Preston meadow kindercare: PRESTON MEADOW KINDERCARE – CLOSED – 22 Photos – 6900 Preston Meadow Dr, Plano, TX

Preston Meadow KinderCare | Plano TX

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About the Provider

Description:

Our experts designed our classrooms – and every activity and lesson – to help prepare your child for success in school and beyond. With designated learning centers such as dramatic play and blocks in every classroom, children have the opportunity for rich social play and child-initiated discovery.

You’ll also find that our classrooms feature a print-rich environment full of carefully selected materials, written charts and labels, and children’s literature. By helping your child connect spoken words and print, we’re helping develop early literacy and writing skills.

Whether your child has first words or first grade on the horizon, we’re excited to show you how everything in our center is designed for learning!

Andrea Knudsen, Center Director

Additional Information: Initial License Date: 2/2/1994.

Program and Licensing Details

• License Number:
  501932-747
• Capacity:
  153
• Age Range:
  Infant, Toddler, Pre-Kindergarten, School
• Enrolled in Subsidized Child Care Program:
  Yes
• Type of Care:
  Child Care Program
• Initial License Issue Date:
  Feb 02, 1994

Location Map

Inspection/Report History

Stepping Stones Academy – Rosenberg TX Licensed Center – Child Care Program

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CHICKEN BROTH, Pr.

Preston, 100g – product composition, detailed information

Prod.Expert

detailed information on the composition of goods

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Food

Use Pr. Preston Mushroom Broth for flavorful homemade meals. Cook your favorite soup, add as a seasoning to main courses and side dishes.

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Tail of a Scorpion read online Lincoln Child, Douglas Preston (Page 3)

2

Two weeks later

When they reached the trail leading to Oso Peak, Sheriff Homer Watts stopped, removed his flask from his saddlehorn, and took a sip of water. The view from the trail was breathtaking: the slopes overgrown with cedars descended to the desert far below. The coming September added a pleasant freshness to the mountain air, fragrant with pine needles. It’s been a long time since Homer Watts took a day off, and now it’s been a fine day, as if on cue. Well, just a gift from above!

Watts patted the neck of his horse Chaco affectionately, hung up the flask and tapped the horse’s sides lightly with his heels. Chaco moved slowly forward, up the trail to the headwaters of Nix Creek. Watts brought with him everything you need for a relaxing day of fishing: a bamboo spinning rod in an aluminum tube, a bait box with flies and maggots, a catch basket, a knife, a compass, lunch, a flask of whiskey and an old pair of grandfather’s Peacemaker Colts in the same ancient holsters.

He rode slowly along the trail, through shade and sun, past thickets of yellow pine [Pine yellow (or Oregon, or ponderosa) – a large tree of the pine family, grows in western North America.] and flower meadows, lulled by the gentle rocking in the saddle . On the ledge, woodland gave way to a wide meadow, on the far side of which three black-tailed deer, a male and two females, were grazing. The sudden appearance of Watts frightened the animals, and they rushed away. He stopped and looked after them.

Crossing the meadow, the sheriff noticed a puff of smoke to his left in the foothills, on a plateau at the foot of the mountains. He stopped his horse again, took out his binoculars and aimed them at the suspicious spot. It’s a dry season right now, and a fire could be catastrophic. But, looking through the eyepieces, Watts was convinced that it was not smoke at all, but chaotic clouds of sandy dust, kicked up by some activity on the plateau. The sheriff knew the area well, and there was an abandoned mining camp called High Longsam, one of the most isolated and untouched ghost towns in the southwest.

Well, how is this to be understood? Someone obviously started something, and judging by the size of the clouds, something is not good.

Watts hesitated. Turning to the right, the trail will take him to Nix Creek, where he will have a calm day with a fishing line on the banks of a babbling stream, in whose deep pools and whirlpools rainbow trout flicker. And having gone left, Watts will go down to High-Lonsam and, how to drink, run into big trouble.

“Damn!” thought Watts, slowly turning his horse to the left.

The terrain descended steeply, the trail meandering along the Gold Ridge. Gradually alpine pines were replaced by junipers. Watts rounded the side of the ridge and in front of him was a ghost town, a sprawl of old mud-brick and stone buildings on the edge of the plateau. Watts stopped his horse and took out his binoculars again. His suspicions were confirmed: well, exactly, a black digger. A man was shoveling sand out of the basement of a destroyed house with a shovel, a pickup truck was parked nearby.

The Sheriff’s ears were pounding. He knew High Lonsam like the back of his hand: his father had taken him on hikes since childhood. This remote ghost town that few have heard of has escaped the looting and vandalism that has plagued most of the state’s deserted mining towns. Of course, from time to time, drunken teenagers who came from Socorro to wander in the mountains for the weekend were hooligans here, but there were no serious incidents in High Longsam. This place was not even mentioned in any of the New Mexico ghost town guidebooks. Still, try to get here.

But here’s some son of a bitch planning to make money here.

