by Charlotte Weiner For rancher Kathleen Curry, the time for hollow reassurances is over. From her chair at the linoleum-topped kitchen table, she looks out to the view that a wide window frames: a small patch of lawn, a lattice of bleached wooden fence and beyond, hills that rise out of the flat plains, waves of green that fade to parched brown. A low stretch of woods lines the hills’ base. “Out there,” Curry points a deeply tanned, delicate hand, “that’s the creek, right there, where those woods are.” She draws her gaze back inside. “It’s everything to us.” Tomichi ...