The Golden Quest
Thorne, you look like hell. Miller’s voice cut through the static of my headset, sharp and dry as the October wind that had been stripping the cottonwoods along the riverbank for three days straight. I wiped the mud from my boots, the caked earth gritty and cold against the leather, and stood up to face the Chief, who was leaning against his pickup truck with his arms crossed, his badge...
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