Read Online Wicked Eddies by Beth Groundwater - Free Book Online Page B

way through the long slow turn of Big Bend and past the County Road 166 bridge, which marked the end of the tournament competition section. The only sounds that broke the silence were the plunks of their paddles in the water and the nearby chittering of an irritated tassel-eared Abert squirrel. A cool, fresh breeze tickled the hairs on Mandy’s forearms, but the warm sun kept her from getting chilled. They passed a section of river bank clogged with red-tipped willow and green alder bushes growing right into the water.
    Up ahead, where the sandy bank was clear of bushes, two men in waders stood about thirty feet apart in knee-deep water over cobble bars of smooth, multi-colored river rocks. Their yellow fly lines sliced through the air in rhythmic arcs when they cast back and forth across the current. With a clear blue sky and sunlight strewing sparkling diamonds across the water, the scene would have made a perfect postcard advertising Colorado as an ideal fly-fishing destination.
    Mandy noticed that one man’s casts formed consistently perfect ovals in the air, letting the two flies tied to the end of the line drift to land with a light touch on the water’s surface. The other man’s casts, while still a good effort, were inconsistent, sometimes resulting in the flies plunking in.
    â€œThat one of the competition teams?” she asked Steve.
    â€œThe balding, middle-aged guy with the excellent form is Ira Porter,” Steve answered. “I don’t know the young guy, but I bet Ira recruited him to take Howie Abbott’s place on his team.”
    While they drifted closer, Mandy wondered why, if Ira was so talented, he would resort to cheating with Howie Abbott, as the rumors said. She wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to talk to the man, though she knew better than to telegraph to him what Detective Quintana’s questions would be.
    â€œCould you introduce me to Ira?” she asked Steve.
    Steve sat with the paddle across his lap, obviously admiring the beauty of Ira’s casts. “Man, he’s soft on the rod. I almost hate to disturb them.”
    Just then, Ira signaled to his partner to move downstream and pointed at a couple of small eddy pools there, likely spots to find lurking trout. The younger man pulled in his line, then took some tentative steps on the slippery rocks. He stepped in a depression, plunging into deeper water. He lost his balance, and with arms windmilling, fell to one knee. While he struggled to regain his footing, he held his chest high to keep water from pouring into his waders.
    â€œThere’s a reason to disturb them now,” Mandy said. “That guy could probably use a warning to stay in shallow water if he’s so unsure on his feet.”
    â€œYou do it,” Steve answered. “I’d like to see how you handle the situation. And, if he has a problem with it and asks for your supervisor, I’ll be right here to back you up. Paddle in real slow and easy.”
    By the time they had beached their raft on a high point on the cobble bar upstream of Ira Porter, the younger man had righted himself, and Ira had reeled in his line. The younger man’s face was red. Ira was glowering, though Mandy wasn’t sure if it was at his partner’s slip-up or the intrusion of the rangers.
    â€œHowdy, Ira,” Steve said. “How’s the fishing?”
    â€œNot so good now,” he said with a harrumph, “with your raft scaring them away.”
    â€œSorry about that, but we’ve got to patrol the river. We tried to slip in quietly. The fish’ll return after we leave.” Steve pointed to Mandy. “I don’t believe you’ve met Mandy Tanner, one of our new river rangers this year.”
    Ira gave a curt nod to Mandy’s hello.
    â€œWho’s your partner?” Steve asked.
    Ira signaled to the younger man, who started slogging his way upstream toward them, “Wally Dixon, hails out