The Patrick Flint Series: Books 4-6 Box Set: Scapegoat, Snaggle Tooth, and Stag Party: Patrick Flint Box Sets, #2

PROLOGUE

The Tukudika River, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming

Saturday, June 25, 1977, 6:00 a.m.

Trish

Trish Flint braced herself as they approached another set of rapids. Her arms and legs were shaking. The river narrowed, and the canoe picked up speed. Tall, gray rock walls rose on either side of them. All of a sudden, the boulders in the water were bigger. And then . . . the riverbed just fell away. From her position at the bow, she had the first glimpse of what was in front of them, and below them. It wasn’t exactly a waterfall. More like a nightmare version of the Log Ride at Six Flags over Texas. She’d never liked that ride, either.

Trish gulped, then screamed.

Hold on, Bunny. Her Grandpa Joe’s voice sounded funny as he cautioned his youngest granddaughter, Trish’s cousin.

Bunny didn’t squeal this time. She let out a blood-curdling wail.

Down, down, down the canoe went. Trish gripped the seat and braced her feet in the V of the canoe’s nose. And none too soon. As the canoe plunged, her bottom separated from the seat. Icy water rushed over her, drenching her entire body. She screamed again from the shock of it, but she held on as the bow landed in flatter water, dipped, then rose. Her tush slammed back into the seat.

She was still in the canoe.

SMASH.

The canoe careened off a boulder beside her.

Bunny’s wails escalated like a siren. There was nothing Trish could do for her. She couldn’t even turn to see if she was all right.

Don’t let go, Buns! Trish shouted. She got a mouthful of water for her efforts.

The canoe crashed into something below the waterline. The impact jarred Trish so hard that her front teeth snapped shut, and she was afraid she’d broken them. The canoe strained forward over the obstacle. The scraping noise was terrible, like a shriek. Is the bottom of the canoe ripped out?

WHAM.

The canoe broke free only to slam into another boulder, this one on its opposite side. All around Trish, the water boiled, pummeling and drenching her relentlessly. She could barely get air without choking, and she couldn’t see in front of her to time her breaths with what was coming next. Her hands ached from the cold, and it was getting harder to hold on to the seat. The noise of the water shooting through the canyon drowned out Bunny’s wails now.

Without warning, the canoe dropped, and with it, Trish’s stomach. Her bottom floated off the seat. It felt like the time she’d been bucked off her first pony, a bad-tempered, furry little beast who bit and kicked. And those were his good qualities. Not like Goldie, her beautiful, perfect girl, her current horse, the one of her dreams. The pony’s name had been Cotton. Something had spooked him—something was always spooking him—and he’d ducked his head and kicked his back legs up and out. She hadn’t been ready for it. The next thing she knew, she had the sensation of air between her and the saddle. Of her thighs losing their grip and her knees and feet coming up, limp and loose like the limbs of a rag doll.

WHAM.

Of her hands on the reins and the saddle horn her only tether to the crazed animal.

WHAM.

Of the pull on her fingers as they slowly lost their grip.

WHAM.

And then the feeling of . . . flying . . . time slowing . . . wondering if it would hurt when she landed . . . would she be on her back? Her head? Her butt? Her stomach?

That was how she felt now, too, as she was catapulted up and out of the canoe.

She was pretty sure she landed hands and face first in the river, but it hurt everywhere. Everywhere. She’d only thought the water was cold before. When she went under it, she felt like she’d been electrocuted. The current didn’t give her any time to get her bearings either. She hurtled down the river, unsure which way was up. Unable to see anything. Air. I need air. She scrambled and flailed her arms. They found nothing to grab onto. Her lungs were burning. She couldn’t keep her mouth closed much longer. Her legs smashed into a rock. The pain was intense, but she managed to kick off from it. When she did, her face broke the surface of the water. Her eyes and mouth flew open at the same time. The breath she drew in was wonderful for a fraction of a second, until water poured in after it. She gagged. But as she gagged, she kicked her legs in front of her, threw her arms out to the side, and tilted her head up. Her dad had told her what to do. She wasn’t going to drown out here. She was only sixteen. She had friends. Her best friend Marcy. Goldie. Her silly dog Ferdie. Her family. And she had her—her Ben. How odd that I think of him now when I’m about to die. She wanted to see Ben. Her parents wouldn’t like it. But she wanted him to be her boyfriend.

She gasped for another breath.

She wanted a driver’s license. She wanted to be on the cross-country team. She wanted to buy a car. She wanted to go to her senior prom. To the University of Wyoming. Become a wildlife biologist. Get married. Have kids. Again, Ben’s face flashed in her mind.

Another breath, less water this time.

Was it her imagination, or was the river slowing down? Her eyes were on the blue, blue sky, so she couldn’t judge distance. But in her peripheral vision, she thought the rock walls had disappeared. That trees had replaced them. Yes. Trees, and they were growing further apart. In the water, there were less obstacles. Just a few rocks she hit with her feet.

Another breath, no water.

Grandpa Joe! she screamed, then coughed and gagged again when she slurped in more water. She choked it back out. Help! Help me!

I’m coming. It was her grandfather’s voice.

She heard the fast, rhythmic splash of his paddle. Her teeth were chattering. Her right calf was cramping with a Charley horse. Hurry. P-p-p-please.

Then the nose of the canoe passed her, and there was Bunny, crying. Something hard hit Trish’s hand. The paddle. She tried to grab it, but her fingers wouldn’t bend. She shouted. Argh! She tried again, and this time she got hold of it. She rolled over and hugged it to her.

Grandpa Joe pulled her toward the canoe. I’m going to lever you up, and you’re going to have to climb in.

I’m c-c-c-cold.

His voice was hard. I don’t care, Trish. You need to get in this canoe, without flipping us, on your first try, or we’ll all go in. I can’t help you and Bunny at the same time. Do you understand?

Grandpa Joe was right. He didn’t make her feel good, but he was right. She loved Bunny. She’d worked really hard to keep her safe. She couldn’t be the reason Bunny drowned with no life jacket. No life jacket. She’d just survived getting dumped in freezing whitewater with no life jacket. She nearly laughed aloud.

Of course I can do this. This was nothing compared to what she’d already done.

