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. And when we act, we will get politics. Ugly politics.”
“Horse lovers or Manson?”
“Action on horses is difficult if we do not deal with Manson. I told the chief we need to impound his cattle. I want veg plots mon-itored before, not after.” He sighed. “I needed those plots.”
“We could hike back from on top.”
“That would take more time than I’ve got,” Yazzi muttered. “I need to finish today. There are two more sets of plots on his range. I’ll figure something out and do them alone.”
“Why?”
“Because, you have to go down with the rafts.”
“These guys have another overnight. I have to be in town tonight for the meeting.”
“You rest. Blow off the meeting.”
“I’ll help on the first plots, hike out from there, get picked up at the road.”
“Why
