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  “It’s too dark to make out the deer,” she went on, “but not dark enough for their eyes to shine when the light strikes them. I’m always afraid to go very fast for fear I’ll hit one.”

  Loni said nothing.

  “You’ve done your best,” Deirdre reminded her gently. “That was the plan all along. Right? You’ve fulfilled your obligation to little Trevor, whether his father believed you or not.”

  “He didn’t. Not even close. I think he almost laughed at one point.”

  “Try not to be too rough on him. Out of the blue, you knocked on his door and told him a crazy story. He has no idea who you are. Not everyone is lucky like me and personally knows three psychics. As a result, a lot of people think it’s all a bunch of hogwash.”

  “You’re defending him.”

  “Yeah, sort of, I suppose. Was he that nasty?”

  “Not nasty, exactly. Mocking would be a better word.”

  Deirdre mulled that over. “At least he heard you out before showing you the door. It could have been worse.”

  “He listened, but he didn’t hear.” Loni swallowed hard. A burning sensation washed over her eyes. “Why did God give me this gift if no one but me believes in it? What purpose does it serve?”

  “I believe in it,” Deirdre reminded her. “Don’t take it so hard. You knew before you went to see him that he probably wouldn’t listen.”

  “I just wanted…” Loni braced an elbow against her door to cup a hand over her eyes. “Trevor’s out there, and he needs help. Clint Harrigan is the only person who can save him. God. I can’t do this. It hurts too much.”

  “Don’t let it hurt. You’ve done your part. The rest is up to your dream cowboy.”

  “Don’t call him that. Not ever again. Just take me home, Deirdre. I’m exhausted.”

  As the car bumped along the road, Loni tried to console herself. It wasn’t her fault that Trevor’s father was a blockhead. She’d done everything she could, and that was all that God could expect of her.

  After navigating the darkening streets of Crystal Falls, Deirdre turned onto Oak and parked in front of Loni’s rental. “Want me to come in? Michael’s with the boys. I’m in no hurry. We can open a bottle of wine and drink our woes away.”

  Loni shook her head. “Another time, maybe. Right now I just need to sleep.”

  Except when Loni went inside and crawled into bed, sleep refused to come. She curled her arm over Hannah, who always slept beside her. But nothing, not even the rhythmic sound of the dog’s snores, soothed Loni. Trevor. He was out there, shuddering with cold. When Loni closed her eyes she saw him sharing a chocolate bar with Nana, who lay curled around the boy to keep him warm. It was a sweet vision, but also a terrifying one. Trevor was in a wilderness area and all alone except for his faithful dog. The child might survive for a few days, but in the end he would meet with tragedy.

  Loni had seen his blood.

  Chapter Two

  Clint hit the floor before dawn the next morning. After a fast shower while still half-asleep, he dressed hurriedly and went downstairs to grab a cup of wake-me-up, already brewed and waiting in the carafe of the automatic coffeemaker. Thirty minutes later he was in the stables feeding his horses, surrounded by all the smells he loved: leather, alfalfa hay, grain, and even manure. This was his world, the place where he felt most balanced and at ease. The whickering of the animals soothed him like a lullaby did a baby.

  At the other side of the arena Clint’s ranch foreman, Hooter McElroy, worked in tandem with him. Routine. Clint could have done the drill with his eyes closed. Instead his senses were heightened with pleasure, making him acutely aware of everything around him.

  When he and Hooter met at the far end of the cavernous arena, Clint asked, “You believe in psychics, Hooter?”

  Hooter, a short, stocky man of fifty-six, soon to be fifty-seven, tweaked his graying handlebar mustache as he considered the question. A twinkle of laughter danced in his green eyes. “You mean like them people on Court TV who help the cops solve crimes?”

  “Yeah.” Clint patted Melchisedek’s shoulder. The animal was a beautiful seven-year-old sorrel gelding that Clint had raised from birth. “What’s your take on them?”

