The past and future collide in this gripping new addition to the beloved New York Times bestselling Longmire series. It’s the summer of 1964, and recent college graduates Walt Longmire and Henry Standing Bear read the writing on the wall and enlist to serve in the Vietnam War. As they catch a few final waves in California before reporting for duty, a sudden storm assaults the shores and capsizes a nearby cargo boat. Walt and Henry jump to action, but it’s soon revealed by the police who greet them ashore that the sunken boat carried valuable contraband from underground sources. The boys, in their early twenties and in the peak of their physical prowess from playing college football for the last four years, head out on Route 66. The question, of course, is how far they will get before the consequences of their actions catch up to them—the answer being, not very. Back in the present day, Walt is forced to speak before a Judge following the fatal events of The Longmire Defense . With powerful enemies lurking behind the scenes, the sheriff of Absaroka County must consider his options if he wishes to finish the fight he started. Going back and forth between 1964 and the present day, Craig Johnson brings us a propulsive dual timeline as Walt Longmire stands between the crossfire of good and evil, law and anarchy, and compassion and cruelty at two pivotal stages in his life. Praise for First Frost "[A] vivid, tightly written novel . . . Readers new to the series won’t have difficulty following the action, and longtime Longmire fans are likely to appreciate how the author fleshes out the main character’s backstory." — Associated Press 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 and the Mountain & Plains Independent Booksellers Association's Reading the West Book Award for fiction. His novella Spirit of Steamboat was the first One Book Wyoming selection. He lives in Ucross, Wyoming, population 26. 1 "You're too big to surf." I took another sip of my Rainier, smiled, and then looked up at the ten-foot surfboard stuffed in the floor joists of my cabin's little-known basement. "I didn't used to be." Victoria Moretti balanced on the stepladder and stroked a hand over the board, detecting the little scuffs, dents, and scars on the otherwise remarkably smooth varnished surface. "It's a monster." "The Monolith, as Henry used to call it." I sat on the concrete steps that led down from the Bilco doors into the cellar. "They used to be even bigger back in the day, in Hawaii-the Duke boards." "The Duke, you mean John Wayne?" I smiled. "No, Kahanamoku, kind of the father of surfing." She shook her head. "So, you mean to tell me that when you went to college in California you actually surfed?" When I smiled at her she pushed up, lifting one end of the longboard. "It's heavy." "About a hundred pounds, stout for the day. It's a Bob Simmons sandwich model, one of his early designs, but it's still got the twin fins." "Who's Bob Simmons?" "Another surfing legend." "And he sold you the board?" "No, he died back in '54 so I never met him. The smaller, more maneuverable boards were all the rage in the 60s and those big boards were going for a song-I bought that one for thirty bucks and strapped it to the top of a Country Squire station wagon on the Pacific Coast Highway near the Santa Monica Pier." Pushing her thick, dark hair back from her face and tarnished-gold eyes, she ran her fingers over the fins as if the board might swim away. "You hauled this thing all the way back from Southern California?" "Not exactly." "Then what?" I took another sip of my beer. "It's a long story." She stared at me for a moment before carefully climbing down the ladder to stroll over and take the beer from my hand. With a final look she lifted the Rainier and downed the whole thing, then handed me back the empty can, but only after crushing it. "You've got to stop saying that." "What?" "That long story shit." "Sorry, I guess I'm kind of distracted." I tossed the crumpled can into the trash by the steps, pulled another one from the sixer by my boots, and offered it to her. "Frosty beverage?" She sat on the hard steps beside me and took the beer and then pointed toward the surfboard, specifically at the ragged gouge in the front edge. "We'll start small; tell me about that dent in the front there." I snorted. "What?" "That actually is a long story." She torqued open the can and looked at me with the electrified eyes, transmitting the thought that if my lips didn't start moving pretty quickly my goose was cooked. When I didn't say anything, she stood, turned, and walked up the steps out into the blazing sunlight above. We'd been living together for over a month, something that neither of us had been used to for quite some time. I'd never thought o