My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
I picked up the document. The top of the page read “Easement and Road Maintenance Agreement.”
It looked like a standard legal form, filled out with a typewriter.
“I need to read this,” I said.
“Of course,” Linda said, her face brightening with a small, tense smile. “But there is no rush. You can sign it and mail it back to us at the motel.”
I folded the paper and slid it into my coat pocket.
“I will look at it tonight,” I said.
“Thank you, Olivia,” she said.
She stood up, her handbag still tucked under her arm.
“Please,” she whispered. “Think about your brother.”
She did not touch the cinnamon rolls she had bought. She walked out of the bakery, her head down against the cold wind.
I sat in the booth for another twenty minutes, watching the steam dry on my empty coffee cup.
I called Miller, the surveyor, from my truck. He agreed to meet me at the ranch gate at noon.
The gravel road was frozen solid, the ruts filled with hard-packed snow. I parked by the wooden fence and waited.