She kept her eyes on Grandpa Joe as he muscled her upwards by the other end of the paddle. His teeth were gritted and the veins in his neck bulged. His shoulders were shaking. But she rose a few inches out of the river. She hadn’t realized how strong he was. She’d always thought of him as old and weak, but he wasn’t. He was as strong as her dad. She wished she could make this easier for him, but all she could do was hold still.

When he had her high enough, he braced the paddle on the far side of the canoe. Now. Climb in now.

Trish reached her arms across the canoe, between Grandpa Joe and Bunny. She let her weight flop onto the canoe’s edge.

Lean, Bunny. And scoot to the edge of your seat, away from Trish, Grandpa Joe ordered.

The little girl whimpered, but Trish heard a rustling sound as she did what she was told.

Trish’s legs felt like they were anchored to the bottom of the river. She had to get them out of the water. There were no good handholds. She wriggled and scrambled to get her hips over the side, dragging her legs after her. So heavy. Finally, her upper body was far enough in that it tipped the scales. She flopped onto the bottom of the canoe and rolled into an inch of standing water. She stared upward, blinded by the sun, and panted. Air, with no water. It felt wonderful.

Good job. Grandpa Joe patted her shoulder.

His hand was warm. So was his voice.

She tried to smile.

Trish! Bunny cried.

I’m okay, Buns.

Back in your seat, Trish. Now. Grandpa Joe’s voice was hard again.

Okay. The canoe rocked as Trish slithered over the middle seat, pausing to kiss Bunny’s warm hair. Then she was on her knees and crawling on to the bow seat. She adjusted herself in the seat to take full advantage of the sun’s warmth. She closed her eyes. Time slipped away from her. She wasn’t sleeping. Not really. Just recovering.

Grandpa Joe’s voice jolted her to alertness. Time to hold on again, girls.

Trish wasn’t ready for more rapids. She looked ahead of them. No, she whispered.

She braced and gripped. She had to stay in the canoe this time. She thought about climbing back on her pony Cotton after he’d bucked her off. She’d landed on her butt on the ground. It had hurt, but her dad hadn’t let her quit.

Trish, that pony needs to know you’ll always get back on. Otherwise, he’ll buck any time he wants to be done for the day, from here on out. Is that what you want?

Tears had been streaming down her face. She’d shaken her head. Her dad had tossed her into the saddle. Cotton had started to get shifty immediately.

He’s going to buck, Daddy.

What will you do this time?

I don’t know.

You’re going to put weight in your feet like you’re standing on them. Then you’re going to make your bottom the heaviest part of your body. You’re going to glue it to that saddle. Show me.

What do you mean?

Show me what it looks like. Use your imagination, then do it.

Trish had pushed down in her stirrups, thought about it, then slumped down a little in the saddle. It did make her bottom feel heavier. She imagined it glued to the leather.

Good. Her dad had let go of Cotton’s bridle.

Trish had walked the pony away, and, sure enough, he’d bucked. But this time was different. She was ready, and she’d stayed glued to the saddle.

Did you see me, Daddy? she’d crowed.

Suddenly, she wasn’t a little girl on a white pony anymore. She was a shivering young woman in a canoe hurtling toward whitewater on the Tukudika River. The nose of the canoe fell and along with it her stomach. Here we go again. Feet like you’re standing. Glue your bottom to the seat.

With all the strength in her mind and body, Trish willed herself to stay molded to the canoe seat. Water cascaded over her. She spluttered, but she stayed put. The canoe bucked. It rocked, and it shuddered, but she stayed put. It careened off boulders, jolted against others, and slammed into more. But Trish stayed glued to her seat.

And, then, as quickly as they had started, the rapids ended. Trish wiped water from her face and tried to slow her breathing. Was it really over?

Nice of you not to go swimming that time, Grandpa Joe called out to her.

Trish threw her head back. She laughed and laughed and laughed, until Bunny and Grandpa Joe were laughing along with her.

Hello! Over here! Hello! a man shouted.

Trish looked to the left, toward the riverbank. A man was walking and waving. Is that Dad? She squinted. Dad! She started waving back so hard it rocked the canoe, although nothing like the rapids had.

Where’s my daddy? Bunny said. And my mommy?

I don’t know, Buns. We’ll ask Uncle Patrick, okay?

Bunny didn’t answer.

Grandpa Joe turned the canoe and it shot toward her dad. In mere seconds, he was pulling the nose of their canoe onto the shore. Two other canoes were stashed side by side a few feet further into the trees.

Trish stood. The canoe lurched, but she didn’t care. Her dad threw his arms around her. It was the best hug of her life.

I’m so glad to see you, Trish. You have no idea how worried we’ve been. Was his voice quivering?

She wiped her face on his shirt. The flannel was soft and smelled like him. Oh, Daddy. Grandpa Joe saved us.

She felt her dad’s hand lift off her back and shake something. She looked over her shoulder and saw her dad’s and Grandpa Joe’s hands were clasped. Grandpa Joe had Bunny on his other hip.

Her dad released her. Dad, what happened to your face?

Trish looked at Grandpa Joe. Blood had dried on his forehead.

He hit himself in the face with the damn paddle, Bunny said.

There was a moment of silence, then a laugh exploded from Patrick, so Trish joined in. Bunny looked confused. Grandpa Joe’s expression never changed.

Well, thank God you guys are okay, except for that, um, paddle. Her dad took Bunny from Grandpa Joe and hugged her, too, then handed her back. I hate to do this, but I have to get us out of here. He nodded back over his shoulder. There’s, um, there’s a grizzly over there with, um, fresh kill. I’ll take one of those canoes and you guys can follow me to catch up with the others. But whatever we do, we have to do it very, very quietly. He looked away from the river, frowning. Then we have to get to town fast.

A grizzly? Trish whispered.

Do you have any life jackets? Grandpa Joe said, keeping his voice low. I’d like to get some on Bunny and Trish.

Trish would love that, too. I went swimming, Dad. In the rapids.

You’re kidding me? You went in? Her dad’s throat moved like he’d swallowed a frog.

Grandpa Joe put his hand on Trish’s shoulder. She scared us good, but she did what she was told, and lived to tell about it.

