Chapter One

Lily

The French Broad River slapped my face with frigid water, but I barely blinked as I barked out instructions.

“Forward hard! Right side, now!”

Four terrified tourists plunged their paddles into the churning water with varying degrees of usefulness. The raft climbed the face of a wave, hung there for one breathless second, then dropped into the trough hard enough to rattle my teeth.

Someone screamed.

Probably the accountant from Charlotte.

He’s been screaming a lot.

“Keep paddling!”

I buried the guide oar and threw my weight against it as the current caught the raft broadside.

Devil’s Elbow hooked sharply around a wall of granite, funneling the current toward exposed rocks before kicking sideways into a hydraulic that punished mistakes.

I knew every rock in it.

Every tongue of green water.

Every place the current changed direction beneath an apparently harmless surface.

The river didn’t care. That was one of the things I liked about it. Water didn’t care how experienced you were. It didn’t care how many certifications hung on your wall or how many times you’d successfully run the same stretch.

You respected the river, or eventually it taught you to.

Fast.

The nose of the raft swung left.

Too far.

I dug in again. “Left side, two strokes!”

Three paddles hit the water.

One hit another passenger.

Close enough.

“Again!”

They obeyed.

Mostly.

The raft inched past the first rock, skimmed the edge of the hydraulic, and shot through the narrow opening into calmer water.

For three seconds, nobody spoke.

Then Charlotte Accountant threw both arms into the air. “We lived!”

His wife smacked his thigh with her paddle.

“You almost made us die.”

“I followed instructions.”

“You paddled backward.”

“I panicked.”

I laughed before I could stop myself. “Adrenaline does that sometimes.”

So did people.

“Everybody still in the boat?”

A chorus of breathless yeses answered me.

“Then I’m calling it a win.”

The woman in front of me turned around, eyes huge. “Was that as close as it felt?”

“Nope.”

Four faces stared at me.

I let the silence stretch before adding, “But nobody buys a T-shirt that says We Were Perfectly Safe the Entire Time, so tell the story however you want.”

Charlotte Accountant barked out a laugh.

His wife pointed her paddle at me. “I like her.”

“You say that now. Wait until I tell you there are two more rapids.”

Her husband went pale.

There weren’t.

He’d find out eventually. My lip twitched, but I managed not to smile as I guided us toward the center of the channel. Behind me, my passengers talked over one another, each apparently determined to establish exactly how close we’d come to certain death.

We hadn’t.

Not even remotely.

But I’d learned a long time ago not to ruin a tourist’s near-death experience with facts. They tipped better if they believed they’d survived something.

The river widened ahead, sunlight flashing across the green-gray water between thick walls of summer trees. Rhododendron crowded the banks. Hemlock and oak climbed the slopes beyond them, everything lush from months of heat and rain.

Home.

Not the house I rented outside town.

Not any building, really.

This.

I knew this stretch of river better than I knew most people. Which was why the smell caught my attention as we rounded Miller’s Bend.

Faint at first. Something sour beneath the clean mineral bite of the river. I drew another breath before I could stop myself.

There it was again.

Rotten fruit left too long in the sun, with something yeasty underneath.

Wrong.

The river carried plenty of smells after a hard rain—mud, decaying leaves, whatever an overflowing ditch picked up on its way downhill—but we hadn’t had enough rain to explain this.

I scanned the water.

Nothing floated on the surface. No strange color spread through the current. Nothing looked different.

“Ugh.”

The accountant’s wife lifted one arm and sniffed the sleeve of her wet shirt. Her nose wrinkled.

“What is that smell?”

Her husband leaned away from her. “Is it you?”

She smacked him with the paddle again.

“Ow.”

“It’s the water.” She wiped at the front of her life jacket, then immediately pulled her hand away. “It smells like something died in it.”

The couple on the right stopped talking.

Four faces turned toward me.

Exactly what every guide wanted in the middle of a paid excursion: passengers wondering whether the river was trying to poison them.

I kept my expression neutral and steered us around a partially submerged rock.

“Something probably washed into one of the feeder creeks.”

“Like sewage?” the woman on the right asked.

“That wasn’t where my mind went.”

It was now.

“Is the water safe?” Charlotte Accountant’s wife asked.

“There aren’t any active advisories for this section.” That much was true. “And I wouldn’t have brought you onto the river if I believed conditions were unsafe.”

Also true.

Unfortunately, neither truth explained the smell clinging to my skin.

The wife sniffed her sleeve again and made a face.

“I’ll report it when we get back,” I said. “If something has entered the water, the county needs to know about it.”

My answer seemed to satisfy everyone except me.

The current carried us past the mouth of the feeder creek. I watched the water where the smaller flow joined the French Broad, searching for foam, discoloration, anything that would explain what we smelled.

