My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
My father’s house lay six miles to the east, behind the ridge of pine trees. I wondered if he knew I was out here, setting up a perimeter on land he thought he controlled.
I tucked the phone back into my canvas jacket and locked the gate chain.
The county sheriff’s office in town smelled of wet wool and stale coffee. Walt Hensley sat behind a metal desk covered in yellowing folders and three different clipboards. He did not look up immediately when the bell above the door rang, his hand busy signing a stack of carbon copies.
I stood by the counter, my boots dripping melted snow onto the black rubber mat.
Walt tilted his hat back, exposing a band of pale skin on his forehead, and looked at me with slow, steady eyes.
“Olivia,” he said, his voice a low drawl. “You look like you need some dry heat.”
I laid the parcel map on the counter between us. The red ink showed the exact boundaries of the forty-acre tract I had signed for.