Her dad hugged her again You’ll have to tell me all about it when we get to safety. I’m just so glad you’re all right. When he released her, he walked to the other canoes. He brought back three life jackets. These will be kind of big for you girls, but there are three here you can use.

Don’t those people need them? Trish said.

A funny look crossed his face. No. They’ll . . . understand.

Okay. Trish took the life jacket he handed her and slipped into it. Grandpa Joe said Perry has to go to the hospital. She couldn’t believe her brother was that injured, out here. She tightened the straps as far as she could. It was still a little big.

Her dad gave one to Grandpa Joe, then crouched to adjust a third one on Bunny. It swallowed her. Yes.

Is he okay?

He hit his head. But I think he’ll be fine.

Grandpa Joe pushed the canoe back onto the water. Her dad put Bunny on the middle seat. Grandpa Joe motioned for Trish to get in.

Can I ride with you, Dad? she said.

Sure. He walked quietly over to the canoes.

Trish went with him. Are there bad guys chasing you, too?

Her dad cocked his head at her as he pulled on the canoe. How did you guys know that?

Trish went to the other side of it to help him push.

One of them got us. Bunny’s high-pitched voice sounded wise beyond its years.

Trish’s dad shook his head. Yeah. We’ve got them on our tail, too. Dad, we need to talk about⁠—

She heard a now-familiar squawk. For a moment, she worried the grizzly would hear it, too, and come after them. She shoved harder on the canoe.

A man’s voice said, Do you read me? Come in. The radio. It was muffled, but Trish could understand every word.

What was that? her dad said. He stopped pushing the canoe, and his face was scary.

She said, Grandpa Joe took the man’s radio. That’s one of the men he was talking to. I recognize his voice.

Grandpa Joe fished the radio out of the backpack.

The voice grew much louder. Grandpa Joe dialed back the volume, watching the trees like dad had been doing. Grizzlies tended to make people nervous like that.

If you can hear us, we found ‘em. I thought I saw one of ‘em running up the river after they attacked us, and I was right. One of our men is unconscious. Another is dead. The two of us are gonna make ‘em pay for what they did to us. I don’t think they’ve seen us, so we’re going after them on foot. Meet us near the last stretch of whitewater before the falls. South side of the river.

Trish frowned and started looking all around them, even across the river. Found them? Does he mean us?

Her dad shoved their canoe the rest of the way into the water. It began to float. Not us. The family. All the kids. Your moms. I’ve got to warn them. Help them. Trish, ride with Grandpa Joe. Dad, you find a place to hide the girls. Keep them safe. You can’t stay here with this bear.

Trish’s mouth went dry. Her family. All of them.

Grandpa Joe frowned. Be careful.

I will. Her dad leapt in the canoe. He started paddling so hard that it shot away from them down the river, disappearing around a bend. He was gone so fast, Trish was dazed.

She turned to her grandfather. We have to do something, too.

Grandpa Joe grunted. We’re staying out of your dad’s way. Now, get in the canoe before that grizzly finds you.

But staying out of the way wasn’t enough for Trish.

CHAPTER ONE: LOCK

Jackson, Wyoming

Two Days Earlier: Thursday, June 23, 1977, 10:00 a.m.

Patrick

Patrick Flint kept a tight grip on his wallet as the owner of Wyoming Whitewater pulled out a pencil and tallied up the damages, tongue out and eyes squinted. The shop was in a musty log cabin near downtown, close enough to the Jackson Hole Historical Society & Museum to taunt Patrick. He was dying to see their new exhibits—one on the history of bighorn sheep in the area and another on the Mountain Shoshone or Sheep Eater Indians who had inhabited the surrounding high country since long before the advent of Yellowstone as a national park.

He glanced over his shoulder. Out the front windows, the green stripes of ski runs crisscrossed the face of the mountains that were crowding the downtown area. It was pretty, but it paled next to the wonders he’d seen in the previous twenty-four hours. During their drive to Jackson that morning after camping near Dubois, Patrick had been amazed by the sharp granite teeth of peaks in the Shoshone National Forest. By the prominence of stately Gannett, the highest peak in the state. By the high sagebrush flats in the Wind River Range. In fact, the whole drive from Buffalo to Jackson had further cemented his belief that Wyoming was the wildest and most beautiful state in the nation. From the bright red cliffs of the Chugwater Foundation, to the range of colors in the palette of the arid western slope of the Bighorns, to the high canyons, gorges, and gulleys carved by wind and water. But by far his greatest moment of wonder was his first glimpse of the iconic skyline of the jagged Cathedral Group peaks. Grand Teton’s rocky, snow-topped spire stood above the rest, basking in the mid-morning sun.

His skin actually tingled with anticipation. He couldn’t wait to get out into the wilderness, where he felt closest to nature, his true self, and the majesty of the Almighty, but the shop owner’s voice drew him back around.

"You want four canoes, eight paddles, and eight life jackets, for three days. Canoeing the backcountry. Like in the movie Deliverance. Or, actually, let’s hope it’s not like Deliverance." Patrick had never seen Deliverance, and he had no idea what the man was talking about. That comes out to . . . The owner, whose name was Brock, quoted a number and brushed sun-bleached curls from his eyes with his other hand. Mid-to-late twenties, tall and stooped, looking more California cool than Wyoming rough and ready. He also gave off an odor like he’d poured most of a bottle of cheap cologne down his chest. No self-respecting mountain man left the house smelling like that. Anything else, man?

Patrick groaned. Not for the first time, he compared the cost of the extra gas he would have used if he’d borrowed the gear and equipment back in Buffalo, to the rental total. Just when he’d been about to hit up his friend and co-worker Wes Braten to make the trip with them and pull one of the trailers, his wife Susanne had put the kibosh on the plan. She didn’t like the idea of caravanning with trailers through multiple mountain ranges, regardless of the savings he’d projected. Patrick had been disappointed and not just because of the expense. Wes and his International Harvester Travelall, Gussie, were a rugged pair and good to have along.

Do you offer any kind of volume discount? Patrick suggested a lower number.

