Chapter 1
Brock “Badger” Jones heard the river before he saw it. The St. Vrain was riding higher than usual, thanks to a couple of back-to-back blizzards the winter before followed by a wet spring and early summer in the Rockies. The glacier-fed stream cut through the area’s red sandstone, carving a path along a high cliff wall that towered over the town of Lyons.
Brock had meandered down to the river’s westside bank after stopping by Riversong Coffee for a to-go coffee. He loved this section of the river best. Lined with apple trees, cottonwoods, and paved with flat red sandstone slabs, this stretch of the St. Vrain bordered an old farm that had been converted into an open-air concert venue decades ago. Watchdog had been hired to provide security for an upcoming music festival alongside local law enforcement. Brock was part of the security detail and as such he would be given a tour of the grounds and buildings.
But that was supposed to be tomorrow. Today, he was trespassing.
Not for the first time. The former SWCC—Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen, Swick for short—was drawn to the wild river his buddy Sean Voelker used to talk about all the time, the river he’d grown up with. He’d talked about it like it was the mother of all rivers.
And maybe it was. Brock had certainly fallen under its spell. Since coming to Colorado in April, he’d visited the river as often as he could. Now that it was late July, the water was warm enough to enjoy for a brief summer window. Locals and visitors alike took advantage of the higher runoff to rent big black inner tubes and tube down the river, normally much lower by now and only good for wading in most spots, so he’d been told. He’d already waved to a few people happily floating down the river to the park where the St. Vrain widened out and calmed a little and they could get out and carry the tubes back upstream to do it again. Brock had put on swim trunks and a tee that morning with the idea of maybe tubing later.
Brock could hear people laughing and talking upriver. Their amplified voices bounced off the cliff wall. He caught snatches of music as musicians practiced their instruments a couple days ahead of the week-long songwriting class that culminated in a contest and performance at the very end of the festival. The hopeful musicians were staying in tents and RVs in a private campsite on the festival grounds. Their instructors—professional musicians in the folk, acoustic, and bluegrass scene—would mostly be coming in tomorrow to stay in the old stone farmhouse converted into guest quarters.
He smiled at their carefree laughter as it helped to elevate his blue mood. The voices helped bring life to the river. Brock walked toward the grounds around the bend. He’d stop just out of sight so that he wouldn’t get into trouble. That wouldn’t fly the day before he was supposed to be guarding the place. But he hoped to hear some of the music and listen to other people having fun while he watched the water and the ravens who lived in the cliffs above it.
As he walked, he noticed something resting under one of the trees. Curious, he checked it out. A violin case.Did someone steal this? Or was it a practical joke?Whoever it belonged to must be frantic. He picked it up, trying to decide what to do. Should he just give himself away and keep walking along the edge of the river, around the bend to the farm, and ask the group there who it belonged to? Or, should he circle around to the front office and give it to someone there? No way was he going to leave it here where God knew what could happen to it.
Better to seek forgiveness than ask permission. He continued along the river, his coffee in one hand and the violin case in the other. Maybe they wouldn’t even know he wasn’t supposed to be there.
Another tube came into view, and riding it was a vision of a woman. Strawberry-blonde braids under a straw hat, tanned skin, red bikini. Brock stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t one to gawk at a woman, but Lord have mercy. He looked away quickly before he embarrassed himself or scared her and resumed walking as the tube drifted closer.
“Hey! Hey, you!” she yelled as her tube passed. “Stop!”
“What?” He turned to look at her. She was already shooting past him, as this section of the river had some wicked rocks churning up the water and forming rapids.
She was trying to spin her tube around and sit up. “Stop! Someone help!” And then she was in the water.
Shit.Brock dropped his coffee and the violin and ran. The woman was paddling furiously toward the shore, her inner tube floating on down the river without her. The current was strong and carrying her away.
“I’m coming,” he yelled as he ran along the bank to catch up, then splashed into the water, warm in the shallows but quickly turning colder as he waded in up to his waist. She was doing her best to reach him, moving at an angle toward both Brock and the edge of the river. She wasn’t panicking—not yet at least—which would make his job a hundred times safer and easier. He pushed off from the bottom and let the current carry him to her faster. When he reached her, she yelled for help again and swallowed water.God, now she’s panicking.
“Calm down. Let me help.” He reached around her and pulled. The water was thankfully shallower here and she’d done a decent job of getting herself closer to the shore. The rocks were sharp and Brock was glad neither of them had lost their sandals as he stood and helped her while she coughed and fought him. Somehow, she’d miraculously kept her hat, too. The current let up as they moved toward the bank until the water was only ankle-deep.
She finally coughed out the last of the river and took a deep breath. “Get…the hell…away from me, thief.” She high-stepped away from him as she picked her way between the sharp rocks to the muddy bank.
“Thief?”Oh, shit, the violin. “No, wait, I found it,” he called after her as she sprinted upriver to where he’d dropped the case and his coffee. He ran after her, then slowed and put his hands up, realizing what he probably looked like. “I’m not going to hurt you. I saw it while I was walking and thought someone had stolen it. I was bringing it back to find the owner, I promise.”
But she wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy opening the case to examine the instrument inside. “The way you dropped it, I was afraid you’d damaged my baby.”
Wow. Now he was getting annoyed. “I’m sorry, but I thought it was more important to save your life.”
Her head shot up and her green eyes locked on his. “Save my life? I was trying to save my fiddle fromyou. I was fine!”
“Fine? You were calling for help.”
“I was calling for help against a guy trying to steal my fiddle.” She huffed out a breath as she looked at the instrument. “You’re lucky she’s not damaged. You’d better hope a Good Samaritan pulled my tube out of the river or you’ll owe me the replacement fees.”
Damn, really?“Well, you owe me for the coffee I dropped.” Brock gestured at the empty paper cup lying on its side, its lid off.
She studied him. Head-to-toe looked him over. Her cheeks reddened. “I should turn you in to festival security. I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”
“Iamfestival security.”Well, technically. Starting tomorrow, but who’s watching the clock?he thought. “I wanted to make sure your violin—”
“It’s a fiddle.”
“Okay, yourfiddle, wasn’t stolen. That’s part of my job.”Well, sort of. “What’s it doing over here, anyway?”
She sucked in her lower lip and popped it back out, and damn was that hot. “I…didn’t want anyone to watch me practice so I left it here. I don’t like it when people watch me play.” The anger seemed to drain out of her.