Watts left the trail and moved on, hiding among the cedars. He wanted to grab the black digger and therefore could not allow him to notice the sheriff and run away. In fact, the whole area was under the jurisdiction of the Bureau of Land Management, and therefore not within the jurisdiction of Watts, but he, as the elected sheriff of Socorro County, had every right to arrest this bastard and turn him over to the Bureau police.

After a while the slope leveled off. Watts set his horse at a light pace and rode out into an open area on the outskirts of the city. The black digger could not be seen from there: buildings blocked the far part of the plateau. Watts directed the horse through the streets of the city, trying not to catch the criminal’s eyes. The wind roared relentlessly through the ruins of the houses, and tumbleweeds swept past in a scene from a western.

As they got closer, Watts got a good look at the pickup truck. He recognized this old Ford: the car belonged to Peak Rivers.

So Peak Rivers. Here’s someone Watts didn’t expect to meet here. Once upon a time, Rivers was a sassy little shit who used methamphetamine and sold antiques to raise money for his addiction. But about two years ago, Rivers took up his mind – a short term in prison scared him a lot – and since then he has not been seen in any offenses.

When they reached the far end of town, Watts stopped Chaco behind the house, dismounted, and tied the reins to a wooden fence post. He patted the horse’s neck again, muttering sweet words. After a moment’s hesitation, he removed both holsters from his saddle horn, took out his weapon, made sure that both revolvers were loaded, put them back in their holsters and fastened them to his belt. God saves man, who save himself. Rivers was one of those who likes to keep his guns in plain sight, and his “Smith-Wesson” with an L-frame was worn exclusively on the hip.

Watts came around the corner and looked around the building where Rivers was digging in the basement. The two-story mud-brick house stood on the outskirts, the top floor almost completely collapsed. The man worked with a shovel in the basement, throwing sand through a broken window. Needless to say, he worked hard. “I wonder what he found there?” thought Watts.

The sheriff approached the house slowly, his hand resting on the handle of the revolver on his left thigh. Rivers obviously found something: he bent down and began to dig more carefully. Finally, he knelt down and began to rake the earth and dust with his hands. He was completely absorbed in his occupation, besides, the basement was shrouded in dust, and Rivers did not even notice that Watts was creeping up behind him.

The sheriff stopped at the entrance to the basement, from where he had a clear view of the hard-working criminal, and called out to him:

— Rivers!

The man froze, kneeling with his back to Watts.

It’s me, Sheriff Watts. Come out with your hands up. Come on!

He did not move.

— Are you deaf or something? Raise your hands.

Without looking back, Rivers obeyed.

“I can hear you, sheriff,” he said.

— Well, if you hear it, get out of there.

– I’m going.

Rivers started to get up, but suddenly dropped his hands and turned around abruptly. Clutching the revolver in both hands, he aimed straight at Watts.

The Sheriff drew his Colt, and at that very moment Rivers’ Smith & Wesson rumbled like a cannon fire.

3

As Special Agent Svenson emerged from the closet, two junior agents in the hallway cut off the conversation suspiciously quickly. Without making eye contact, Corey walked past and returned to her desk at the FBI regional office in Albuquerque, on Luking Park Avenue. Sitting down, she pulled the folder towards her, the contents of which she studied. Her corner was located in the darkest part of the room, where the light from the windows did not reach. Newcomers were usually seated here, and as they climbed up the career ladder, they were assigned seats closer and closer to the glass wall, behind which a panoramic view of the mountains opened. But Corey was even glad that she didn’t have to look at the eleven thousand feet of Sandia Crest, covered with the first snow of the year, because the only thing that reminded her of this landscape was her failure. What a bitter irony: just two weeks ago, these mountains were linked to Corey’s most successful case in her short tenure. And now she didn’t know at all if she could ever look at the Sandia Mountains without shame and remorse.

After the shootout, the standard and expected investigation was carried out. But Corey was not reprimanded and no disciplinary action was taken against her. Moreover, she received verbal praise for saving a hostage’s life at the risk of her own. And – about happiness! – the bullet only hit the girl, passing on a tangent. She was given several stitches and the next morning she was sent to her grandparents, before which they attached a whole armada of psychologists to her. The blood that had frightened Corey so much belonged to the poor child’s mother, who lay dead on the trailer floor.

Still, Corey couldn’t forgive herself. Even from ten yards, she should have hit the criminal right in the head. After all, she took aim properly, this bastard was at her gun. And the sight of the pistol was not shot down, Corey was later convinced of this in the shooting range. She just missed, gave up at the decisive moment. Of course, in her course, Corey was far from the best shooter, but she was not among the worst. Yes, the results she showed are not brilliant: forty-nine out of sixty – just one point more than the required minimum. But a quarter of her classmates failed the exam at all. Nothing prevented Corey from taking down the criminal with a well-aimed shot, and then she would become the heroine of the day, she would be honored with an announcement of gratitude in the order, further strengthen her reputation and finally establish herself in the status of an agent of great promise.