Chapter Nine
I DRIVE OUT TO DALE’S cabin on Wednesday morning.
His place sits eight miles up the valley road, a one-room log house with a woodstove and a covered porch where he ties flies in the summer and watches the elk come down from the ridgeline in the fall.
Dale’s truck is in the yard, and he’s on the porch with coffee, a vise, and a half-finished Woolly Bugger when I pull up.
“Sit down,” he says. “Coffee’s on the stove.”
I get myself a cup and sit in the other porch chair, the one that’s been there since my father used to come up here on Sunday mornings to talk about the river and drink Dale’s terrible coffee.
“I need to ask you something,” I say. “Has Cody ever talked to you about guiding at the lodge?”
Dale doesn’t look up from his fly. “Last spring. Called and asked if I knew anyone interested in picking up guide work next season. Said he was thinking about expanding the operation.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him you run a clean operation and you don’t need more guides than you already bring on for overflow.
” Dale sets his bobbin down and looks at me.
“He called Pete Sandoval down in Sun Valley and Rick Trainor over on the Middle Fork. Both of them told me about it, because that’s what happens in a valley this size. People talk.”
“Did anyone take it seriously?”
“Nobody took it seriously, Mac. Everybody knows that lodge runs because of you. Your dad built the reputation. You built the business. Cody’s good with people, but people don’t come back for the concierge. They come back for the guide.”
I sit with that for a minute. Then I tell him about the Devlin correspondence, the developer from Boise, and the sale Cody’s been positioning.
I don’t go into the receipts or the affair details beyond what Dale already knows.
He processes information practically, and what he needs to understand right now is the business threat.
“So he’s trying to sell your lodge out from under you,” Dale says.
“He’s trying. He doesn’t own it.”
“Does he know that?”
“He’s about to.”
Dale picks his vise back up and works on the Bugger. “Your father would have put him in the river,” he says.
“Dad was more patient than that.”
“Not about someone hurting you, he wasn’t.
” Dale ties off a thread and inspects the fly, turning it in the morning light.
“You know what your dad told me the day you signed the papers on that place? He called me from the parking lot at the title company. Said, ‘Dale, my kid just bought a fishing lodge with money she earned herself, and I don’t think she understands what she’s done.
’ I asked him what he meant. He said, ‘She built a life nobody can take from her.’”
I consider that with my coffee cup warm in my hands, the valley stretched out below Dale’s porch in shades of green and gray.
“He was right,” I say.
“He was always right about the river,” Dale says. “And he was always right about you.”
We sit on the porch for another ten minutes, drinking coffee that tastes like creek water strained through motor oil. Dale tells me that if I need anything, he’s eight miles up the road and he’s not going anywhere. Then he tells me to go run my lodge, and I do.
Jim finds me at the dock that evening while I’m rigging boats for the morning.
He’s in a good mood, sunburned and relaxed, holding a beer from the lodge fridge. He leans against the dock railing and watches the river settle into the slower light.
“This place,” he says. “Twenty years, and it still feels the same. Everything else changes. Jobs, wives, the market.” He takes a sip. “Wives change, but the river stays the same.”
He means it as a joke. He’s smiling, easy, and a little resigned, and I can tell he’s quietly aware that his second marriage isn’t exactly what he hoped it would be.
The words land differently for me. His wife is changing right now, making plans in rooms Jim doesn’t know about, looking at property deeds that don’t belong to her, and pushing my husband to sell my lodge so she can afford to leave the man standing next to me with a beer, a sunset, and no idea what’s happening under his own roof.
“The river doesn’t change much,” I say. “That’s what I like about it.”
“Your dad used to say that.” Jim looks at me. “How are you doing, Mac? Really.”
“I’m good, Jim. It’s peak season. Everybody’s tired.”
He nods, not entirely convinced, and finishes his beer. “I’m booking next year before I leave. Same week. Same cabin. Don’t give it to anyone else.”
“It’s yours,” I say, and the sentence lands harder than it should, because Jim doesn’t know what’s coming and by next summer, everything about this lodge will be different except the river and that I’ll still be here running it.
TWO DAYS LATER, AT the Friday dinner where all the guests eat together at the long table, Gigi is seated across from Jim, and she’s quieter than usual.
She checks her phone twice during the first course, setting it face-down between checks with a deliberate casualness that isn’t casual at all.
When Cody comes through from the kitchen with a second bottle of wine, Gigi keeps her attention on her plate.
She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t say anything warm, easy, or appreciative.
Jim doesn’t notice because he’s telling a fish story to the couple from Montana at the other end of the table.
After dinner, while the guests move to the porch for drinks, I catch a moment through the kitchen window.
Gigi and Cody are on the side porch, voices low, Gigi’s posture rigid.
She’s talking fast, and Cody is doing what he does when someone is unhappy with him.
He’s smiling , nodding, and reaching for her arm. She pulls it back and walks inside.
Cody stands on the side porch alone for about ten seconds, then follows her in with the smile reassembled and a fresh bottle of wine.
Deb Trent catches my attention from behind the kitchen counter. Deb has been the lodge cook since before I bought the place. She came with the property, and she’s outlasted Clint Emerson, two assistant cooks, and four seasons of Cody. She knows every rhythm in this building.
“Those two are getting sloppy,” she says, tipping her head toward the porch where Cody and Gigi were standing ten seconds ago.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I found her sunglasses on the nightstand in Cabin One last week. Cabin One was empty. Nobody was booked in it.” Deb wipes her hands on her apron. “Cody’s been taking long lunches too. Longer than a supply run would explain.”
She doesn’t say what she thinks is happening. She doesn’t need to. Deb has worked in small lodges in small towns for thirty years.
“Thanks, Deb.”
“You’re a good boss, Mac. Better than Clint was. Better than most. I’ll speak up if you need me when it comes time.” She picks up a stack of plates and heads for the sink. “Just be careful.”
I add Deb’s observations to my notebook that night, the sunglasses in the empty cabin, the long lunches, and the argument on the side porch. The affair isn’t just leaking anymore. It’s becoming visible to anyone who works here and pays attention.
The clock is running. I need to move soon.