Home To Copper Mountain. Rebecca Winters

up my own mind. That’s the best kind of salesman.”

      Both men looked pleased. It was the manager who said, “Well, you’re the dream customer.” He handed him the keys and the leather kit containing all the papers and instructions. “Dare we make the pitch you’ll never want to drive anything else again?”

      “Dare away.” He flashed them a smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”

      They shook hands again and walked out to the car with him. The driver’s door had been opened in invitation.

      A flick of the ignition and the engine purred to life. He adjusted the seat and the mirrors. They’d filled the tank. All systems were go.

      “We’ll look forward to seeing you when you come in for your first scheduled oil change.”

      When that time came, Rick had no idea where he’d be, but they didn’t need to know that. “Thanks for the excellent service. I’ve appreciated it. So long.”

      He drove out to the street and joined the stream of traffic. The car could travel from zero to sixty in four point eight seconds. He’d test it out as soon as he reached the freeway.

      Later, when he came to those long, lonely stretches of road devoid of traffic, he’d find how well she traveled at a hundred and ten miles an hour.

      What he needed right now was a map of Texas. Though he’d been around the world many times, he’d never raced there or had an inclination to visit.

      At the next full-service station he bought the map, a six-pack of cold cola and a large bag of potato chips. That would hold him for a while.

      Once back in the car, he opened the map and began estimating distances. Denver to Austin was approximately nine hundred miles. En route he’d phone his father for details to reach the ranch.

      He glanced at his watch. Eleven-thirty. If he averaged a hundred miles an hour, plus or minus, he’d be in Austin by eight or eight-thirty that night.

      FOURTEEN HOURS LATER, after stopping and starting for near-constant road construction, he turned on US 290, leaving Austin behind him.

      The salespeople at the dealership wouldn’t recognize his bug-spattered, mud-splattered car. He needed a shower and a shave, but that wasn’t going to happen until he arrived at his destination.

      According to his father’s directions he needed to continue west a half hour or so until he came to Highway 16 where he would turn south. At exactly one point six-tenths of a mile, he’d see the entrance to the Jarrett Ranch on his right.

      How in the hell did people live in a place where there was no sign of a mountain? After driving through this endless state, surrounded by a flat world of dust and heat, he couldn’t comprehend how his father was surviving.

      Clint Hawkins was a remarkable athlete who’d skied to many victories, including an Olympic gold medal. How did a man who loved winter and had spent his whole married life in the Colorado Rockies at ten thousand feet stand it?

      No wonder so many Texans flocked to the towns of Copper Mountain and Breckenridge during ski season. Anything to get away from this miserable wilderness they called home.

      Rick and Nate used to laugh over their visitors’ funny accents and inability to stop talking for a single second to let someone else get a word in. Today he’d met the same type on the road when he’d stopped for gas and food.

      As far as he was concerned, the Texans could keep Texas. He’d come to see his father, then he was out of here!

      For the dozenth time he flicked on the radio hoping to find a station that played something besides rock or country. After leaving Colorado, he’d been hearing the same songs over and over as he drove through New Mexico and Texas. Was there no such thing as a classical-music station beyond the Rockies?

      Before he’d left Denver he should have stopped at a CD store and bought some symphonic recordings to keep him company. Rick’s mother had taught him to enjoy everything from baroque and classical to modern.

      On the morning of a race, there was nothing he loved better than to listen to Vivaldi or Brahms or Mahler while he ate a big breakfast. Any of them brought structure and order to his mind, helping him to focus on the task ahead.

      Aware his nerves were frayed from a combination of fatigue and a growing inner anxiety he couldn’t throw off, he pressed the scan button to tune out the heavy-metal music blaring from some rock station out of Austin.

      The next couple of stations were phone-in talk shows about politics or UFOs. He was about to shut off the radio for good when he came across a station where he heard a female vocalist backed by a terrific guitarist. It sounded like country music, but she sang with such a great voice he pressed the button to keep the tuner there.

      You invade our space,

      You drink our beer,

      You pollute the place,

      You shoot our deer,

      You build your castles,

      You do as you please,

      If it’s worth the battle you change the course of streams,

      You grow Bermuda grass,

      You even plant hay,

      Then you can’t figure out why the wildlife went away.

      You fly down for weekends

      To your twenty-acre spread,

      Then you wonder why,

      Your cattle all lie dead.

      You’re the dreaded windshield rancher invading the Hill Country,

      You wanted a part of Texas,

      And by golly,

      You destroyed habitat and birthright during a bad economy.

      You came, you saw, you conquered,

      You took my legacy.

      Because of you, you, you, you,

      This happened to me, me, me, me.

      I’m an uprooted bluebonnet,

      I no longer have a home,

      Do you hear me, windshield rancher? Thanks to you I’m alone.

      The light has now gone out,

      I can’t see in front of me,

      There’s no home to go back to,

      Fear is my destiny.

      The past is gone forever,

      It walked out the door.

      What once excited, excites no more,

      The song ended, jerking Rick back to cognizance of his surroundings.

      Damn. He’d been so mesmerized by what he’d heard, he’d overshot the turnoff to the ranch by four miles. Since no one was around, he made a tire-squealing U-turn in the middle of the road and flew back down the highway.

      “And now for all you night creatures like me who can’t sleep because your demons won’t let you—oh yes, I’ve got them, too—shall we have a change of pace? I’ve had a lot of requests for Gounod’s Ave Maria for voice and harp. Enjoy this last number before we say good-night.”

      Rick almost missed the entrance again because the female disc jockey had started to play the next recording. The second he heard the voice, he realized it was the same vocalist who’d performed the amazing country song. This time she was singing to an exquisite harp accompaniment.

      Why didn’t the disc jockey give out the name of the singer?

      Whoever she was, she had extraordinary talent to be able to perform such diametrically opposed pieces of music with equal ability. He wanted her name so he could look for some of her records.

      Parts of the first song