Too Sexy for his Stetson by Mal Olson

Christiansen’s cruiser.
    Brandy and Blade jumped out, dashed to the rear of the Tahoe, and ripped open the back doors. Less than a hundred yards away, the wild waters of the Shoshone roared, a daytime thrill ride that was twice as dangerous in the cloak of darkness.
    After grabbing high–powered flashlights, ropes, life–jackets, and rain gear, they headed toward the river, Blade leading, Rambo next in line, and Brandy following.
    Christiansen stood surveying the river at the top of an incline where the waters widened and cascaded over a boulder field. “The missing raft is red, and the guy was wearing a yellow helmet and vest,” he reported. “A lot of good that’s going to do in the dark.”
    A flash of lightning scrawled the black sky with a craggy message. The resulting thunderclap affirmed the warning. There was precious little time before Mother Nature would likely close down the operation. And every minute in cold water lessened the odds of a successful recovery.
    “Do we have an ID?” Brandy asked.
    “No, he registered with Tour d’Alene under the name of Bob Jones, which doesn’t jive with the ID he gave the car rental company. Steve Smith. Both turned out to be bogus.” Christiansen scratched his head. “The rental vehicle is parked at Tour d’Alene’s launch site.”
    “Is that his sweatshirt?” Blade asked, nodding to the garment in the deputy’s hand.
    Todd nodded and tossed him a gray hoodie. Blade held it for Rambo to sniff. Once the canine picked up the scent, he waited for Blade’s command.
    Thunder chased another flash of light, reverberating and echoing across the valley. Goosebumps dotted Brandy’s arms as she pulled on a raincoat and adjusted her flashlight. “This way to the trail. It follows the river alongside the rapids.”
    The men shrugged into ponchos.
    Blade commanded, “Rambo, such .”
    Just as the first cold drops of rain splatted the ground, Rambo took off. Brandy focused her flashlight and fell in behind the dog, scrambling down the trail. At the bottom of the descent, they reached the river’s edge. The trail leveled out, and by the time Rambo planted his nose to the ground and followed the river bank, rain pelted them in earnest.
    Again, the drop in grade grew steeper. Rain slashed Brandy’s face, and her feet skidded on the slickened path. She skated down the last five feet of decline, crashing onto her butt at the bottom. Rambo halted. Blade came sliding after Brandy, managing to stay on his feet. Christiansen followed, galloping over the loose gravel, pulling to a halt inches from the river’s edge.
    “You okay?” Blade gave her a hand.
    “Fine.” She scrambled to her feet, ignoring her protesting tailbone, and moved beside Rambo where he sat at attention.
    The dark river churned, but with each sporadic flash of light, the landscape came into focus, swaths of white foam glowing where water poured over rocks. Brandy strained to see. Hail started to clutter the mix, hammering a rhythm against the hood of her raincoat. She studied the path of Rambo’s gaze and redirected the lantern.
    Eyes scrunched, Blade used his hand to shield his face from the rain and icy pellets.
    Brandy spotted a dark object. Something—or someone—snagged amidst the frothing current. “Over there. Five feet from the bank. About ten feet upstream.”
    Could be trapped debris, but Rambo remained steadfast, sitting at attention in his signal position, staring into the water, which caused Brandy’s pulse to kick up. If it were a person, he could be hanging onto life by a thread.
    Blade tossed Christiansen a rope. “Wrap this around that aspen,” he yelled, and then exchanged glances with Christiansen. “The dive team is twenty minutes behind us. If that’s our guy and he’s still alive, he may not have twenty minutes.”
    Christiansen nodded in agreement.
    Brandy was chilled to the bone. When Blade stripped off his rain poncho and boots and donned a lifejacket, her insides knotted