Brock laughed. It’s 1977, not 1957, you know? That’s my best price. And you won’t find a better deal in the western part of the state. He straightened the shoulders on his t-shirt, light green with short-sleeves and the words LUNCH COUNTER below a graphic of a turbulent river. Identical shirts hung on a carousel rack. Shelves displayed sunscreen, Chapstick, hats, insect repellant, and bumper stickers with the state flag. Elsewhere on racks, the shop offered life jackets, paddles, seat cushions, and much more. In one corner, a cooler contained drinks and snacks for sale. The walls showed off an array of action photos on various local rivers, mostly the famous Snake River. The showpiece of the place was an ancient rowboat that no longer looked like it would stay afloat. A nameplate was affixed to its stern. SNAKE CHARMER.

All right, then. What Brock said about the price was true. Patrick knew, because he had called all the shops in Jackson. And in Cody. What’s that mean on your shirt, ‘Lunch Counter?’

It’s a super awesome rapid on the Snake River. You wouldn’t want to go down that in canoes. Or anything but a nice, big raft. The water is moving at fifteen hundred cubic feet per second, just like you’ll find on the Tukudika. But two of my buddies are convinced they can surf it.

With surf boards?

Yeah. But they’ll probably die trying. He grinned. There’d be less competition for guides on the river then.

A bell dinged, and a cool breeze swept through the building. Wyoming could be warm during June in Jackson Hole—the wide, flat 6000-feet elevation valley on the west side of the Continental Divide, between the Tetons and Gros Ventre mountain ranges—but it often wasn’t. The paper the owner had been writing on levitated and tumbled through the air. Patrick chased it and stomped on it. He wanted to check the math.

Before he could, the floor creaked and familiar voices reached his ears.

There’s my boy. The tinkle of bells. That’s what he thought of when Lana Flint spoke.

He turned and caught sight of her. His mother was dressed as if for an African safari, only jauntier, with a pink and red scarf tied around her neck. Probably one of her own designs. She had worked as an inhouse designer for a clothing manufacturer ever since his youngest sister Patty, his daughter Trish’s namesake, had left for college.

Hi, Mom. He continued naming his family members as they filed into the store. Dad. Pete. Vera. Then his throat dried, and his words stuck. And the . . . the . . . rest of you.

Patrick had thought his brother Pete and Pete’s young wife Vera were traveling without their kids, but he counted all seven of their young brood behind them. The oldest, Annie, scowled at two brown-headed boys. Stan and Danny. The three of them were Pete’s birth children. Vera’s kids were tow-headed and freckled. Brian was holding the hand of Bunny, the youngest, and Bert and Barry were peeking around their big brother’s shoulders.

Just call them the seven dwarves, Joe Flint didn’t crack a smile under his thin mustache. The older Flint—shivering in brown corduroy pants, a green and navy flannel shirt with what looked like a t-shirt underneath, and hiking boots—was a flat-top wearing whipcord. He had a tongue like one, too, which he used anytime he thought people wanted his opinion, usually about whether they carried an excess ounce of flesh, and he’d been known for his heavy hand as well when his kids were young. Patrick had his father’s brown hair and blue eyes, but, despite their similarities, something kept them from looking much alike. Maybe it was World War II that had hardened Joe and pinched features that on Patrick were rounded and full.

Patrick didn’t laugh. When his father had announced the visit and asked to go fishing, Patrick had planned a few modest day trips into the Bighorn Mountains near the Flint family’s home. Then his mother had phoned to ask if Pete and Vera could come and told him how much they all wanted to see Jackson Hole and Yellowstone National Park. Patrick had been dying to visit the area. So, he’d planned this trip on the Tukudika River, excited that his thirteen-year-old son Perry was finally old enough and strong enough, and sixteen-year-old Trish cooperative enough for a canoe and fishing trip to be feasible. He’d read everything he could on the Mountain Shoshone native to the area, and he was really hoping to see some authentic artifacts in the wilderness.

He hadn’t counted on Pete and Vera’s young family.

Patrick looked toward the line of humanity still filing into the store. Susanne waved Trish and Perry in last, scowling at her offspring. He felt a familiar pride that a woman as vivacious, lovely, and kind as Susanne had chosen to be his wife. She looked so darn cute in cut-off blue jean shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt, hiking boots, and a red bandana scarf holding long brown curls off her face. And was it his imagination, or had Perry grown an inch overnight? Not that his son was tall. He was still six inches behind his grade level buddies. But taller, and his face looked slimmer, too. His body slightly harder than it had been in shorts and a tank top the summer before. He hoped so. Perry hated being small. Trish, on the other hand, had clearly blossomed into young womanhood. With her long braids and bright blue eyes and a body toned by basketball, running, horsemanship, and youth, she radiated vitality. He felt the shop owner’s eyes light on her.

Back off, buddy. She’s too young for you.

Just as his eyes traveled from his kids back to his wife, Trish socked Perry in the kidney. Patrick didn’t react. He was too numb from shock over the seven youngsters for anything else to faze him.

Honey, can I talk to you for a second? he said to Susanne.

As she made her way over to him, all smiles now, he hugged his visiting family members one by one, starting with the children and moving on to his brother, Pete. The two of them had bedeviled scout leaders and teachers for years with their nearly identical looks, although now Pete had long sun-streaked hair while Patrick kept his darker hair fingernail short. The brothers were best friends, partners in crime, and Irish twins, separated by less than a year in age. Vera was next. Her marriage to Pete was recent, and Patrick had only met the tiny woman a few times before, and then she’d been tongue-tied. She was from a large family in a very small town, but that was about all Patrick knew about her.

After Patrick embraced Vera, she pulled Danny forward. The eight-year old had olive skin, a shock of jet-black hair, and dark eyes, just like his mother, who had passed away soon after he was born. But he looked enough like Vera that he could have been her birth child.

What do you think of this rash? Vera swiveled Danny around and rolled up the hem of his cut-off jeans. This one’s always into something. He’s been scratching like a flea-bitten dog half the day.

Patrick crouched beside Danny and examined the red, irritated skin closely. As a doctor, he was on call twenty-four/seven when it came to family. Heck, who was he kidding? He was on call twenty-four/seven with anyone he encountered. Kneeling to pray at church. Paying the cashier at the hardware store. Throwing out his garbage at the town dump. He turned Danny around and smiled at him. The boy smiled back. The expression gave him a mischievous look.

