent drilling equipment.
Nobody expected animals.
Especially not two aging beavers.
The truck stopped beside the dry river.
Walter Briggs pushed through the crowd.
Sixty-six years old.
Former cattleman.
Chairman of the community water committee.
A man who had known Clare since she was seven.
Today he looked like he barely recognized her.
“You spent it?”
Clare stepped down.
“Walter—”
“The whole emergency allocation?”
“It wasn’t the whole—”
He reached her before she finished.
One hand grabbed the back of her hair.
Pain shot across Clare’s scalp.
“Walter!”
He pulled her half a step toward the truck.
Not into it.
Just close enough that her face was near the cage.
The two beavers shifted behind the bars.
Walter pointed at them with his free hand.
“You used the community’s money to buy these two rats and you expect them to bring the water back?”
Clare’s eyes watered from pain.
“Let go of me.”
A man named Curtis Hale stepped forward from the crowd.
“She’s a fraud!”
He pointed at Clare.
“Take her to the sheriff!”
Voices erupted.
“My well’s almost dry!”
“We trusted you!”
“That money belonged to everybody!”
“Call the county!”
Clare’s heart pounded.
For one terrible second she wondered whether she had made the biggest mistake of her life.
Then she looked beyond Walter.
Past the crowd.
Toward the dead river.
The cracked channel.
The cottonwoods losing leaves.
The dust.
She remembered what Dr. Hannah Ortiz had told her.
Water did not always need to be brought back.
Sometimes it needed to be convinced to stay.
Clare took one strained breath.
“Give me seven days.”
Walter’s grip remained in her hair.
The crowd quieted slightly.
Clare looked directly at him.
“Seven days.”
Her voice strengthened.
“If I fail, I’ll return every dollar.”
Curtis laughed.
“With what money?”
“I’ll sell my truck.”
That silenced him.
“And if anybody thinks I committed fraud…”
Clare swallowed.
“…I’ll answer to the police myself.”
Walter stared at her.
Slowly, his grip loosened.
His fingers opened.
His hand separated from her hair.
Clare stepped back.
Walter looked at the cage.
Two tired brown animals stared through the bars.
Then he looked toward Dry Creek.
No water.
Not a single visible moving stream.
Only cracked ground stretching under the brutal July sun.
Walter breathed slowly.
He said nothing.
Clare rubbed the back of her head.
“Seven days.”
Still no answer.
Then Walter finally stepped away.
Not agreement.
Not forgiveness.
Only hesitation.
Clare turned toward the cage.
Seven days.
Two old beavers.
May you like
One dead river.
And nearly an entire town waiting for her to fail.
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