LITMIR.BIZ

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but if it doesn’t kill us, we’ll need a first aid kit. Need to clean and put something on that. So . . . why a dress?”

      She took her eyes off the river and glared. “Now why is that any of your damned business?”

      “It’s not.” Jack eyed the surge lapping the rock, only feet below, sloshing through cottonwood branches. “Sorry.”

      Lizzy sighed. “Simple. Comfort. It’s cool in the heat.” She gave a rub to her thigh. “We’re gonna die.” She let out a sad little laugh. “All I’ve been thinking about lately . . . a big purchase I want to make . . . seems rather petty when facing the prospect of dying.”

      “We might make it to shore.”

      “You don’t sound confident, and the water keeps rising, getting worse.” Eyes on the river, her shoulders dropped. “If we’re swept to our deaths, Jack Chastain, what are you going to regret? . . . If that’s possible . . . regretting something when you’re dead.”

      “Pain, for those who’ll miss me.”

      She nodded.

      “And . . . the work I didn’t finish. This time, I thought . . .”

      She gave him another glance. “This time?”

      “You don’t want to know about the other . . . but this time, I hoped to protect folks . . . from those who play games with their lives, confuse ’em, make ’em go to war with each other.”

      She cocked her head. “I just realized why I’ve heard your name. You’re the guy . . . that made people listen to each other.”

      Jack shrugged. “I’m not sure that’s what . . .”

      She cut him off. “No, you’re the guy.” She crossed her arms and glared at the river. “That settles it. We’re not dying here. Not today. You have unfinished business.”

      Jack sighed.

      They watched in silence. Minutes passed. The river crept higher, splashing their feet. Jack scooted back, taking the last inches. Cottonwood limbs scraped toward them. They teetered at the tip of the rock. Then, water seemed to recede.

      Uncertain, they watched. A few minutes more and Lizzy raised a hand. She pointed at the waterline. “Told ya. We’re not dying today. Not to some fluke storm.”

      He exhaled, then felt her studying him.

      She brushed a red, sun-lit curl behind an ear. The wind blew it free. “I owe you.”

      “You don’t.”

      “I do, and I’m sorry, I was a jerk back there. I thought you were hitting on me.”

      Jack stared into the distance. “I’m taken.”

      “Obviously. I’m half naked, you’re worried about a little flood.” She laughed. “I didn’t notice before . . . you have nice blue eyes, even if you are taken. Your sunglasses . . .”

      “Lost ’em.”

      “Then I owe you twice.”

      “You don’t. Comes with the job.”

      “No, I owe you. Big time. Maybe you don’t keep track of favors, but the world does. I want karma on my side, my debts paid.”

      “Then buy me a beer. After you buy a new dress.”

      Piece at a time, sticks, brush, and—last—the uprooted cottonwood, dislodged from the jam and floated downstream.

      A kayaker appeared, paddling through riffles at a bend in the river. They watched Paul Yazzi navigate the edge of red, muddy strands marking midstream. The river straightened, and he paddled nearer to shore.

      Upstream, on the opposite bank, a band of people appeared, picking their way through boulders along the fringe of debris-draped willow at river’s edge.

      They moved quickly, likely having seen the first raft eddied out on their side of the river. A man in white T-shirt, probably Stew, reached the eddy, dove in, and returned with the rope. Forming a line, they pulled the raft to shore, then began their efforts to upright it.

      Yazzi approached. He pulled into a rocky shallow, and steadied himself with his paddle. “Any sign of the other man?”

      Jack pointed. “He’s okay.”

      Paul glanced that way, then back. “I cannot get anyone on the radio. Dead spot. For now, we are on our own.” He paused. “You okay? Where’s your kayak?”

      “In pieces. We’re okay. We can wait for the raft.”

      Paul beached and walked upstream, lugging his kayak, following the river’s edge.

      “Stew’s got his oars,” Lizzy muttered. “Pins and clips held. Hope I’ve got mine.” She chuckled self-consciously. “This is gonna be embarrassing when the clients see me.”

      “You’re lucky to be alive.”

      “I know, but those guys.” She nodded upstream. “Old frat bros. Together, first time in years, behaving like they’re back in college. Unbearable. Now . . . look at me.” She flipped a strip of cloth.

      “Everything’s fine. Act normal. You’re a river god.”

      “Does that speech usually end with, you’re a ranger?”

      He let out a chuckle. “Maybe.”

      She laughed. “River god . . .” She lay back and relaxed. “Everything’s fine. Normal.” A sparkle came to her deep, green eyes. Then she closed them. “I might see a bump in tips. Might even pay for a new dress.”

      —·—

      The two rafts sat in an eddy, tied to a cottonwood. Assessments were made of damage and losses. A few river bags missing. Might be found downstream. One of Lizzy’s oars, gone. Her spares, still lashed to the tube. Seemingly oblivious to the rips in her dress, she sorted through gear, found her river bag—still tied under the frame—and slipped into shorts and a T-shirt. She proceeded to reassemble her oars and began the process of repacking.

      Jack and Paul turned to assess their own losses.

      One kayak destroyed. PVC quadrat for assessing plant cover, gone, probably no chance of finding it. Jack’s lunch and change of clothes, gone. Data logger and radio, found, and—most important —dry, both in a dry bag that had been lashed to a strut on the kayak, and found floating in the eddy.

      “Not bad,” Jack muttered, eyeing the gear. He ran a hand over his face.

      “You okay?” Paul asked. “You look shaken.”

      “Shaken? I’m okay. You?”

      “Frustrated.” Paul looked upstream. “That drainage. Those veg plots. They were important. The ones I needed most.”

      “We’ve been out since sunrise, hauling ass down river. Why the urgency?”

      “Because of what happens today. Agency chiefs . . . I’m not sure they have the political will, but if they do . . .”

      “Are you serious? Regarding veg plots?”

      “No, not plots. A permittee. This reach of river runs along Moony Manson’s allotment.”

      “Manson?”

      “Rancher. He hasn’t paid grazing fees in years. His cattle are in trespass.”

      “So because of the drought . . .?”

      Paul shook his head. “More complicated. Wild horses. From Colorado, searching for food. Horse advocates want them left alone, no matter how much they beat up the range.”

      “They can cause lots of damage.”

      “Yes.

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