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Zusatztext "Stellar . . . Full of crackling dialogue! this absorbing tale demonstrates that Longmire is still the sheriff in town." —Publishers Weekly (starred review) "An insightful look at various forms of racism! human trafficking! and confronting your own prejudices." —Detroit Free Press Praise for Craig Johnson and the Longmire Series “It’s the scenery—and the big guy standing in front of the scenery—that keeps us coming back to Craig Johnson’s lean and leathery mysteries.” — The New York Times Book Review “Sometimes funny! sometimes touching! and always entertaining! Wait for Signs is a complete delight.” — ShelfAwareness “Like the greatest crime novelists! Johnson is a student of human nature. Walt Longmire is strong but fallible! a man whose devil-may-care stoicism masks a heightened sensitivity to the horrors he’s witnessed.” — Los Angeles Times “Johnson´s hero only gets better—both at solving cases and at hooking readers—with age.” — Publishers Weekly “Johnson’s trademarks [are] great characters! witty banter! serious sleuthing! and a love of Wyoming bigger than a stack of derelict cars.” — The Boston Globe “Johnson’s pacing is tight and his dialogue snaps.” — Entertainment Weekly “Stepping into Walt’s world is like slipping on a favorite pair of slippers! and it’s where those slippers lead that provides a thrill. Johnson pens a series that should become a ‘must’ read! so curl up! get comfortable! and enjoy the ride.” — The Denver Post Informationen zum Autor Craig Johnson is the New York Times bestselling author of the Longmire mysteries! the basis for the hit Netflix original series Longmire . He is the recipient of the Western Writers of America Spur Award for fiction! the Mountains and Plains Booksellers Award for fiction! the Nouvel Observateur Prix du Roman Noir! and the Prix SNCF du Polar. His novella Spirit of Steamboat was the first One Book Wyoming selection. He lives in Ucross! Wyoming! population twenty-five. Taken from Chapter 1 “Two more.” Cady looked at me but didn’t say anything. It had been like this for the last week. We’d reached a plateau, and she was satisfied with the progress she’d made. I wasn’t. The physical therapist at University of Pennsylvania Hospital in Philadelphia had warned me that this might happen. It wasn’t that my daughter was weak or lazy; it was far worse than that—she was bored. “Two more?” “I heard you. . . .” She plucked at her shorts and avoided my eyes. “Your voice; it carries.” I placed an elbow on my knee, chin on fist, sat farther back on the sit-up bench, and glanced around. We weren’t alone. There was a kid in a Durant Quarterback Club T-shirt who was trying to bulk up his 145-pound frame at one of the Universal machines. I’m not sure why he was up here—there were no televisions, and it wasn’t as fancy as the main gym downstairs. I understood all the machines up here—you didn’t have to plug any of them in—but I wondered about him; it could be that he was here because of Cady. “Two more.” “Piss off.” The kid snickered, and I looked at him. I glanced back at my daughter. This was good; anger sometimes got her to finish up, even if it cost me the luxury of conversation for the rest of the evening. It didn’t matter tonight; she had a dinner date and then had to be home for an important phone call. I had zip. I had all the time in the world. She had cut her auburn hair short to match the spot where they had made the U-shaped incision that had allowed her swelling brain to survive. Only a small scar was visible at the hairline. She was beautiful, and the pain in the ass was that she knew it. It got her pretty much whatever sh...
