My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
“The county judge signed the temporary order yesterday,” she said. “We have seven days until the ratification hearing. If Arthur gets inside the house before the fifteenth, he can claim physical possession under the old easement.”
“He does not have an easement,” I said.
“He has a piece of paper that looks like one,” Rachel said. “To a deputy standing in the mud at two in the morning, that is usually enough to delay an eviction.”
She stood up and walked to the window. The frosted glass was starting to clear in the morning sun, showing the white slope of the meadow and the dark line of the county road.
“Did you call Hensley?” she asked.
“He was out on a call in Maybell,” I said. “I am meeting him at his office at one.”
“Take the bank files,” she said. “Not the copies. The originals with the red notary seals.”
I picked up the yellow-stickered foreclosure envelope from the counter. It was empty now, the documents spread across the pine table between our coffee mugs. My father’s handwriting on the forged signature page looked exactly like mine, right down to the sharp slant of the letter C.
