First Frost (Walt Longmire, #20)

by Craig Johnson

I stopped at the bottom of the steps. “Pax Romana?” “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I lifted two fingers. “Peace, little Roman.”

I’d taken the frontage road, but I think I might’ve accidentally taken a few other turns, and now here we were in what might be the middle of nowhere—and when a guy from Wyoming refers to a place as the middle of nowhere that truly means the epicenter of nowhere.

It was a beautiful July night, one of our better months in Wyoming when it hardly snowed at all, and I decided to just walk the half block to the local Italian place.

The porch of one of the dilapidated buildings looked inviting, but I knew that if I went over there I might sit down, and if I sat down, I might lie down, and if I did that, I might fall asleep and wake up next week.

The one-ton had a suspension like a Conestoga wagon, but I figured I’d still have kidneys by the time I got there.

What cannot change must be endured.”