Read Online Morning Light by Catherine Anderson - Free Book Online

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?”
    â€œBusy, 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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œTragic, 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.”
    â€œNo bodies have been found yet,” Clint reminded him.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œIf he’s dead, it’ll be a