Shane shoved his rolled shirt cuffs up his forearms and checked his watch as he made his way across the open expanse of land once valued for its ability to produce cotton. Now the value took a different form—as the future site of the Whitehall Resort Golf Course.
As testament to that, two of the three engineers from the company Haggerty had retained to do the water report set up survey equipment by the creek bank. The third stood in deep conversation with Ricky Pinkerton.
Shit. He quickened his strides. Mayor Campbell expected him at a meeting across town with the developers of a subdivision, and after that, he had a flight to catch. His schedule didn’t really allow for this unscheduled stop, and the engineers didn’t need him looking over their shoulders, but he didn’t want Ricky attempting to direct the scope of the project or the outcome.
The head of the team looked up from his tripod-mounted laptop and spotted him. The middle-aged engineer disengaged from Ricky and ambled over, saving Shane some extra steps. He carried a Spectra Ranger data collector in his hand, and a well-worn utility belt around his waist held other tools of the trade. Someone accustomed to field work, Shane deduced, as the man extended a hand and introduced himself as Raj Patel. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Patel. Did Jack Haggerty explain our concerns?”
Ricky trailed the engineer, like a pissy shadow in his ugly yellow sweater. “I was just giving Raj here the overview, and explaining that the creek never floods.”
“That’s not true—”
The older man held up a hand. “Three things, as I understand. You are seeking confirmation of this land around the creek as a flood fringe”—he glanced at the creek as he spoke, then back to Shane—“and wanting to know how extensive the bank fortifications should be to prevent spillover. Lastly, you wish to understand how the fortification will affect the water level downstream.”
“That sums it up,” Shane agreed. “Any preliminary impressions?”
“Well, we are definitely standing in a flood fringe. You don’t need a hydraulic study to tell you that. The topography speaks for itself.”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t help shooting Pinkerton a “fuck you” look. “That’s what I thought.”
“Okaaay.” Ricky rolled his eyes. “Never mind that the creek hasn’t flooded in longer than anyone can remember, how high do we have to go to convince the city to issue the permit for the golf course?”
Fine. Pinkerton wanted to cut to the chase? They’d cut to the chase. “Assuming they fill the fringe up here to get the full half-foot leeway, what happens downstream?”
Raj shook his head. “Filling up here widens the floodway there.” He gestured down the slope, toward the tree-line, and, ultimately, Sinclair’s barn. “Narrow, shallow creeks like this one can sustain only so much influx. One good rain, and…” He widened his hands to demonstrate. “Luckily, Mr. Pinkerton informs me there aren’t any developments along the lower portion of the creek, and so long as none are planned…” He trailed off and shrugged.
Careful, Shane cautioned himself. The city wasn’t paying for a survey to help save Sinclair’s barn, and Haggerty would chew his ass if he got wind of Shane having a personal agenda. “Mr. Pinkerton’s statement isn’t accurate, which he’s well aware of, but for the sake of argument, let’s say downstream development is part of the plan—”
“It’s not part of the plan,” Ricky inserted.
“Hypothetically speaking,” Shane continued, ignoring Ricky. “What would it take to do it safely?”
Raj puffed his cheeks and let the air out in a gust. “Lots of money. Fortifying these banks up here is not such a big deal. Negligible cost or environmental impact in shifting dirt around. No interruption to the natural course of the creek. Diverting the water flowing downstream, conversely, means installing drains, aqueducts—”
“No fucking way,” Ricky said. “The resort’s not paying for that. Not for one lousy barn. Neither is the city. I’ll say it again for the hard of hearing. The creek never floods.”
“Because it widens up here,” Shane bit out. “It won’t after you fortify.” His gut tightened. The ill-advised promise to Sinclair echoed in his brain. He gave Ricky his back and directed another question to Raj. “What about for a very small diversion, like, for a house or two?”
The engineer shook his head. “The size of the development doesn’t change the basic solution. Whether to avoid one structure or a thousand, the water needs to go somewhere else. Frankly, only a large development would
warrant the investment.”
“You got that right,” Ricky chimed in from behind him. “And a large development won’t happen as long as my grandmother’s alive. I’ve heard enough. I’m done here. We’re talking fairytales now.”
Ricky strutted off. Fuck. Shane tugged at his tie, trying to relieve the noose-like tightness around his neck. A trickle of sweat slid between his shoulder blades. “What about managing the water upstream?” He was grasping at straws now, but he didn’t have any other ideas.
“Ah. Well, then, you would be talking about a dam, and that requires a suitable reservoir area. Assuming such an area exists and could be secured for the purpose, you would also need a permit to build the dam, to impound water, and, perhaps more dauntingly, a shift in public opinion. Outside of farming communities, people dislike dams. Necessary permits might prove very challenging.”
“What about…?” No alternative sprang to mind. Meanwhile, seconds ticked off in his brain. He needed to get going or he’d be late meeting the mayor, which wouldn’t earn him any points. Face it. This isn’t going to get solved today.
Obviously, Raj agreed, because he held up a hand to halt the conversation. “Mr. Maguire, we would be happy to draw up an addendum to the contract for the engineering of a water-management solution, but that’s a longer, more involved assignment. I understood you wanted the report as soon as possible.”
“I do.” He needed to back off and let this guy do his job. There was still time. The report would take six weeks, and then the city planning commission would have to meet and review the findings. Somewhere between now and then, he’d come up with a viable solution. He had to.
…
“How was Tahiti?” Sinclair held the phone to her ear and glanced at the clock over the stove. Her stomach gave a stupid and totally uncharacteristic flutter as she read the time. Shane was due any moment for tour number four. “Dress for a hike,” was all he’d told her yesterday when he’d called.
“Three words,” Savannah replied, sounding relaxed, replete, and possibly a little smug. “Over. Water. Bungalow.”