My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I folded the letter and slid it into my pocket.
The frost on the porch railing was thick enough to scrape off with a thumbnail on Monday morning. I stood near the steps with a heavy stoneware mug in both hands, watching the sun try to break through the gray shelf of clouds over the eastern ridge. The air smelled of woodsmoke from the neighbor’s chimney two miles down the valley, sharp and clean and cold.
My phone vibrated in my coat pocket with a sudden, violent rattle.
I set my mug on the railing and pulled the watch strap of my mother’s silver watch up my wrist, tightening the leather band before I slid the phone out. The screen showed my father’s name.
“Hello, Arthur,” I said.
“You think you are clever,” he said. His voice came through the small speaker in a booming, defensive bark. “You think you can just slip into the county and clean up on what we built.”
“I bought a property at a public foreclosure auction,” I said. “The bank held the deed, and I paid the county clerk.”