Nothing.

Just sunlight dancing over the surface.

“Paddles up,” I called.

They raised them.

“Prepare to celebrate your survival. The takeout is around the next bend.”

Charlotte Accountant sagged with relief.

His wife looked almost disappointed.

The conversation shifted back to Devil’s Elbow, but the sour smell stayed with us.

By the time we reached the takeout, it had faded.

That should have reassured me.

It didn’t.

My shoulders ached, my toes were numb inside my neoprene boots, and all four passengers had decided I was personally responsible for the greatest vacation experience of their lives.

Also, apparently, I was fearless.

People mistook competence for fearlessness all the time.

I was afraid of plenty.

Late bills.

Dental work.

Snakes dropping out of trees.

The county permit meeting tomorrow morning.

That one currently topped the list.

I held the raft steady while the accountant’s wife climbed out. She looked down at her damp clothes and grimaced.

“That smell really is awful.”

“I know. I’m documenting where we noticed it and reporting it.”

Her gaze snapped to mine. “So you smelled it too?”

“Only around Miller’s Bend.”

“Does that happen often?”

“No.”

Her expression tightened. Wonderful. Nothing soothed a nervous customer like discovering the river guide was also concerned.

“I’ll contact you if the county issues any kind of advisory,” I promised.

She nodded, still not entirely convinced, and joined her husband near the changing area.

“Lily!”

I glanced toward the company van.

Mason stood beside it with his sunglasses shoved onto the top of his head and his phone pressed against his chest. At twenty-two, he possessed the irritating combination of endless energy and functioning knee cartilage.

I hated him a little.

“What?”

“Your ten o’clock called.”

“My ten o’clock is standing beside me trying to determine whether river water causes radioactive mutations.”

Charlotte Accountant looked interested. “Does it?”

“No.”

His wife dragged him toward the changing area.

Mason waited until they were out of earshot. “What was that about?”

“Something near Miller’s Bend smelled wrong. Sour. Fermented, maybe.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No discoloration. No foam. Nothing floating.”

He looked toward the river. “Want me to check it tomorrow?”

“No. I’ll take a look after my meeting. You can take the afternoon beginner run.”

His eyebrows climbed. “You’re voluntarily giving me a run?”

“The lower route. Try not to make this emotional.”

I pointed toward the office. “Before you leave, put the complaint in the trip log—location, time, weather conditions, everything. I’ll check the county notices tonight.”

He pulled out his phone. “You think it’s serious?”

“I think a customer noticed.”

That made it serious whether the water itself was dangerous or not. One complaint could become a bad review. Enough posts about foul-smelling water could turn an entire rafting season into empty boats and unpaid invoices.

And my business couldn’t afford either.

Not with the permit expansion finally close enough to touch.

Mason lowered his phone. “Speaking of things that could destroy your digestive system—”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Tomorrow,” he finished. “Your ten o’clock.”

I stopped.

He grinned.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

I considered throwing him into the river.

“Mason.”

“The permit office confirmed the meeting.”

My stomach tightened. I bent to grab the front handle of the raft before he could see it on my face.

“Good.”

“Ten sharp. Thorne building.”

“I know where it is.”

“Wear shoes.”

I straightened slowly.

Mason took one careful step backward.

“I wear shoes.”

“Dry shoes.”

“These are professional river footwear.”

“They smell like something crawled inside them and reconsidered its life choices.”

“That is the smell of experience.”

“That is the smell of fungus.”

I pointed at the raft.

“Lift.”

Still grinning, he grabbed the opposite handle. Together, we wrestled it onto the trailer.

Tomorrow.

After eight months of forms, inspections, insurance paperwork, safety certifications, route proposals, and what I was fairly certain had been a blood sacrifice disguised as county bureaucracy, I finally had the meeting that could move the expansion forward.

Blue Ridge Rapids was already a real business.

A small, barely-stays-ahead-of-the-bills one.

But it was mine.

The expanded permit would give us longer routes, more launch times, and enough business to keep additional guides working through the season. Enough income that one broken raft or slow month wouldn’t push us to the edge.

My grandfather had spent most of his life working the river for other people and retired with worn-out joints and too little money to show for it. I loved the river as much as he had, but I intended to build something that wouldn’t use me up and leave me with nothing but stories.

The county had approved everything except commercial access. For that, I needed an agreement covering the river corridor controlled by Thorne Enterprises.

Which meant I needed Zachary Thorne—the resort owner, largest private landowner along this section of river, and either the reason half the county still had jobs or a ruthless corporate overlord slowly buying the mountains, depending on whom you asked.

