Winterwolf, Alaska

One corner of the conference room was cluttered with the remnants of the trip they’d just led. Flaccid packs and sleeping pads and unused food packages had been dumped in a heap by the clients, eager to catch the noon charter home. Elsewhere was a hint of the organization that was a hallmark of every Orion Outfi tters expedition.

On two long tables lay neat groupings of supplies destined for their upcoming whitewater kayak trip. There were eight piles of food and gear in all: six for the clients and two for the guides, who were, at that moment, neglecting their preparations in favor of two steaming bowls of moose chili and two bottles of Kodiak Brown Ale. The cook at the Stony Creek Lodge had become good friends with Chaz Herrick and Sally Travis during their frequent stops in Winterwolf, and sent over a busboy with some chow whenever they had a short layover between trips.

It was obvious both women spent a lot of time in active outdoor pursuits. Their bodies were tanned and fi t, and their clothes were designed for their lifestyles, made of quick-drying fabrics and with ample pockets. But the similarities between the two guides ended there.

Chaz was dark and lean, while Sally was all blond curvaceousness.

Sally glanced at her watch as she took a long pull of the ale. “Jeez, where has the time gone? I’ve got less than an hour before I have to get ready to go.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chaz said from across the table. “I can fi nish this up. Why don’t you brief me on the clients?”

“Sure.” Sally reached for a fi le folder that contained the registration forms. “You know, I am sorry I can’t be here for the welcome and briefi ng. I know you hate that part.”

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KIM BALDWIN

“I suppose I can manage this once,” Chaz replied, rolling her hazel eyes. “You do have a relatively good excuse. It’s not every day your daughter graduates from college.”

“Chelsea will be glad you approve.” Sally pulled the top form off her pile and perused it, refreshing her memory. “Looks like a good group. All women, and all friends from Chicago.”

“All women?” Chaz repeated, leaning forward and trying to read the form upside down across the table.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that.”

“Well, it’ll be a nice change after this last nightmare.” Chaz glanced over to the pile of discarded backpacks. “I got tired of fending off Mister Can’t-keep-his-hands-to-himself.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him you’re gay?” Sally asked.

“Because that rarely discourages them. Remember that pilot who went kayaking with us last summer? I told him, fi nally, and he only got more determined to hit on me. Said he viewed me as a challenge. What a creep.”

“Oh, yeah, that big guy with the bad comb-over. Followed you around like a dog in heat.”

“Don’t remind me. Okay, who have we got?” Chaz gestured toward the registration forms.

“The good news is they all can swim. The fi rst two have good whitewater experience. Linda Ferris, forty-four, who’s been kayaking for fi fteen years…” Sally gave her form to Chaz. “And Pat Palmer, forty-seven, who’s got about the same.” She handed over a second sheet.

“They have their own boats and have done a lot of class III and IV.”

Chaz glanced over the two registration forms. No physical limitations for either woman. No special dietary restrictions or allergies.

Both said they had extensive previous camping experience, and both listed themselves as expert kayakers. In other words, on paper, they looked like very low-maintenance clients. Her favorite kind. “Okay, next?”

“Two more with some previous paddling experience,” Sally continued. “Yancey Gilmore, thirty-eight, who goes canoe camping with her family a couple of times a year, and Justine Bernard, twenty-nine, who went on a ten-day sea kayak trip to Glacier Bay last summer with another outfi tter.” She tossed two more forms to Chaz. “I’ve talked to Justine at length a couple of times—she’s the point person for the

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