The bus depot in Copper Crest, Colorado, was made to look like an old-west storefront, and in fact had been used in a cable series a few years back that hadn't been renewed. Nat Janz, who'd played an extra (half the town had) stood out front, nodding to some passers-by and glancing down the town's main street. 

At the end of the street, past the other rustic buildings that nestled against a backdrop of snow-covered mountains, a Greyhound bus drove into view. Nat Janz had been having mixed feelings for a couple of days about what was coming toward him. 

"Going somewhere, Nat?" 

Nat Janz turned to the voice, saw a hard-looking man named Munsey Beck. 

"That wouldn't be a good thing," Beck said. 

"Hello, Munsey. What're you doing here?" 

"I asked if you're going somewhere." 

"I'm meeting somebody." 

"Uh-huh. C'mere a minute." 

"I said I'm meeting somebody." 

"And I said, c'mere." 

Nat could see that Beck wasn't about to take No. He glanced again at the approaching bus, turned reluctantly and followed Beck to an alley that ran along the bus depot's side. 

Behind them, with a chuff of air brakes, the Greyhound pulled to a stop. In one of the windows on the sidewalk side, Casey Janz was peering out at his father walking with Munsey Beck to the alley.  

When Nat came around the corner into the alley, two men grabbed him and slammed him into the wall, pinning his arms. 

Munsey Beck stepped forward and put his face in Nat's. "You got some debts, my man, that're getting some age on them." 

"I told you, you'll get paid," Nat said. 

"I know I will. Question is when?" 

"I'm working on it." 

"Course you are. Problem is, the way you work on it just gets you in deeper." 

"I need some time." 

"You got it," Beck said. "One week. Paid in full." 

Nat Janz stared at him. "How am I going to get it in a week?" 

"The way you do best. Screw somebody." 

Nat started to protest. Beck raised his hand, put a finger to his lips. Shhhh... The two other men kept Nat pinned to the wall. 

"Paid in full," Beck said. "Seven days." 

He smiled without humor and cocked his head back. Then he slammed it against Nat's nose, stepping back from the gush of blood.  

The two muscle guys holding Nat were trying to keep the blood off their clothes, didn't see the figure that stepped up behind Beck. Casey had come around from the bus, had hold of his skateboard like a baseball bat, taking aim at the back of Beck's head. 

Nat caught a hazy glimpse of Casey over Beck's shoulder. "No!"   

Beck looked behind him just as Casey swung. The skateboard clipped Beck's forehead, the man ducking just enough to miss getting hit full-on. 

The two muscle guys dropped Nat's arms and charged at Casey. Casey backed off and spun with his skateboard and bolted from the alley. He ran full-tilt down the main-street sidewalk, the muscle guys chasing him, back there cursing and clomping. Casey slid his board down the sidewalk, hopped on and pushed and picked up speed. 

He darted and swerved, wove among people in parkas and Stetsons turning to watch the show. 

Something caught Casey's eye out on the street. He swerved his board off the sidewalk, pushed between two parked SUVs, hooked onto a passing maintenance truck that had a snowplow raised in front. 

He let the truck pull him along on his board, keeping low so the driver couldn't see him, rode the truck to the end of the street and on out of town. After a couple hundred yards of driving alongside a fast-moving stream, past a grove of aspen trees, the truck made a turn in front of a big wooden sign: 

                                                            Copper Crest

                                                Ski & Snowboard Center 

Casey hung on, bumping along as the truck swung into a parking area surrounded by plowed snowbanks. He looked up at the mountain looming beyond them, could see ski lifts running up it, ski trails carved in different shapes coming down the side. He let go of the truck and rolled over to one of the snowbanks, hopped off his board and took it behind the piled snow, stayed low and looked back in the direction he came from. 

Had enough elevation so he could see down the road to the edge of town. Could see the muscle guys down there looking up this way. After a long moment of what he guessed was more cursing, the two guys turned away and walked back into town. 

Casey watched a bit more to make sure they were gone, heard a voice at his back, a female voice. 

"You make a pretty good entrance." 

He turned around, saw a young woman standing on skis, seventeen or so, pointing a ski pole at his skateboard. 

"You might want to take the wheels off that," she said, "you're gonna use it here." 

Casey looked at his board, looked at her. "Who're you?" 

"Ski patrol." She turned so he could see the red cross on the back of her parka. She looked him over, squinted at his dreadlocks and said, "Where'd you come from?" 

"Town." 

"I mean before." 

"Back East." 

"New York?" 

"Good guess." 

"Then you must be Casey Janz."

 That got a surprised blink from Casey.

"I work patrol with your father," she said. "He said you were coming in." She skied over and held out her hand. "I'm Ronnie Riker." 

Casey shook her hand. "Hi, I'm Casey, like you said. I thought my father was an instructor." 

"Yeah, well, that's a story for another time." Ronnie looked over at the road that went into town. "I thought he was meeting your bus." 

"He did, but we had a situation." 

"What situation?" 

"Story for another time." 

Ronnie smiled – nice comeback. She looked again at Casey's skateboard, upside down in the snow. "You any good on that?" she said. 

"Depends." 

"On what?" 

"My head." 

He could see she wanted to ask what that meant, but she just nodded, like, OK, that's cool. She watched him, though, this guy who suddenly arrives from New York, no baggage except what's in his head. Then a sliding sound made them turn and look up the mountain. 

On the trail above them, couple of hundred yards up, a snowboarder was cutting back and forth through the moguls. He flew off one of the bumps, did a helicopter spin like Casey did in that park in New York, and made a perfect landing. 

The guy was good. 

He did a few more showy moves as he sped toward Ronnie and Casey. He cut to one side at the last instant and carved to a stop with a huge spray of snow, most of it landing on Casey's feet. 

He was tan, good-looking, about the same age as Casey, late teens, and had a killer smile he flashed at Ronnie. 

"Hey, Ron." 

"Hello, Carson." 

"Who's your friend?" 

"Casey Janz, meet Carson Quiller." 

The two exchanged nods – hate at first sight. 

Quiller looked back at Ronnie. "Janz? As in?" 

Ronnie nodded. "As in." 

Quiller smiled at Casey. "Your old man is a piece of work. On skis, I mean." 

"I've heard." 

Quiller tilted his chin toward Casey's dreads. "I love your hair." 

Casey just gave him a dead stare. 

Quiller turned back to Ronnie, excluding Casey. "You wanna grab a bite?" 

"I'm on duty." 

"Oh, right." Quiller smiled at the rebuff, glanced down at Casey's upside-down skateboard. "You should get yourself some real equipment, come up where the big guys rock." 

He turned on his board and pushed off toward the base lodge, calling over his shoulder: "Later." 

Casey watched him go, watched him join a group of friends carrying on over by the big log lodge. He turned to Ronnie. "I better go find my father, but I'm not sure where." 

"You want, I'll show you where to start." 

"You just said you're on duty." 

"It'll wait."