Page 5 of Wild Then Wed
Cassidy keeps talking—something about formal petitions and upcoming board reviews—but I’m not listening anymore. Because what I’m hearing is the sound of a trap snapping shut.
“You can’t be serious,” Ed Withers bellows, shooting out of his seat in the second row. “We’ve been drawing from that well since before you were born, Cassidy.”
“Yeah,” someone else adds. “How the hell do you expect us to just change our living situations by January?”
“I’ve got a forty-year operation on that land,” another man shouts from the back. “You think I’m gonna move my mother-in-law in just so I can run a damn hose?”
Cassidy lifts his hands like that’s going to calm anyone down, but he looks pale under the buzzing fluorescent lights. And now I’m watching him closely—not just what he’s saying, but how he’s saying it.
His voice is too calm. Too rehearsed. Like he’s already spent hours preparing for the fallout. Like he knew exactly what kind of fire he was about to ignite.
“Folks,” he says over the noise, the mic squealing just enough to cut through it. “I need everyone to settle down. I know this is sudden, and I know it’s going to cause some disruption, but I need to be clear—this isn’t just a county decision. This is part of a broader water management initiative being pushed at the state level.”
That earns him another wave of grumbling and a few colorful expletives from somewhere in the back.
Cassidy presses on. “We’ve seen a thirty percent drop in the aquifer’s levels over the last decade. Combine that with mismanaged usage, outdated permitting systems, and a few bad actors pulling more than their share, and it’s forced the state to get involved. The new permitting framework is designed to consolidate access, streamline monitoring, and encourage conservation. Shared household status ensures water use is tied to legal residences—not vacant land or commercial over-extension.”
“Bullshit!” Ed Withers shouts again. “That ain’t conservation, that’s manipulation. You think I’m gonna shack up with my ranch hand just to keep my damn water?”
Laughter ripples through the crowd—tight, bitter, not funny.
“That’s not what I’m saying, Ed,” Cassidy replies, jaw tight. “You’re twisting this.”
“No,you’retwisting this,” Ed shoots back. “This town runs on those ranches. You start taking away water, you’re not just gutting operations. You’re starving people out.”
A few others echo him. One man mutters something about packing up for Idaho. Another starts arguing with someone across the aisle. It’s chaos, and Cassidy’s losing the room fast.
Until Mom lifts her hand.
Her voice is steady when she speaks, and it slices right through the noise.
“And what happens if we don’t comply?”
Cassidy locks eyes with her, visibly relieved to have someone asking a question without shouting. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilding. If you choose not to meet the new criteria, your property will be placed on a permit review list in January. During that time, access to the aquifer will be temporarily suspended.”
The room stills.
“Temporarily?” someone repeats.
“It could be weeks. Months,” Cassidy admits. “You’d be required to submit an updated water use report, land survey, and conservation plan. And the county has no guarantee your permit will be reinstated at the same level. Or at all.”
Mom nods once, her lips pressed in a tight line. She doesn’t speak again. Just lowers her hand and rests it on her lap.
“Again,” Cassidy says, voice sharper now, “thank you, Molly, for your decorum. I’d like to see more of that tonight.” His gaze cuts to Ed like a warning shot.
A man near the wall raises his hand without standing. “What about those of us who live alone? Widow or not, I ain’t looking to ‘share’ a household with anyone.”
Cassidy sighs. “In those cases, you may qualify for a special exemption—there will be a review board. But be advised: exemptions aren’t guaranteed. And if you’re actively runninglivestock or leasing land to outside operations, the exemption likely won’t apply.”
Around me, the mood has shifted from confusion to fear. I glance sideways at Boone.
Boone’s our older brother, the one who took over as foreman after Dad died. He knows every inch of Wilding Ranch. Every line, every pasture, every hose that has to be thawed by hand in January. If something breaks, Boone fixes it. If something needs protecting, Boone stands in front of it. Right now, his jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it might crack.
He knows what I know. This isn’t just about water. It’s about everything we’ve built—and how fast we could lose it.
People don’t realize how crucial water is until it’s gone. But on a ranch, it’s not just a utility—it’s survival. It feeds the livestock. It irrigates the hay fields. It keeps the tanks from freezing over and the barns from turning into iceboxes where even the toughest livestock can go down fast. Without water, it doesn’t matter how much land you’ve got, or how many hands you’ve got working it. You can’t run a ranch on frozen pipes and wishful thinking.
And for me, it’s even more than that.
