My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
The physical labor of the morning had left me tired, but it was a clean sort of fatigue. It was the kind of tired that came from building something rather than defending it. I looked at the barn roof, noting a spot where the tin had peeled back during the last windstorm. I would need to get up there with some galvanized nails before the next wet snow.
The wind picked up, rattling the dry corn husks I had left in the porch planter. I did not go inside. I sat on the bench and watched the shadows of the pine trees begin to stretch across the white meadow, turning from blue to deep violet as the afternoon started to fade.
There was no family dinner to plan, no holiday to prepare for, and no phone call to dread. The silence of the ranch was mine, bought with my own money and defended with my own hands.
