Excerpt #1

Chapter 1

“To paraphrase a deceased patriot, I regret that I have only one life to give to my fly-fishing.”
- Robert Traver

A shiny black raven shot a raucous caw toward the blue whitewater raft that nudged its nose into the Arkansas River bank. Disturbed, the bird flapped its wide wings and swooped to another large peachleaf willow farther downstream, where it scolded the two interlopers in the raft.

Ignoring the Native American’s keeper of secrets, Mandy Tanner stowed her bow paddle and stepped out onto the muddy bank. She planted a sandaled foot against an exposed sandbar willow root to keep from slipping then pulled on the bow line to beach the raft.

The stern paddler, Steve Hadley, her boss and the chief river ranger of the Arkansas Headwaters Recreation Area, swept his paddle in the calm water of the eddy to give her an assist.

Mandy secured the bowline to a nearby wooden post sunk into the river’s shoreline at the Vallie Bridge campground for just that purpose. Then she stretched and drank in the sight of the collegiate range of the Colorado Rockies to the east. The 14,000 foot-plus peaks of Mt. Harvard, Mt. Oxford, Mt. Yale, Mt. Princeton and Mt. Columbia knifed into the clear blue sky. Mandy reluctantly dragged her gaze down to the muddy earth and held the raft still for her boss.

“This should be an easy clean-up,” Steve said while he clambered out of the raft.

Since the campground was solely walk-in or boat-in access, it had only sixteen primitive tent campsites partly shaded by four large peachtree willows. Even the pit toilets were located at the day use area next to the road about a hundred yards away. Vallie Bridge was the least used of the six campgrounds maintained by the AHRA.

“So you only assign yourself the easy ones?” Mandy flashed a teasing grin at Steve.

Of course, as Steve's partner on this end-of-the summer trash pickup excursion, she benefited from the light assignment, too. Usually she got the worst grunt work and shifts, this being her first season as a river ranger. That meant a lot of sweaty tree and brush removal and busy weekend river patrols dealing with clueless, and often inebriated, tourists.

“Seniority has its privileges.” Steve unzipped his personal floatation device, shucked it and tossed it into the raft. The short sleeves of his dark green ranger shirt exposed well-tanned and muscled arms.

Heat waves shimmered off the parched ground. Mandy followed Steve's lead, removing her PFD and lifting her blond ponytail off her damp neck. An early September Monday in Chaffee County, this one was showing signs of being a record-breaking scorcher. While Steve took a long pull on his water bottle, Mandy shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare and scanned the Vallie Bridge campground. All the tent sites looked deserted.

With the annoyed raven now quiet, the only sound was the hot wind soughing through the nearby willow trees, bringing with it the scent of baking dry vegetation, and something else...

Mandy wrinkled her nose. “Something smells rank.”

Excerpt #2

Sitting with her back against a willow tree and her knees drawn up before her, Mandy stared out over the water, hoping to release the grisly image burned on her retinas. She tried to force her thoughts to flow with the calming movement of the water sparkling in the sunlight. The river’s story was that life goes on, regardless. Death, however, still stalked her mind.

Footsteps approached and someone cleared his throat beside her. She looked up.

Steve leaned down to rest a hand on her shoulder, his brow furrowed. “Feeling better?”

Mandy nodded, even though it wasn’t true.

He squatted and joined her in contemplating the river. The last hour flashed through her synapses. After her stomach had stopped contracting, she’d hollered Steve’s name over and over while she scrambled away on all fours, putting distance between herself and the dead man.

When Steve came running, she’d warned him before he saw the body, so he could steel himself. Then he radioed headquarters, which dispatched calls to the fire department for an ambulance, the county coroner, and the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Department. Mandy and Steve had waited for the caravan to drive, with lights flashing, across the County Road 45 bridge to the day use area parking lot, then up the hundred yard gravel walking path to the campground. The vehicle occupants got out, to a cacophony of slamming doors, and pulled out a stretcher and forensic equipment.

Detective Victor Quintana had quickly gone to work, directing evidence collection and telling Mandy and Steve to stay put. By now, it was well past lunchtime, but Mandy hadn’t the stomach to eat the PBJ sandwich baking in the World War II relic waterproof ammo box that served as her lunchbox.

She’d noticed Steve hadn’t touched his lunch either.

Quintana crunched up and lowered his stocky, middle-aged frame onto a downed log across from Mandy and Steve. Sweat circles bloomed under the armpits of his dark blue uniform. He swiped a handkerchief across his swarthy brow, then stowed it in his pants pocket.

Stroking his black mustache, he peered at her. “Second death in your first season. Might be a record, Mandy.”