Do you feel bad anywhere else, Danny?

The boy shook his head, sending his hair flying around the crown of his head like he was a human May pole.

Patrick laid the back of his palm across the boy’s forehead. No fever. Say ah.

Ahh.

Patrick considered the boy’s tongue and the back of his throat. Pink and unremarkable. He palpated Danny’s belly. The boy didn’t react.

Patrick stood. Is he allergic to anything?

Vera frowned. I don’t know. I don’t think so.

Well, I don’t think it’s anything serious, but let’s give him a Benadryl, since it’s probably his skin reacting to something he came into contact with. Do you remember touching anything itchy? he asked Danny.

No.

Vera said, They were playing in the grass when we took a rest stop earlier.

Danny nodded. He sounded solemn. I fell on my bottom in a bush.

Wyoming bushes that cause irritant dermatitis? Russian thistle. AKA the tumbling tumbleweed, once it dries out.

All right. Patrick eyeballed Danny, pegging his weight at about fifty-five pounds. But just one Benadryl. Twenty-five milligrams. Do you have any?

Vera shook her head. Not with us, I don’t think.

It’s good to travel with some, especially when you’re going to be in a remote location. I have some in our Suburban. He called to his daughter. Trish, can you bring the Benadryl in to your Aunt Vera? It’s in my⁠—

—Doctor’s bag behind the driver’s seat. I know, Trish said, in a singsong voice. Why don’t you make Perry get it?

Patrick glared at her.

She rolled her eyes. Okay, okay.

He pitched her the car keys, and she headed for the front door.

Thanks, Vera said. Gotta love little boys.

That we do. Patrick riffled Danny’s hair. He missed the days he’d been able to do that with Perry, who had decided when he turned thirteen that hair mussing was undignified for a fellow of his advanced age. Vera was already chasing after Bert and Barry, who had knocked over the t-shirt display and run for the hills before it hit the ground.

Patrick walked over to join Susanne beside a bathroom door covered in hand-painted psychedelic peace signs. She tilted her head toward him so he could talk quietly into her ear, and her long brown waves fell over a bare shoulder. After a few cold Wyoming winters, cool June temperatures didn’t bother her anymore.

He kept his voice low. What’s going on? Are they planning on bringing the kids on the river trip?

Facing away from their family, she widened her eyes. I think so.

This isn’t a trip for little kids.

Tell them that.

Patrick’s lips started moving, but no sound came out.

I can’t understand you when you’re talking to yourself.

Probably best if I don’t repeat it.

It will be okay. She winked at him. It’s our vacation. How bad could it be?

He snorted. The last family vacation Patrick planned had ended with Trish kidnapped by multiple-murderer Billy Kemecke. Not exactly idyllic. This trip was his do-over. His chance to show his Texas family a wonderful time in his chosen home state.

It had better be wonderful. We’re celebrating Kemecke taking the plea deal for life in prison, and you being off the hook from testifying against him.

Thank the good Lord for that. But we’ve still got the Barb Lamkin trial to go.

Lamkin was the most recent criminal the Flints had faced, and Trish’s former basketball coach. She’d used Patrick’s family to bait her former lover into meeting her in the mountains, fully intending to kill all of them. Luckily, a mountain lion in the road had sent her vehicle plummeting toward a creek bed, where Perry had achieved hero status by rescuing his mom and sister. Patrick arrived just in time to free Lamkin by hacking her trapped wrist off with a hatchet and getting her out before the truck had exploded. Now Lamkin was facing first degree murder charges, but the trial couldn’t be held until after her due date, because she was pregnant. The baby’s father, a judge, had been charged with fraud in a slam-dunk, decades-old case the county prosecutor had just uncovered.

The thought of the baby made Patrick queasy. An infant born in jail, with both parents behind bars—it would be tough going for the child unless someone came forward to foster or adopt.

Yes. We need a vacation. It’s been a tough year, and it’s not over yet.

Trish tapped him on the shoulder and held out his keys.

You gave Aunt Vera some Benadryl? he asked.

Yes, sir.

And you put it back in my bag and the bag . . .

. . . Back where I found it. Yes, Dad.

He nodded. Thanks. Then he turned back toward the extended group of Flints. They had scattered like a covey of quail around the store and out onto the sidewalk. Pete, a word?

His brother sauntered over, an arm around Vera’s curvy waist. The two of them looked like half the Mamas and the Papas. Pete with his rock-star hair and bell bottoms, Vera with her yellow-lensed John Lennon sunglasses, a headband over her straight hair, and a gypsy-sleeved top. The comparison wasn’t far from reality. Pete was eking out a living as a musician—guitarist, singer, songwriter—gigging in bars, opening for the openers at Austin-area concerts, and playing for tips when he couldn’t get a booking. Vera had met him at one of his shows. She was his roadie and number one groupie, in addition to being the main herder of cats in their large household.

Pete slung his arm sideways to grab Patrick’s, in a combo low-five/handshake. So good to be here, bro.

"I can’t believe you’re all here. I thought it was going to just be you guys and Mom and Dad."

Isn’t it great? Vera said we should just bring everybody, so we stuffed them all in the station wagon, and here we are.

Vera beamed. The kids are going to remember this their whole lives. Gotta love a family trip.

From outside, Patrick heard a shriek, then clattering hooves. Uh oh. He shot forward like a sprinter out of the blocks. But before he could make it to the sidewalk, Brian hustled a wailing Bert back inside and to their mother. The rest of the kids followed, eyes huge. Bert wasn’t limping or bleeding, which were both good signs.

Vera wrapped Bert in her arms. He seemed a little small for his age, like Perry had been What happened?

A big animal attacked him, Brian said. Well, it tried to, but I scared it away before it got him. Good thing, because he fell down running away from it.

Patrick raised an eyebrow. Was it tall and dark brown with hooves?

Yes. And really long legs. I think it was a baby, though, because it ran down the street to an even bigger one. Then they ran off.

Moose, Patrick said. You’ll want to leave them alone in the future. Especially the ones with babies. Very dangerous. He smoothed Bert’s blond hair, which stood straight up like a cockatiel’s feathers.

Wild animals in the middle of town? Vera said.

