My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
“Morning, Olivia,” Thomas said. He spit a stream of dark tobacco juice into the snow by his front tire. “Saw your chimney smoking. Thought you might be running low on the dry stuff.”
“I have two cords left under the tarp,” I said, walking down the wooden steps to meet him. “But I will always take more pine.”
“This is dry larch and yellow pine,” Thomas said, walking to the back of the truck and dropping the heavy tailgate. “Cut it two summers ago up on the ridge. It will burn hot enough to keep that kitchen warm through March.”
I reached into the bed and took a thick split log of larch, feeling the rough bark through my leather gloves. It was heavy and dry, the sap long since hardened into golden crystals along the grain. I tossed it onto the woodpile by the shed.
“How are the roads out by the highway?” I asked.
“Drifted over in three places,” Thomas said, lifting two logs at once and carrying them to the pile. “County plow came through about dawn, but the wind is starting to push the snow back over the asphalt. You planning on heading into town today?”
