Author's Notes: So I just couldn't wait any longer - here's the first chapter of my next. Now, you don't even have to ask - I'll update about every other day, no matter how impatient anyone gets. That's half the fun :-) My uber-appreciation to by beta-readers: Flynne, whose Golden Idaho comments are an endless source if hilarity and broken halos; Fanficfan, who has been so patient with my scattered half-started story ideas, and Brenda, whose late-night e-mail conversations keep me entertained until well past the bedtime of good little college students. Enjoy!

Wild River Running

Chapter One

Howdy, neighbors! Welcome to…well, this isn't exactly Hazzard now, is it? But, we all know that the Dukes carry a little piece of Hazzard with them everywhere they go, and since this is where the Dukes are, this is where we are. Well, one of the Dukes, at least. Now, he looks like he's in trouble – which might not surprise you - but this trouble looks a bit worse than usual. The General Lee ain't gonna do much good here.

He slid back down into the water, stunned by the crushing impact of the boat against his chest that slammed him into the stone. He was dimly aware of the fierce current dragging his limp body down into the churning water, but the awareness was distant and curious, like watching himself in a dream. His first attempt to breathe in this dream-state swiftly brought him back to full consciousness as he sucked in thick, choking river water instead of light, wholesome air. His heart raced with panic as he clawed at the water that spun him about and carried him along, unable to tell up from down - life from death.

His lungs reflexively attempted a second breath - more choking water, more fear. He picked a direction and kicked with all his might, anything to pull free from the vicious underwater current. Now he could see light - or were those spots in his eyes? - and he kicked again and again, only now remembering to cup his hands as paddles instead of desperate claws. The bright shimmering light came closer, almost too bright. His strength was failing, his movements weaker. The current started to pull him under again, but when he felt it, another surge of adrenaline coursed through him, and his next kick brought him bursting to the surface.

Water streamed down from his hair and into his eyes as he coughed and hacked, trying to expel the water and suck in gulps of air all at once. For a tangled moment the coordination of breathing and treading water was too much and he started to slip below the surface again. Wildly he flapped at the water with tiring arms, gasping and searching for something to grab onto, some way to rest. Hazily, at the grey edge of his vision, he saw a tree branch floating off to his right, just a few feet out of reach. Gathering the last of his strength, he made a desperate lunge for the branch. His fingers connected with wood just as the swarm of spots burst before his eyes, and he frantically, blindly, grabbed hold before he passed out.

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Consciousness was slow to seep back into his muzzy senses. The first thing he felt was pain. Pain in his chest and in his head. The pain in his chest came in two regular patterns, one a slow ache that came with each breath, the other a sharp twinge as something hard pushed against him with a lapping rhythm. Gradually he began to feel the water and the slow current around him, gently carrying him along at a lazy pace nothing like the earlier nightmarish rushing torrent. The sunlight was still bright to his tired eyes, glittering off the water's jeweled facets, but he could feel the heavy warmth on his back through his wet shirt.

Dazedly he looked around, trying to make some sense of his surroundings. The buoyant life-saving branch turned out to be an oar, a wooden oar, with a chunk of the paddle-end curiously snapped off. His arms were draped over the long handle, and his chin had sunk down against his arm, barely keeping his head above water. The oar handle turned out to be the hard object pushing against his chest with the bobbing rhythm of the river current. Distantly he connected the twinges of pain with the ragged gashes torn into the skin and muscle beneath his stained shirt and the oar, but from what or why he couldn't recall. The wounds were swollen and water-logged, no longer bleeding, but decidedly unhealthy-looking.

The river had started to take a meandering course, broad and flat, and though the current carried him along the deepest part of the water, the shore wasn't very far away. For several minutes he dully watched the sandy beach slowly roll by, before realizing he should try to make it to shore. An experimental kick with his legs moved him a few feet closer to shore, but he drifted back again when he stopped kicking. More determined this time, he kicked out again, holding the oar out in front of him, focusing on the sandy beach straight ahead. For several minutes the only sound disturbing the quiet river scene was the forceful splashes of his feet behind him.

Chest burning, he stopped, hanging in the water and gasping from the effort. Then he felt the drift backwards again, and a mulish streak of stubbornness fueled him with new strength. He kicked out once more, this time refusing to give in to the sharp and aching pain, the heaviness that permeated his moving limbs and entire body, the grey spots that swam in his vision. Before long he wasn't kicking at water any more, but soft clay and sand in the shallows of the river. Leaving the oar behind he crawled to his hands and knees, thrilled with his victory, pulling himself out of the treacherous water with fistfuls of warm sand. Now he could rest. Thankful for the summer warmth on his skin and the grace of the good Lord above, he closed his eyes and let himself collapse onto the sandy shoreline.

He didn't know how long he lay there, curled on his right side, dripping and panting, but the next sensation to penetrate his foggy awareness was a soft, wet tongue licking his face. He groaned, feeling every ounce of his pain and exhaustion, and cracked heavy eyelids to see a big black nose, a furry muzzle, and white teeth. Then the licking resumed, accompanied by insistent canine whines. Annoyed, he lifted one leaden arm to swat away the unwelcome disturbance, but he succeeded only in moving his hand forward a few inches before it fell back to the ground. All he wanted was to go back to sleep. Even the human sound that next disturbed his senses was unwelcome.

"Whatcha got there, Shard?" came a distant male voice as the man made his way through the trees and underbrush. The dog's whines turned into a couple of shrill yipping barks before she resumed her investigation of the still young man on the riverbank. The swishing movement through the bushes stopped a few feet from him, and he heard the man speak again.

"Oh, no, girl! No no no!" Whether he was talking to the dog or himself, the exhausted young man couldn't tell, but his tone became almost fearful. "Shard, that's a…no no, we can't, I can't…he's hurt…I can't, no girl…"

The dog gave another yipping bark, whining as she nudged at the still form and looked up at her master.

"No no no…please, don't ask me to…don't look at me like that, Shard! You know I can't…the city, he needs a doctor, I can't…" The man trembled at the very thought of the city, all those people, all together, walking around and talking and the air so thick he couldn't breathe. He took a step backwards, and Shard barked again, more forcefully. He looked at the young man, who obviously needed medical help, whose drying wounds were starting to bleed again, and then at the tan and black Shepherd beside him. He swallowed hard.

"Alright. You stay here with him, and I'll go get the truck."

Now, I don't know about y'all, but I'm just a mite bit worried – and aren't we missing some folks from this picture?