Patrick smiled. Sometimes. It’s Wyoming. You okay, Bert?

The boy had stopped crying. He nodded.

Where does it hurt?

Bert shrugged. Another good sign. It looked like the worst injury was to his pride and feelings.

Does your head hurt?

This time Vera prodded him. Use your manners and answer your uncle. He’s a doctor.

No. I mean, no sir, Dr. Uncle Patrick. It didn’t get me.

Just Uncle Patrick. You’ll have a good story to tell your friends.

Bert nodded. Vera released him, and Brian took him by the arm. The kids headed straight back outside. Apparently, they weren’t all that worried about moose.

It’s always something when you have seven, Pete said, shaking his head, but smiling.

Patrick had thought it was always something with two. He couldn’t imagine seven kids. So, let’s talk about the trip. You know we’ve booked canoes so we can camp and fish on the Tukudika River?

Pete nodded. Sounds awesome.

I’m trying to work out the logistics. We’ve got six adults, three of whom are women. And nine kids. Or, seven kids since we’re counting Perry and Trish as adults for purposes of canoeing. I’d booked four canoes and eight life jackets. I had planned on Dad, you, me, and Perry each taking responsibility for a canoe. My worry is, how are we going to fit everyone in?

Vera bit her lip. We’ll need more life jackets.

Patrick clenched his teeth. Obviously. I’m also worried about room in the canoes. Pete and Vera’s kids ranged from five to ten years old. None of them were old enough to reliably paddle an additional canoe.

Pete rubbed his chin. I guess we can put two of them in each.

That was where we were going to stash our gear and supplies. Food, tents, sleeping bags, and the rest of it take up a lot of space.

Susanne had joined them. She added, And gold panning equipment.

Patrick had been reading up on the area, and there was a not-insignificant amount of gold in and along the Tukudika and its tributaries. Most of it was too fine to interest prospectors or miners, but he’d thought it would be fun to try their hand at panning anyway.

Pete stood taller. There’s gold up there?

Patrick shrugged. Some. Maybe.

Sign me up.

If we can fit the panning gear in the canoes. He lowered his voice to a mutter. Or any of our gear and supplies.

Can we get another canoe?

Who would man it?

Brock cleared his throat. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but you could ferry a gear canoe. You know, by a rope.

Patrick rubbed his forehead. Which wouldn’t come free. Yes, I suppose we could.

Your bigger problem is the water. We’ve had a really dry year, but it’s still early in the season. You might run across some Class III rapids. In a wet year, you’d maybe even encounter some Class IV.

Vera’s brow furrowed. Is that bad?

Brock waffled his hand. Depends on your level of experience.

Susanne harrumphed. We didn’t survive Kemecke, Riley Pearson, and Lamkin in the last year only to die in a river.

She had a point. Patrick hadn’t even tallied crazy Riley when he’d been thinking about the Flints’ tough year. Riley had been obsessed with an Eastern Shoshone nurse and poisoned Patrick out of a misguided sense of loyalty to her. It had happened not too far down the road, in Fort Washakie on the Wind River Reservation. No, they hadn’t survived them all only to die now. He’d studied up on the river, too, and on canoeing in general.

He shook his head. "Nothing over Class II for this group. Even then, I think we’ll want to put the kids ashore to walk whenever we get to any rapids."

Brock shrugged. Where you can. Some areas, the shoreline is as dangerous as the water. Or impassable.

What would you suggest we do, given our group’s . . . sudden growth?

Brock motioned for them to follow him back to the counter. He pulled out a map of the Tukudika and a red pen. He circled three areas. These are the spots where the water gets sort of aggressive, you know? He drew lines across the river before each circle. If you get out where I’ve marked, there are trails you can hike to bypass the whitewater. They’re not easy, but they’re doable. If you, like, go any further, then you may not be able to get off the water in time.

Can you portage on those trails? Patrick asked.

Vera slipped her hand in Pete’s. What does portage mean?

Carry canoes overland.

Brock said, Yeah, I guess you could, but it wouldn’t be fun. Honestly, I’d just offload your gear into backpacks and send your ladies and kids along. You can solo the canoes through the rapids. He dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. And I can’t make any guarantees, but it’s likely the water is down to a high Class II or a low Class III by now. In most places.

No guarantees. Meaning he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t get their you-know-whats handed to them. Maybe we should talk it over. It’s important to me we always keep the group together. For safety.

Pete pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. Nah, it sounds like a great adventure, man. I’ll pay for the extra canoe.

Brock tapped his pen on the counter. And seven more life jackets, some more paddles just in case you need them for the extra canoe, and some line to ferry it with?

Yeah, sure.

Are you sure we need more paddles for a canoe we’ll be ferrying? Patrick asked.

I’d highly recommend it. Brock quoted a number.

Pete blanched. I’m a little short of that. Can I pay you back later, Patrick? We’re trying not to carry too much cash on us, you know?

Without comment, Patrick pulled out his wallet and started counting bills. At the same time, he said, We’ll need more of everything. Groceries. Water. Sleeping gear. Tent space.

Their patriarch wandered up. What’s the problem, boys? His voice sounded accusatory. He was holding one hand in the other.

Even though he and Susanne weren’t touching, Patrick could feel her stiffen beside him. No one could understand how Lana had put up with his father since the two of them had eloped as teens, but love defies logic.

Patrick decided that if his father was going to criticize someone, he’d let it be him. We just added a gear canoe. Dad, did you do something to your hand?

Lana was listening, and she raised her voice to answer for Joe. He slammed his thumb in the door a minute ago when he went back to the car for a jacket.

Joe Flint was the most accident-prone person Patrick knew. Falling off ladders. Shocking himself in electrical outlets. Hammering his fingers, which he’d done too many times to count.

Let me see it, Dad.

Joe held it up. Blood dripped from under the nail, and it looked flattened. It’s nothing.

Brock smiled at Joe, wasting the effort of twelve muscles to do so. Funny coincidence. We’re about ready for safety instructions for the group.

Joe crossed his arms, not smiling back.

Dad, could you help us get everyone together?

Joe’s lack of smile deepened.

Vera continued beaming and holding Pete’s hand.

They’re your kids, Joe finally said, to no one in particular.

