My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I chose two heavy brass deadbolts with double-cylinder locks and laid them on the wooden counter. Toby, the clerk, looked at the locks and then up at me. He was twenty, with grease under his fingernails and a heavy canvas apron.
“Getting secure out there, Olivia?” Toby asked.
“Just changing the entry points,” I said.
“These ones are solid brass,” Toby said, tapping the box. “Most folks just buy the cheap plated ones. These will take you some time to mortise into those old doors.”
A shadow fell across the counter from the adjacent aisle. Sheriff Walt Hensley stood there, holding a small box of copper roofing nails. He tilted his hat back, exposing his forehead and his graying hair. He looked at the brass locks, his eyes lingering on the hardened steel strike plates.
“Those deadbolts require a two-inch bore, Olivia,” Walt said. “You have the right drill bit for those old solid-oak doors?”
“I have the tools, Walt,” I said, handing Toby my card.
Walt set his box of nails on the counter. “A person usually only buys those when they think the latch isn’t enough.”
