Even fewer had the faintest clue what Colorado really meant.Īs he reached the outskirts of town, he noticed a few changes-the grocery store had been revamped to look like any big-time supermarket. Barely three thousand people if you didn't count the tourists and skiers and the new crop of rich folks building half-million dollar "retreats" on enormous parcels of land buried in the trees. The aspens, shaking their gold-coin leaves against a sky the color of a little girl's Easter ribbon, already showed autumn had arrived. He hung his elbow out the window, feeling a faint hint of September bite. He'd been living in Houston, where the air weighed three hundred pounds per square inch, and nothing could have been finer than the sweet mountain air of home. He breathed the air deep, all the way to the bottom of his lungs, smelling the sharply evocative mix of sunlight and crushed pine needles on earth just faintly damp. Through the windows blew a light, dry mountain wind, combing playful fingers through his always too-long hair. Lance Forrest hit Red Creek, Colorado, much the same way as he always did-radio blaring so loud it seemed as if his car were floating on the sound.
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