Patrick sighed. If he didn’t need his father to paddle a canoe, he’d be tempted to leave him in Jackson.

Susanne walked around the store, clapping her hands and raising her voice. Everybody. Everyone. All of you. That means you, too, Perry. He quit talking to Brian and grinned at her. Time to get our canoe safety lesson. Come on. The younger kids pretty much ignored her. "Trish, starting now, you’re in charge of Bunny, Barry, Bert, and Danny. Perry, you’ve got Annie, Brian, and Stan. When I ask for something, you guys make it happen with your troops. So, by the counter, line them up, now."

Trish put her hands on her hips. Mom, no.

No arguments.

Trish sighed dramatically. Do I at least get paid?

No, but you get to continue living. Then she softened. If you do a good job, we’ll discuss it.

Trish made a sound deep in her chest that didn’t sound like enthusiasm, but she turned back to the kids and started barking orders like her mom had just done to her. Perry stood up taller and his chest seemed to puff out as he rounded up his charges. Lana led Bunny by the hand from a table where they’d been studying a diorama of the Gros Ventre Wilderness. Within seconds, the kids were assembling in a line that was about as straight as a dog’s hind leg.

Brock picked up a blue pen. Mr. Flint, here are a few more things you should know about the river. He drew arrows toward it. This is where you’ll start. You can put in here, or you can portage upriver and extend the length of your float. He drew another arrow. You’ll need to get out before the falls. Here.

Falls? Like waterfalls? Pete sounded hesitant about the river for the first time.

The same, but different. They’re not as high as the falls in Yellowstone, but you still don’t want to go over them, man. We’ll pick you up Sunday at three, here. He drew a third arrow near the second. If you beat us there, the fishing is dynamite.

Now Pete moved in closer to look at the map.

Thanks, Patrick said. We’re really interested in any suggestions you have for good fishing, hiking, camping, or gold panning spots.

Gold panning? Far out. Brock drew a couple of fish on the map, then added what Patrick assumed were either skulls and crossbones or campfires, and then triangles. Fishing, camping, and hiking. The hiking trails should be marked by signs. Then he waggled his eyebrows. As for gold panning, he drew several stars along the river, and a few more on tributaries, here are some good places to try your luck. Let us know if you find anything. We can, like, add you to our wall of fame. He waved toward the wall to his right.

For the first time, Patrick noticed framed photos posted above a display of gold panning equipment for sale. They featured people holding panning equipment and what might be tiny gold nuggets.

We will. Patrick took the map, folded it, and slid it in his shirt pocket.

A shorter, bushier-haired man burst through the back door of the shop. Through the opening, Patrick saw racks of canoes, kayaks, rafts, paddles, and used life vests.

Brock, the Tomson party just got back. His voice held a shrill note, and Patrick noted that his breathing was rapid and shallow, pupils dilated, face flushed, and nostrils distended.

A look of annoyance showed in the sudden lines around Brock’s eyes. Cool, man. But I’m with some customers.

The man rushed on. They found a dead body on the Tukudika. No life jacket, no fishing or hiking gear, not one of our customers.

"They found what?"

A dead body. They canoed him back. They were freaking out about leaving him, so we loaded him on the trailer and brought him back here.

Brock’s eyes bugged. The dead guy is here?

Well, he’s on the trailer outside, but, yeah.

Brock stabbed the air with his finger. You’re not supposed to move a dead body. Evidence, you know? Call the sheriff. Now.

Uh, yes, sir.

As the shorter man hurried to the phone, Brock muttered, I’d better not get my license pulled over this.

Patrick felt a burst of adrenaline. He had to check on the man. Administer CPR, if it appeared it would do any good. But as he rushed through the back room, a thought started looping through his head. Please Lord, not a murder on my do-over vacation.

CHAPTER TWO: SHOCK

Jackson, Wyoming

Thursday, June 23, 1977, 11:00 a.m.

Trish

W atch out for Bunny! Trish shouted at the rest of the kids.

Perry had organized them into a game of freeze tag on the grassy town square. All around it, the wooden buildings were designed to make the place look like a spiffed up Old West town. Tourists streamed in and out of the doors and milled on the sidewalks. Trish would have rather browsed the fancy shops and galleries than play tag, but she knew better than to take the kids inside the stores. You break it, you buy it was a phrase she was very familiar with from her parents, and, as the one in charge, she was afraid she would be responsible for any damage by the seven dwarves.

At first, tag had been a good way to distract the little ones from the thought of the dead man at the canoe shop. She didn’t have such an easy time forgetting him, though. When some freaked out short guy had run in and shouted out that he’d brought a corpse in on a trailer, she’d been curious and snuck out back to see for herself. The dead guy had looked a lot like a puffer fish she’d seen in her Aunt Patty’s aquarium. Vampire-white, water-logged, eyes wide open, with funny black whisker spots on his face like her dad’s at night when he hadn’t shaved since morning. He was missing one shoe, and his hands were wrinkly. Trish’s got the same way when she stayed in the bathtub a long time. He’d smelled funky, too. Bad in a way that was hard to describe, but that she’d smelled once when she’d ridden her horse Goldie past a dead, rotting deer. Yeah, that will be in my nightmares tonight.

She’d only had a brief look at the body, though. Her parents had been furious when they realized she was out there. Before they could get her back inside, the sheriff’s deputies had come and shooed the grown-ups out of the way, too. Her mom, Aunt Vera, and Gramma Lana had huddled, then left Trish with a ten-dollar bill for snacks and strict instructions to keep all the little ones distracted and out of trouble, while they went to buy more supplies. Trish had hustled back in the shop and done just that.

She had a lot of experience babysitting, especially in the last two months. Trish was saving up for a down payment on a used car. But she’d never kept this many kids at once, and the freeze tag competition had gotten out of hand, for everyone except Danny, who was pretty much swaying and staring into space. The Benadryl really seemed to have hit him hard.

Bunny, who was on the base of one of the four enormous antler arches at each corner of the square, was doing what she called her pwincess dance. It consisted of twirling on her tiptoes with her hands to the sky. Suddenly, Bert rammed into her, and she tumbled sideways. Her head thudded into pointy antlers.

Bunny! Brian screamed. He raced over to her, just ahead of Trish, as the little girl crumpled to her knees.

