My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
He hung up, leaving only the flat hiss of the dead line in my ear.
The town of Craig did not have many places to buy bulk mineral blocks or fencing wire. At two in the afternoon, I pulled my truck into the gravel lot of the county cooperative feed store, the tires crunching over the frozen ruts.
The smell of sweet molasses and dry alfalfa always stayed the same inside the warehouse, thick enough to coat the back of the throat. I walked to the counter to pay for two bags of calf manna and a spool of barbed wire.
The woman behind the register was named Clara. She had known my father since they were both in high school in Kiowa, and she did not look at my face when she began typing on the register.
“Your dad was in here Friday,” Clara said, keeping her eyes on the screen. “He said you were back in the county.”
“I am,” I said.
