“Whoa. You own this place?” I ask.
“Sorta. We bought it via a conglomerate with a few friends of ours.”
Rafe unlocks the front door to what he called a “ski lodge” but is in actuality a mansion. The floors are pale gleaming wood, polished to a marble-like shine, and the building stretches out in all directions. The living room features a fireplace suspended in the center of the room, with another wall of windows like Rafe’s place in Taos. Clearly he has a thing for bringing the wilderness indoors.
Some military-looking guy met us on the tarmac in Utah and handed Rafe a set of keys to a Jeep. And we drove another hour into the mountains to get here.
“Friends?” I ask, gaping at the vaulted ceilings. “Are they here? Is this where they live?”
“Nah. They have their own place in Tucson. It’
