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bright as a refinery—and nearly as big—at last came into view. “I’ve never asked,” said Dan, “but what’s the power bill on that place every month?”
    â€œYou don’t want to know,” said Virgil.
    They parked at the foot of the slate walkway leading to the huge copper entrance doors of the four-story river stone and cedar main hall. Through the tall craftsman windows beneath the copper roof, Dan could make out the towering, fifty-foot cedar tree trunks that served as columns. Virgil unloaded Dan’s luggage and started towards the doors, but Dan insisted on taking it himself so Virgil could park the truck.
    Suitcase and briefcase in one hand and suit bag slung over his shoulder, Dan was just reaching for the doorbell when one of the big doors swung open silently. Mary Mason, Virgil’s wife and chief cook for the ranch house, wrapped him in her arms. She was all curves and encased in denim, rhinestone glasses perched on top of her teased hair. The hug lasted a long time. Finally, Mary stepped back, taking the briefcase from Dan’s fingers, and gave him the huge, warm smile that was her trademark. “Well, look at you, stranger. About time you paid us a visit.”
    â€œI must confess, Mary, that four hours ago I didn’t know I was going to be here.”
    â€œOh, honey, I knew that. Do you think anybody comes here unannounced? C’mon in.”
    Before they crossed the threshold, Dan caught Mary’s shoulder and whispered, “Where’s the great man?”
    â€œOh,” she said in a normal voice, “didn’t they tell you? Mr. Validator isn’t here. He’s flying in from Europe in the morning.” Seeing the stricken look on Dan’s face, Mary patted him on the chest. “I know, baby, but don’t worry. We’ll have nice fun evening, just the three of us. And I’ve got a helluva dinner planned.”
    Dan made his way across the vast hall. It was almost sixty feet tall at its peak; its distant cedar beams rested atop the great barkless cedar trunks whose own bases were five feet in diameter. There was a fire in the giant fireplace, its mouth tall enough to walk into, and the chimney was a ­four-story waterfall of rounded river stones, the ones at the base larger than the span of Dan’s arms. The flames produced half the light in the room; the rest came from the soft warm glow of van Erp and Tiffany lamps and sconces. Those yellow lights made a soft glow on Persian carpets, on the hammered copper and golden oak of Stickley furniture, and on Remington and Russell bronzes. The flames and light reflected off the distant wall of glass that, during the day, was filled with a panorama of the nearby mountains.
    He passed down the long hallway, which was lined with Santa Fe chests and antler and horn chairs and benches. His room, the suite at the end of the hall, was already lit, its doors opened, a fire burning in its own vintage iron stove. This was the “Cowboy Beaux Arts” suite. It had a big brass bed, a hand-painted Victorian bureau and armoire, framed shadow boxes filled with dime novels, and a wall-sized display of Winchester lever action rifles. The curtains were open. By the light of the room, Dan could just make out the statue of The End of the Trail. It was one of Fraser’s first run of bronzes—Cosmo had seen it at Sotheby’s and paid a fortune “to bring it back West where it belongs.” The slumped Indian atop the weary horse was even more evocative in the wintertime, when it stood alone in the snow, fading into the gloom.
    Five minutes later, having dumped his suitcase on the bed and hung up his tie, suit, and shirt, Dan was back in the Great Hall. Virgil was waiting for him, sitting on one of the hand-tooled leather couches. A martini and a bowl of cashews stood on the coffee table opposite.
    â€œBombay Sapphire, anchovy olive, right?” asked Virgil.
    Dan dropped