Are you okay? Trish was afraid to look at her, expecting blood. A lot of it. And a gored eyeball hanging from its socket.

But Bunny popped up and shook her finger at the arch. Bad antwers, she said through missing front teeth. Then she rubbed her head. Ouch.

Brian exhaled.

Trish laughed. Bad elk. That’s what the antlers are from. Since the nearby National Elk Refuge was one of the subjects her dad had lectured the family on—and on and on and on—during the drive-across-the-state-that-had-seemed-like-it-would-never-end, Trish knew the antlers came from there.

Bad eh-welk.

Perry sprinted up. Is she all right?

Trish nodded. I think it’s time we go back to the canoe store, though, squirt. She knew he hated it when she made fun of his size. But he needed to face facts. He was a serious shrimp.

Perry glared at her.

She said, Come on, everybody.

They all ran toward her, except Danny. The kid looked like he was going to fall over asleep on the grass. Brian prodded him up. Then Perry helped her marshal their charges into a line from youngest to oldest. He led the way back with Trish bringing up the rear. She hoped when they got to the shop, the dead guy was gone.

I’m hungry, Stan said.

Six voices echoed his.

Trish raised her voice so everyone would hear, all the way to the front of the line. We already had ice cream on the way to the square.

That was a long time ago, Barry whined.

I’m sure we’ll get lunch soon. How does Aunt Vera deal with this every single day? Trish was never going to have kids. Or maybe one. Two at the very, very most. She kept them marching.

Five minutes later, they arrived at the back of Wyoming Whitewater. Trish’s mom was standing beside her dad. Grandpa Joe and Gramma Lana were in their station wagon, windows up, with her aunt and uncle. The kids hopped in the car with them. Gramma Lana was reapplying lipstick, but she waved to Trish. Everyone in the family said Trish looked just like her. Trish hoped so. She knew they had the same big, blue eyes, blond hair, height, and high cheekbones.

Perry walked over to their family’s Suburban and leaned against it. Trish moved closer to her dad so she could hear her parents’ conversation, keeping one eye on her kids to make sure none made a break from the station wagon.

Are the deputies done? Trish’s mom asked.

He nodded. They just loaded up and left.

Her mom said, Good. We bought more of everything, and we found some kids’ sleeping bags and river gear.

How much? her dad said.

She smiled. Let’s talk about that later, honey.

He groaned.

You’re just going to have to forget about the cost and enjoy your family.

I’m going to enjoy them. You know how much I’ve looked forward to Pete being here.

I know you have. So, do the deputies have any idea how the guy died on the river?

They didn’t, but I do.

She raised her brows. Do tell.

Head trauma.

Like from a fall?

Impossible to say for sure, but more than likely.

She lowered her voice. So, not murder?

Can’t rule it out, but a rock is the most likely culprit.

He still could have been pushed.

You see murder everywhere. He smiled at her. Have you ever thought about becoming a cop? You could work with Ronnie at the Johnson County Sheriff’s Department.

Deputy Ronnie Harcourt was their former next-door neighbor, a beautiful woman who could have been a model instead of a cop. She was one of Trish’s mom’s best friends. She teased Susanne all the time that she’d make a real Wyoming woman out of her yet. From what Trish could tell, this meant her mom would ride horses, shoot whiskey and big game, and camp outside in the dead of winter. Ronnie was going to be sorely disappointed if she counted on any of these things happening.

Pass. Her mom laughed. You’re okay taking everyone out there after this?

The deputies didn’t seem concerned, and there was no evidence of foul play. It will be okay, Susanne.

She shuddered. I don’t feel good about it. Not after this last year.

Trish shuddered, too. This last year. She knew exactly what her mom meant. Trish had been kidnapped, not once but twice. First, by her ex-boyfriend Brandon’s insane family. They’d lugged her up into Cloud Peak Wilderness in the Bighorns, where they had planned to leave her to die. The second time was by her own high school basketball coach, who’d taken Perry and her mom, too. Coach Lamkin would have killed them, if she’d gotten the chance. The funny thing was, Trish had loved Brandon, and she had really liked her coach. She’d trusted them, until she’d figured out how wrong she’d been about them. Learning the truth had hurt more than anything she’d ever experienced. She’d been so humiliated. Now she could never trust her own judgment about people again.

The person she hadn’t trusted, Brandon’s cousin Ben, turned out to have been the truthful one. Even though he’d lived with Brandon and Brandon’s mom, Donna Lewis, Ben had testified against his Aunt Donna, for conspiracy and murder, because it was the right and truthful thing to do. Which had meant he no longer had a home with the Lewises. But her parents’ friends Henry and Vangie Sibley had taken him in. Now Ben was living and working out at their place—Piney Bottom Ranch.

Trish had been babysitting the Sibley’s infant son Hank this summer. Ben and Trish had been around each other a lot more. They’d become friends. Good friends. But she was having second thoughts about their relationship. Her parents weren’t in favor of it. They’d been right before, about Brandon, and she’d been wrong. Maybe she just needed a break. Because, honestly, she didn’t know who to trust. So, yeah, a break from all guys. A break from her best friend Marcy, who’d been acting really weird since the ordeal with Coach Lamkin. Marcy had been on Lamkin’s 1976 state champion girls basketball team. She and some of the other girls were upset that Coach Lamkin was in jail. Trish couldn’t understand it. Lamkin was a murderer. How could a winning basketball team be more important than that? Than Trish and her family?

Basketball had been Trish’s passion, too, until the coach had betrayed her. She’d decided to give it up altogether. Instead, she’d started running more and was going to try out for the cross-country team. Make a fresh start.

Her dad said to her mom, It’s going to be fine, Susanne. We’ll have a great time.

Her mom hugged herself around the middle. I think we should reconsider this trip. Cancel the rentals. Just camp out for the night by the river close to town. We can still fish and pan for gold without all of us having to go so far up into the mountains.

Trish found herself nodding along with her mom. It sounded like a great idea to her.

That wouldn’t be fair to everyone else. They’ve traveled a long way for this.

They traveled a long way to see us. And they’re counting on us not to endanger them.

Her dad’s voice grew testy. "Who said anything about endangering anyone? Have a little faith in me,