My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
The paper was crisp, smelling of the county printer.
Walt stood up, his joints popping, and walked over to the counter. He ran a thick, calloused thumb along the boundary line on the paper, pausing at the eastern fence.
“This is the old Miller place, is it not?” he asked.
“It is,” I said. “The bank approved the preliminary deed.”
“Your father had his eye on this section,” Walt said. “He told me so at the feed store back in November.”
“He does not own it,” I said.
Walt leaned against the counter, looking at the map for a long moment before he nodded.
“Well, you registered it now,” he said. “The county records will show your name by morning.”
He looked out the window at the snow-covered street, where a blue truck was idling near the hardware store.
“Around here, a slow-moving car usually means someone is measuring what is not theirs,” Walt said.
“Is someone measuring mine?” I asked.
He did not answer. He just picked up his coffee cup and took a slow sip.
