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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.”
    â€œHey, 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?”
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œAfter 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.”
    â€œSenator Stiles is an important man,” Clint pointed out. “Surely there were preliminary news bulletins notifying the public that he and his family were missing?”
    â€œAt 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?”
    â€œCertain sure, man. Why are you asking?”
    â€œYou 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