My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
Walt did not touch the folder. He tilted his hat back, his forehead lined with deep, pale creases where the sun had never reached.
“Your father has been in this county sixty-eight years, Olivia,” he said.
“He took thirty thousand dollars from my account,” I said. “He signed my name.”
“I see the signature,” Walt said, his voice dropping into a slow, quiet drawl. “But a notary in Steamboat stamped it. That makes it a civil fraud issue until a judge says otherwise.”
“The notary was my stepmother’s cousin,” I said. “She has already been suspended by the state.”
Walt looked down at the folder, his fingers tracing the edge of the paper. He rubbed his eyes, then looked out the high window toward the courthouse square.
“I saw Arthur at the diner this morning,” Walt said. “He was talking to a man from the title company. They had a map of your section spread out on the booth.”
“The section is mine,” I said. “The deed was recorded on the twenty-eighth.”