  Hooter, who’d once been employed by Clint’s father and then had come to work for Clint as a foreman, adviser, and friend, was like a member of the Harrigan family. He scratched under his hat, a battered, tan Stetson that he’d been wearing for as long as Clint could remember. “Well, now, I don’t rightly know. I like watchin’ the programs, but I ain’t real sure people can do such things. I seen where one guy could look at a map while he was holdin’ somethin’ belongin’ to a missin’ person, and then he could pinpoint right where that person was.”

  “Did you believe it?”

  Hooter spat tobacco juice. “I like to think it’s possible. Sure would come in handy when I lose my keys.”

  Clint chuckled. He could always count on Hooter to make him laugh. “I watch those programs, tongue in cheek.”

  “That a polite way of sayin’ you think it’s a bunch of horseshit?”

  “I reckon so,” Clint replied.

  Only one thing still bothered Clint about Loni MacEwen’s strange visit last night: How the hell had she known where to find him? Maybe she’d waited out in the supermarket parking lot yesterday afternoon to get his license plate number. People could cross-reference information like that on the Internet if they had the right software. He’d seen a dark-haired woman sitting in a Suburban parked near his vehicle. A glare of sunlight on the windshield had kept him from seeing her clearly enough to be positive it was Loni MacEwen, but there was a strong possibility that she’d been watching him.

  It was the only reasonable explanation Clint could come up with.

  After finishing with the horses he worked at other chores until eight, then returned to the house for breakfast. Fresh coffee, eggs, bacon, and hash browns were on the menu. While he cooked, he turned on the kitchen television to keep him company. The ranch was too far from town to get cable, so he had a satellite dish, which gave him a large selection of viewing choices but didn’t offer local news. As a result he had to watch a Portland station, which kept him informed of what was happening across the state but only occasionally featured stories about Crystal Falls or the surrounding area.

  So he was surprised to hear the anchorwoman mention the Shoshone River and the Shoshone Wilderness Area, both in central Oregon. Interest piqued, he stopped cracking eggs into the skillet to look at the television. A male reporter dressed in casual clothing came on the screen. Behind him lofty ponderosa pines, a frothy stream, and rocky terrain created a gorgeous backdrop.

  “This is Scott Holmes, reporting to you live from the Shoshone Wilderness Area. Behind me you see the Shoshone River. Early yesterday afternoon Senator Robert Stiles, his wife, and their young son embarked on a rafting trip at Trevlow Landing, many miles east of here.” The camera panned the river, lingering on some white water upstream. “You’re seeing class-two rapids, which the Shoshone River is famous for, attracting rafters from all over the state because they can normally be navigated without much difficulty. But apparently the Stiles family encountered some sort of trouble as they made their way downstream.” The camera swung away from the white water to zoom in on a large orange raft that had been pulled up onto the rocky bank. “Authorities believe that the raft holding Senator Stiles; his wife, Sandra; their eight-year-old son, Trevor; and Nana, the family’s Saint Bernard, capsized. Search parties are combing the banks of the Shoshone for miles up-and downstream, hoping to find evidence that the family made it out of the water, but so far their efforts have been fruitless.”

  The camera lens retracted to give a broader view, revealing a uniformed forest ranger standing beside the reporter. Scott Holmes turned the microphone toward the other man. “Roger, as I understand it, the searchers have found no evidence that the Stiles family may have survived the accident?”

  The ranger shook his h
ead. “Not at this time, no, but we’re still searching. Countless volunteers have joined forces with experienced team leaders. They covered both sides of the stream last night with flashlights and made another pass again this morning. But in rugged terrain like this, it’s possible to miss something. We haven’t given up hope.”

  “And if further efforts turn up nothing?”

  The ranger’s expression grew grim. “For now that kind of speculation is premature. We have every reason to hope that Robert Stiles managed to get his family to safety.”

  Scott Holmes came back on the screen. “I understand that Senator Stiles is an experienced white-water rafter and woodsman who often brings his family into this area.”

  Roger’s face reappeared on the camera. “Very experienced, according to his parents.” He smiled slightly. “He grew up at the north end of the state and has always loved outdoor recreation.”

  “Yet the search parties have discovered two adult-size life jackets. Doesn’t that suggest that the senator and his wife may have ignored water safety guidelines?”

