My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
The county courthouse in Craig was a two-story red brick building with high arched windows that rattled in the morning wind. It was eleven o’clock on January twenty-one when we walked through the heavy oak doors, our boots leaving wet tracks on the worn marble floor.
The heating system in the lobby hissed like a wet fire, smelling of old paper and ammonia.
We walked up to the counter where a clerk with thick glasses sat behind a high desk piled with green ledger books.
“I need the certified bidding file for the parcel on Range Road Four,” Rachel said, sliding her state bar card across the wood.
The clerk looked at the card, then at me.
“That file is in the basement archives,” the clerk said, her voice thin and tired. “It costs twenty-five dollars to pull and copy.”
I pulled a twenty and a five-dollar bill from my coat pocket and slid them across the counter. The paper bills looked small against the dark wood of the desk.
The clerk took the money without speaking and disappeared through a heavy wooden door behind the desk.
