My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
At five in the evening, the air turned bitter cold as the sun dipped behind the western ridge. The light was failing fast, the sky turning a deep, bruised purple over the mountains. I walked down the long driveway to the county road gate, the snow crunching under my boots with every step.
The old security padlock that Arthur had cut with the bolt cutters was gone, replaced by a heavy brass lock that gleamed in the dim light. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the brass key.
I wrapped the thick steel chain around the cedar post and clicked the lock shut. The mechanism gave a solid, heavy click that sounded loud in the quiet valley. I pulled on the chain twice to make sure the shackle was fully engaged.
This was my land now, and the gate stays locked.
I turned and looked back up the hill toward the cabin. The small building sat dark against the white hillside, its roof covered in a thick blanket of snow. I walked back up the driveway, my boots finding the deep tracks I had made on the way down.
As I reached the porch steps, the kitchen window flickered. The automatic timer had kicked in, and the light inside came on, casting a long square of brightness across the front yard. The yellow light from the kitchen window shines across the quiet snow.
