The cloud cover over Miller's Ridge was thick, unbroken, and the color of bruised iron. It trapped the cold against the mountain, turning the midnight air into a sharp, heavy presence that bit through wool and leather. The wind was increasing, whistling through the jagged, unfinished cuts of the new switchback. In the far distance to the north, a low, baritone rumble of thunder rolled across the valley floor, but the heavy rain had not yet reached the elevation of the ridge.
The temporary lanterns, mounted on tall, rough-hewn pine poles planted along the hazardous outer edge of the cut, flickered erratically. Their pale yellow light cast long, shifting shadows over the heavy timber retaining walls and the massive piles of excavated shale. The camp was asleep. The heavy earthmovers were parked, their iron treads locked.
Julian was not asleep.
