LITMIR.BIZ

      Acknowledgments

      My Thanks To:

      Mike Kohlenberger—raft guide extraordinaire, teller of great stories, and the real Jedi Mike. A guide who would never ever toss a client into the drink on the Lost Guide, but who has the skill to do it if he wanted. You are the only person I ever based a character on. Thank you for all you taught me about rivers, the history of the Appalachian Mountains and their ecology. It is because of you that this book exists at all.

      Dave Crawford, owner of Rapid Expeditions in the Smoky Mountains, who gave us kayak instruction, kept us safe, took us rafting and had great stories. Thank you for all you taught me about myself. Because of you, I fell in love with hardboats and rivers, and I learned to relax.

      Dave Shook of Old Town Outfitters in Rock Hill, South Carolina, and his son Cameron Shook, who came up with gear information and…um…have I mentioned the great stories? River people have a lot of great stories!

      Sarah Bell of Green Rivers Adventures for the great trip down the Upper Green River. Loved the IKs—single-man inflatable kayaks! Ashlyn and Emily, you were great guides!

      Leah McDowell, for the lessons in kayak rolling at UNCA, University of North Carolina at Asheville, and for introductions to so many people.

      Becka Crawford, who named Rocking River.

      Ralph Altman for being a friend since high school, and for being so gracious as I tried to pick up kayaking skills.

      Robbie and Donna Ashley for the use of their pool while Rod and I learned to Eskimo roll.

      CeeCee Murphy for helping me work out the accident scene where Nell is injured. And who loves rivers with “nice drops” of twelve to twenty feet…

      My mom, Joyce Wright, for being my first and best reader, first and best fan, and for catching things I missed in the manuscript.

      Jeff Gerecke, my agent, who keeps the future in mind.

      Miranda Indrigo, my editor. Gifted with the broad view, a gentle—though thorough—editorial hand and an innate kindness. You have always made my books better, stronger, tighter and faster than my own limited vision.

      And last but never ever least, thanks to my husband, Rod, who has supported my careers, my dreams and my writing. And who was willing to take on a new sport, a new lifestyle (river rat) and a new way to travel (RVing). I’m the luckiest gal in the world.

      In memory of Delta

      Who gave us love, guarded the house

       and was an adventurer at heart.

      Contents

      PART ONE

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      PART TWO

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      1

      Six Years Ago

      Nell woke slowly, her eyes slit, blinded by sunlight. She blinked to clear the gummy substance away. Licked dry, cracked lips. Trees took shape overhead, fall leaves turning gold and red. Blue sky peeked beyond them and puffy clouds floated between. She was lying down. Outside. Lifting a hand, she encountered slithery cloth and held it up. It was her sleeping bag.

      She eased an arm out of the bag and braced her elbow on the ground, then pushed. Her arm quivered, so weak it barely lifted her. Slowly, she sat up. The world rocked and whirled, dipping like a class-V rapid. A mallet thumped rhythmically against the inside of her head.

      Nausea doubled her over; Nell reeled, retched, grabbing her head. Her pulse pounded. She retched again and again, dry heaves slamming around the pain in her skull, a wrecking ball intent on pulping her brain into mush. Intense thirst ripped at her throat. Her eyes burned, tearless. Shivers caught her. She clutched her head with a hand and the pain over her temple doubled. A pulpy knot rested beneath her palm.

      Dehydration. Shock? Yeah, shock. Bump on the head, likely concussion.

      Big freaking help, figuring out a diagnosis, she thought. She eased back down and eventually the nausea dissipated. Trees overhead stopped dancing. A bird called. Whitewater roared nearby. The air was cold and damp, the sensory stimulation as familiar as her own skin, yet nothing looked familiar from where she lay.

      Beneath the sleeping bag, she fingered polyester fleece, smooth against her hand. Under that, she felt the ultrafine knit of water-wicking synthetics—her cool-weather, stay-warm-even-if-you-get-wet long johns.

      Slowly, she turned her head and was rewarded with only a small increase in the rhythm of the hammer beating against her brain. The coals of a long-dead fire were close by. Four full water bottles.

      Water. Nell slid an arm out and grabbed a bottle, pulled it back under the sleeping bag. With trembling fingers, she opened it. Managed to drink a few sips without losing much to the cloth of the sleeping bag. After a few minutes, her stomach settled and she drank half of the water. Her body sucked up the fluid, demanding more. But she waited, allowing her system to accept it. If she drank it too fast she might throw it up and lose all the benefit. She remembered that from wilderness first-aid class, or maybe it was the swift water–rescue course. She didn’t remember why she was on a riverbank, alone, but if she could remember that much, the rest would surely come back.

      Gradually, sip by sip, Nell drank almost all of the twenty ounces and capped the bottle. Slowly she sat up again, holding her head to keep it together, sure it wanted to fly apart. She was lying on a flat space in a tiny clearing, not more than ten feet wide and maybe twelve feet long. A shelter had been built over her, thin boughs of fresh-cut tree branches resting over a single, larger branch. She held her hand over the stone-ringed fire pit. It was as cold as it looked. Deadwood was piled nearby, but hadn’t been used to feed the fire. Her kayak was overturned, hull up, resting atop her PFD, paddle, helmet, dry suit and kayak spray skirt. Her rescue rope had been used to secure the pine branches of her shelter in place. Her other rescue equipment, biners, pulleys, prusicks, were all piled together, half in, half out of the rescue-equipment bag. Near them was a cell phone, in pieces, turned on its side as if to dry out.

      She

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