I wasn’t impressed by money. I’d guided too many people who had plenty of it and no idea which end of the paddle belonged in the water.

That didn’t mean I wanted to irritate Zachary Thorne.

Mason cinched one of the trailer straps. “You’ve done everything they asked.”

“That has never stopped anyone from inventing additional things.”

“This isn’t the government anymore.”

“No. Now I have to convince a man who owns half the river.”

“Technically, nobody owns the river.”

I lifted my eyebrows.

He held up both hands. “He owns the land beside the river.”

“Which I need to put customers into and take customers out of said un-ownable river.”

“So, metaphorically, he owns the river.”

“Thank you.”

Charlotte Accountant approached holding his helmet beneath one arm and a folded wad of cash in his hand.

“For getting us through alive.”

His wife appeared behind him. “For getting us through despite him.”

I laughed and accepted the tip.

“I’m glad you had fun.”

He glanced back toward the river. “Do you ever get tired of doing this?”

The question caught me off guard.

I followed his gaze. Late-afternoon sunlight poured across the water. Beyond it, the mountains rose in overlapping shades of blue-green, fading into the horizon.

Did I get tired?

Absolutely.

Tired of hauling rafts. Tired of wet gear. Tired of tourists who ignored safety talks because they assumed a life jacket made them immortal.

For sure tired of scraping together winter income and checking the weather forecast as though it held my future.

But tired of the river?

“No,” I said.

And that part was true.

His wife smiled before steering him toward the parking lot.

Mason waited until they were out of earshot. “That was disgustingly inspirational.”

“I have layers.”

“Like fungus?”

I shoved his shoulder.

He laughed and ducked away.

I reached for my water bottle, then stopped.

Even above the rubber, mud, and damp neoprene surrounding the van, I could still detect the sour odor clinging to my sleeve.

The smell had reached my customers.

Tomorrow, I had to persuade Zachary Thorne to give me the access I needed to expand those customer trips.

Perfect timing.

One problem at a time.

First, get the agreement.

Then figure out what was wrong with the river.

Before anyone else noticed.

Except someone already had.

At nine forty-five the next morning, I walked into town wearing dry boots.

Mason would have been so proud.

The streets looked freshly swept, their redbrick sidewalks lined with flower baskets and tourists carrying expensive coffee. High-end SUVs filled the main street while well-used pickups occupied the side roads with mud still clinging to their tires.

Thorne Mountain Resort dominated the slope above town. Its shuttle vans moved between the lodge, shops, trailheads, and river access points—a visible reminder that Zachary Thorne’s influence reached nearly everything surrounding the river.

Including the land I needed.

Thorne Enterprises occupied a glass-and-timber building near the base of the resort. Stepping inside carried me from humid mountain air into cool, cedar-scented quiet.

Leather chairs sat on polished stone beneath an enormous antler chandelier. Above the fireplace, a dark wolf watched from a rocky ridge, golden eyes fixed on the room.

I shifted my leather folder beneath my arm.

The eyes followed me.

Not literally, obviously.

Still creepy.

Behind a broad oak reception desk, a woman looked up from her computer. Her gaze moved over my fitted blue shirt, dark jeans, and—yes—dry trail boots before returning to my face.

“Good morning.”

“Delilah Clements.” I raised the folder slightly. “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Thorne regarding a commercial-access agreement for my permit expansion.”

Her attention sharpened.

Not much. Just enough to make me wonder whether she recognized my name or knew exactly why I was there.

“Yes, Ms. Clements. He’s expecting you.”

I checked the clock mounted behind her.

Nine fifty-two.

Apparently, Zachary Thorne didn’t like to be kept waiting, but he also didn’t object to making other people do it.

I’d spent the previous night checking county advisories between rehearsals of my presentation. No contamination notices. No reported spills. Nothing that explained the smell at Miller’s Bend.

I’d also showered twice and could still imagine it clinging to my skin.

The receptionist touched one finger to the earpiece tucked beneath her hair.

“Ms. Clements is here.”

A pause.

Then her gaze returned to me. “You may go in.”

She motioned toward a set of oak doors at the end of the hall.

I squared my shoulders and adjusted my grip on the folder.

I knew my safety statistics, financial projections, proposed routes, emergency procedures, and river maps by heart. I’d already met every county requirement except commercial access. I wasn’t going to let a wealthy local mogul brush me aside because he preferred resort-owned excursions on his stretch of river.

This is a business meeting.

I crossed the hall, turned the heavy brass handle, and pushed open the door.

The oak thudded shut behind me, sealing out the rest of the building.

For one strange second, the air seemed to change. It pressed against my skin—warm, dense, and charged, like the breathless moment before a summer storm. Every hair along my arms lifted.

What the hell?