  “Not at all,” the ranger replied. “It’s true that two adult life jackets have been recovered, but we have no way of knowing how many flotation devices were aboard the raft. People sometimes carry extra gear.”

  “Is it true that helicopters equipped with heat sensors have flown over the terrain on both sides of the river for many miles up-and downstream?” the reporter asked.

  “Yes, but again, in this kind of terrain it’s possible to miss something.”

  The camera zoomed back in on Scott Holmes’s face. “There you have it, folks. Though there is still every reason to hope that the Stiles family will be found safe and sound, the searchers have turned up nothing. Stay tuned to KTVY for further updates.”

  Clint forgot about his hunger, his full attention now riveted on the television. A picture of Senator Stiles flashed on the screen, followed by a bust shot of his wife. Staring incredulously at the woman’s face, Clint clenched his hand over an egg, shattering its fragile shell.

  “Damn!”

  Barely able to jerk his gaze from the television, he grabbed for a towel to wipe the slime from his fingers. Nine years ago Sandra Stiles’s last name had been Michaels, and Clint had dated her. Honey brown hair, green eyes. Oh, yes, he remembered her well. They’d been an item for over six months, and at one point he’d almost asked her to marry him. Later they’d decided they weren’t right for each other after all, and they had ended the relationship on good terms. Shortly thereafter Sandra had moved back to Sweet Home, a small town at the north end of the state where she’d been raised.

  Clint had kept in contact with her by phone for a few months after she left the area. It had been the only responsible thing to do. During one ill-fated sexual encounter, the condom had torn, putting Sandra at risk of becoming pregnant. During all those phone conversations following their breakup, she’d never once hinted to Clint that she was carrying his child.

  But, oh, God, what if…?

  Cold sweat broke out on Clint’s body. He turned off the stove burners and sank onto a kitchen chair to stare in dazed disbelief at a photograph of little Trevor Stiles, a jet-haired, brown-eyed eight-year-old. Could Trevor be his son? The picture faded from the screen, but the kid’s face remained clear in his mind. Black hair, big brown eyes, a dimple on the chin that could one day become a cleft, and a nose that might bear the Harrigan stamp when the boy matured to manhood.

  Feeling strangely numb, Clint went back over all that Loni MacEwen had told him. An orange raft, a little boy named Trevor, and a Saint Bernard called Nana. Did you ever date a woman named Sandra? When she’d asked that question last night Clint had been too outraged by her audacity to think of Sandra Michaels, who’d long since been consigned to that curtained part of his brain where old memories grew dimmer with each passing year.

  Clint propped his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes. The Sandra Michaels he’d known had been a straightforward, honest woman with unshakable integrity. If she’d been pregnant with his baby she would have told him. Clint felt certain of that. But how could he discount Loni MacEwen’s story when she’d described the rafting accident in such detail?

  There had to be a rational explanation. Maybe MacEwen was one of those women who became obsessed with strange men. He’d already determined that she might have cross-referenced his license plate number to learn his name. It followed that she might also have seen or heard a news flash yesterday afternoon about the Stileses’ rafting accident.

  That was it, he decided. That had to be it. He had no idea how she might have discovered that he’d once dated Sandra. Maybe she was a friend of Sandra’s and had come by the knowledge that way. Clint only knew he didn’t believe in psychic phenomena, never had and never would.

  Determined to banish all doubt from his mind, Clint called an old high school buddy who worked at the local television station. When a female receptionist answered the phone, Clint asked to speak with Darrel Armstrong.

  Seconds later Darrel came on the line. “Hey, Clint, how’s it goin’?”

  It was good to hear Darrel’s voice. Clint hadn’t bumped into him for almost a year. “I can’t complain too much. How about you?”

  “Busy, man. I’ve moved up the ladder to full-time newshound. They’re running me ragged.” Papers rustled, and Clint heard the faint clack of a keyboard. “So what’s up?” Darrel asked.

  “I’m curious about a news bulletin I just saw on a Portland channel, the disappearance yesterday of Senator Robert Stiles and his family during a rafting trip.”

