receptionist.
"You're looking to find Taylor?" The young redhead set down her nail polish and pointed to a county map on the wall behind her. "I know where he is most days from May through September, and since it's July I should know where he is. And I do." She tapped her pen on the counter making little black dots someone would have to wipe off. "You wanna know too?"
"Yes." Cameron forced himself to be patient. The ache in his gut said every moment counted, and while he could force himself to be light on the outside, it wasn't an easy weight to carry.
"On the river." The receptionist made a motion of casting a line, then reeling in a fish. "They tell me he's very good at it."
"Any idea which one?"
"Sure." She stepped over a stack of papers and tapped a tiny blue squiggle on the map on the wall. "Either the Metolius or Squaw Cre—I mean, Whychus Creek. It used to be Squaw Creek, but a lot of people still think of it as Squaw Creek 'cause we called it that for a long time, know what I mean?"
"Sure. Any idea which one he favors?"
"Well, there's great fly-fishing on both of them, but the fish are smaller on Whychus Creek and this time of the year the water level there is dropping, but of course it's more private there and Taylor likes his privacy, so all things considered, I'd—"
"So you think he'd be on Whychus Creek, then?"
"If I were in your shoes, that's the one I'd try first. But you never can know for sure till you start searching, know what I mean?"
"Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it."
Later as Cameron hiked from the trailhead past thundering Chush Falls to the stretch of the creek where the fish would be running, he mulled over what he would do if Stone turned out to be a dead end. No idea.
And even if Stone led him to the book, what guarantee was there that it would fix whatever was eating away at his brain like a piranha?
As the first shards of the creek materialized through breaks in the trees and underbrush, he stopped and listened to the silence. An occasional call from a red-tailed hawk broke the still canopy overhead but that was all.
Intellectually he knew this was a place of peace, but the emotion eluded him.
As he pressed through the bushes, breaking into the rocky sun-soaked beach that bordered the creek, Cameron looked right, then left. Nothing. Wait. Two hundred yards downriver Cameron saw a flash. Yes. The sun glinting off a fishing pole.
The figure whipping the pole back and forth glanced his direction from time to time, but it wasn't till Cameron trudged down the creek bank and stood directly across from him that the casting stopped.
The man was tall and wore an Oregon Ducks baseball hat. He had a black goatee with more gray than black, and his eyes made Cameron think of Sean Connery.
Cameron eased forward till he was inches from the crystal water that gurgled in front of his boots. He glanced at the photo Susan had e-mailed him earlier. The man who stood twenty yards away on the other side of the creek was definitely Taylor Stone.
"Greetings!" the man called across the glassy creek. "You lost?"
"Not if you know where we are."
"Well said." The man smiled.
"You're Taylor Stone."
"Is that a statement or a question?"
"I'm Cameron Vaux."
"Ah, I see." Taylor whipped off his hat to reveal a shock of salt-and-pepper hair to match his goatee. He bowed, his hat across his chest. "You're correct. I am Taylor Stone. It is interesting to meet you."
He put his hat back on, turned, and whipped his arm back and forth three times in smooth succession, the fly at the end of his line settling on the water for only a few seconds before a flick of his wrist snatched it off the surface. "Are you a fly fisherman, Cameron?"
"I've always wanted to learn."
"Do you mean that?" Taylor stopped casting and stared at him, a twinkle in his brown eyes.
Cameron had wanted to learn since his dad and he had backpacked a section of the Pacific Crest Trail and stumbled on a fly fisherman who had given
"You're looking to find Taylor?" The young redhead set down her nail polish and pointed to a county map on the wall behind her. "I know where he is most days from May through September, and since it's July I should know where he is. And I do." She tapped her pen on the counter making little black dots someone would have to wipe off. "You wanna know too?"
"Yes." Cameron forced himself to be patient. The ache in his gut said every moment counted, and while he could force himself to be light on the outside, it wasn't an easy weight to carry.
"On the river." The receptionist made a motion of casting a line, then reeling in a fish. "They tell me he's very good at it."
"Any idea which one?"
"Sure." She stepped over a stack of papers and tapped a tiny blue squiggle on the map on the wall. "Either the Metolius or Squaw Cre—I mean, Whychus Creek. It used to be Squaw Creek, but a lot of people still think of it as Squaw Creek 'cause we called it that for a long time, know what I mean?"
"Sure. Any idea which one he favors?"
"Well, there's great fly-fishing on both of them, but the fish are smaller on Whychus Creek and this time of the year the water level there is dropping, but of course it's more private there and Taylor likes his privacy, so all things considered, I'd—"
"So you think he'd be on Whychus Creek, then?"
"If I were in your shoes, that's the one I'd try first. But you never can know for sure till you start searching, know what I mean?"
"Thanks for all your help. I appreciate it."
Later as Cameron hiked from the trailhead past thundering Chush Falls to the stretch of the creek where the fish would be running, he mulled over what he would do if Stone turned out to be a dead end. No idea.
And even if Stone led him to the book, what guarantee was there that it would fix whatever was eating away at his brain like a piranha?
As the first shards of the creek materialized through breaks in the trees and underbrush, he stopped and listened to the silence. An occasional call from a red-tailed hawk broke the still canopy overhead but that was all.
Intellectually he knew this was a place of peace, but the emotion eluded him.
As he pressed through the bushes, breaking into the rocky sun-soaked beach that bordered the creek, Cameron looked right, then left. Nothing. Wait. Two hundred yards downriver Cameron saw a flash. Yes. The sun glinting off a fishing pole.
The figure whipping the pole back and forth glanced his direction from time to time, but it wasn't till Cameron trudged down the creek bank and stood directly across from him that the casting stopped.
The man was tall and wore an Oregon Ducks baseball hat. He had a black goatee with more gray than black, and his eyes made Cameron think of Sean Connery.
Cameron eased forward till he was inches from the crystal water that gurgled in front of his boots. He glanced at the photo Susan had e-mailed him earlier. The man who stood twenty yards away on the other side of the creek was definitely Taylor Stone.
"Greetings!" the man called across the glassy creek. "You lost?"
"Not if you know where we are."
"Well said." The man smiled.
"You're Taylor Stone."
"Is that a statement or a question?"
"I'm Cameron Vaux."
"Ah, I see." Taylor whipped off his hat to reveal a shock of salt-and-pepper hair to match his goatee. He bowed, his hat across his chest. "You're correct. I am Taylor Stone. It is interesting to meet you."
He put his hat back on, turned, and whipped his arm back and forth three times in smooth succession, the fly at the end of his line settling on the water for only a few seconds before a flick of his wrist snatched it off the surface. "Are you a fly fisherman, Cameron?"
"I've always wanted to learn."
"Do you mean that?" Taylor stopped casting and stared at him, a twinkle in his brown eyes.
Cameron had wanted to learn since his dad and he had backpacked a section of the Pacific Crest Trail and stumbled on a fly fisherman who had given
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