She’d been meandering her way toward them, through the Ansel Adams photograph of peaks and plains for hours. It had the openness she needed-all that sky with the snow-dipped peaks of the Tetons rising into it like sober, and somehow aloof, gods. The little Wyoming town huddled around the cold blue waters of a lake was as good as anywhere else. No worries, no problem, she told herself. She took the plumes of steam puffing out of the hood as a sign it was time to stop traveling for a while and find a job. Then, even by the most optimistic calculations, she’d be broke. If luck was on her side, and the car wasn’t seriously ill, she’d have enough to pay for a room for the night. She had two hundred forty-three dollars and change in her pocket, which might be enough to cure the Chevy, fuel it and herself. REECE GILMORE smoked through the tough knuckles of Angel’s Fist in an overheating Chevy Cavalier.
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