My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
Then the driver tapped the gas.
The tires kicked up a small spray of frozen gravel as the vehicle accelerated.
I watched the red taillights of the white sedan vanish over the ridge.
The mailbox was a quarter-mile down the lane where the ranch road met the blacktop. On the morning of January twelfth, the wind was down, but the air was cold enough to make my eyes water. The temperature on the porch thermometer had read four below zero when I started my walk. I walked with my chin tucked into my wool collar, watching my boots break through the crust of yesterday’s snow. The quiet of the valley was heavy, broken only by the occasional snap of frozen pine branches in the woods.
The mailbox sat on a crooked cedar post. The name Miller was still painted on the side in faded red letters, peeling under the winter ice. I pulled the metal latch down. It made a sharp, frozen crack as the metal released. Inside, there was a local grocery circular, a flyer for a tractor auction in Meeker, and one thick envelope made of heavy, off-white paper.
