My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
“Only for the last three weeks,” I said.
She did not let go of the leather handle, turning her head to scan the low skyline of Craig. Her gray eyes were sharp, taking in the snowy streets and the rusty metal roofs of the buildings across the road.
“I have four days before I need to be back in court in Denver,” Rachel said, her boots crunching on the packed snow as we walked toward my truck. “Let us get out of this wind.”
I opened the passenger door for her, the old hinges groaning in the cold. She climbed in and placed her briefcase flat across her knees, her back straight against the worn vinyl seat.
I adjusted my mother’s silver watch strap, pulling it snug against my wrist until the metal links bit into my skin. The truck heater sputtered to life, blowing a faint stream of lukewarm air that smelled of old dust and engine grease.
“Did you bring the file?” I asked, shifting the truck into reverse.