  “Tragic, isn’t it? Why things like that happen to decent people, I’ll never understand. Half the population of Oregon will be in mourning over Robert Stiles’s death.”

  “No bodies have been found yet,” Clint reminded him.

  “I know, I know,” Darrel replied. “The ranger was making happy talk about there still being hope, but—unofficially, of course—I think the family most likely drowned. The Shoshone River’s white water isn’t too bad, but its undertows are treacherous. Someone drowns in that damned river almost every year.”

  The thought that Sandra might be dead sent a chill up Clint’s spine.

  “If he’s dead, it’ll be a huge loss for our state,” Darrel went on. “Robert Stiles was honest and sincere. Don’t see that very often in a politician.”

  Clint didn’t follow politics closely, but if Sandra Michaels had married the man, he took it as a high recommendation. “Sandra, his wife…I used to date her. She’s a fine person.”

  “Hey, buddy, I’m sorry to hear that. I guess this hits pretty close to home for you, then.”

  Clint passed a hand over his eyes. “Yeah, it does. She was a good friend. But that isn’t why I called. I’m wondering if you might be able to tell me when word of the rafting accident first went public?”

  “This morning,” Darrel replied without hesitation. “They only found the raft a couple of hours ago. The way I understand it, the Stiles family was following friends down the river, but the senator put in to shore for a bathroom break, and the other raft got way ahead of them. They’d all agreed to meet at Boulder Bend, a popular camping spot for rafters. I’m not clear on whether they planned to spend the night there or continue downstream after stopping to rest. I only know the Stiles family never showed up at the designated meeting place.

  “After waiting a couple of hours, the friends grew concerned and called the ranger station by cell phone, but it got dark before any search parties could be brought in by helicopter. Volunteers did their best with flashlights, but they didn’t have much luck.”

  “Senator Stiles is an important man,” Clint pointed out. “Surely there were preliminary news bulletins notifying the public that he and his family were missing?”

  “At first nobody really thought they were missing. The rapids they went through aren’t that big a deal. The authorities believed Stiles had probably put in to shore because something had gone wrong. Sometimes
a rock will poke a hole in the rubber and the raft will take on water. Even after finding the gear they still thought the family could be stranded somewhere, waiting for help. Unfortunately the helicopter sweeps along the river turned up nothing but the capsized raft, which may have drifted countless miles before it caught on the rocks. If Stiles and his family had made it to shore, they would have stayed by the river so they could be easily spotted from the air.”

  Adults would have stayed by the river, but an eight-year-old boy might wander away from the stream and get lost. Clint felt cold, as if the temperature in the kitchen had plunged several degrees. “So you’re absolutely positive the public wasn’t informed of the incident yesterday?”

  “Certain sure, man. Why are you asking?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Clint replied.

  After ending the call, Clint just stood there, staring at the phone. When he’d collected his thoughts, he grabbed his Stetson and left the house to go see his dad, whose ranch bordered Clint’s to the south. Rather than saddle a horse for so short a jaunt, Clint chose to ride his ATV, a battered red Kawasaki. As he cut across his own pastures to reach his father’s, opening and closing gates as he went, he tried to slow his racing thoughts by focusing on the land he loved so much.

  Originally a twelve-hundred-acre parcel, it had been divided into six equal portions seventeen years ago by Frank Harrigan, the family patriarch. Frank had kept one section for himself, and deeded over the others to each of his five children when they turned twenty-one. Clint, being the oldest, had been the first to get his chunk of land and a hefty amount of working capital to start his own business.

  To date, sixteen years of his life had been invested in that business. Every fence post, every board, and every blade of grass were the result of countless hours of his hard work. For the first five years, he’d slaved from before dawn until after dark to make a go of his horse ranch, which he’d named the Circle H, after his dad’s ranch, the Bar H. Clint’s three brothers had followed suit, Parker dubbing his spread the Rocking H, Quincy calling his the Lazy H, and Zach’s pulling in the cow’s tail as the Crooked H. Only Samantha, the youngest and the only girl, had departed from the Harrigan tradition, naming her spread the Sage Creek Ranch, after a stream that meandered over the twelve hundred acres.