Riding the Storm (7 page)

He watched her golden ponytail bob out of sight. Taboo subject. Painful one, at least. In the few hours he’d known her, it was the first thing that had come up that she
wouldn’t
talk about with him.

Which made Nate all the more curious. He wondered what kind of man Joaquin Angel had been. What kind of man would Jolene love? How would she love? Full speed ahead like everything else she did, no doubt. Probably unlike any woman he’d ever known.

Of course, he’d never really been in love himself, so he had nothing to compare. But he’d listened to enough tales of passion rushing couples into mistakes they later
regretted. He’d nursed enough family and friends through their heartaches. He had no interest in Lady Disaster.

None whatsoever.

So why was he still standing here, soaking up the rain, trying to figure her out?

“Hell.” Nate set down the suitcases and went back to work.

The rear end of the car teetered upward a couple of inches when he removed the last suitcase. He ignored Cindy’s muffled cries and gesticulations from the cab of the truck. He was making some hard choices here. If she and Wes wanted to get to San Antonio, then their things were going to get wet.

But he couldn’t ignore the water swirling past the top of his brown work boot and soaking the hem of his pantleg. “That’s rising an inch a minute,” he muttered, doing a quick calculation.

The clock was ticking way too fast.

Nate closed the trunk and climbed out of the ditch. Blinking the moisture from his eyelashes, he knelt beside Jolene, tugged the handle of the jack from her grasp and inserted it into the base. “Go back to the truck. I’ll finish up here.”

She tugged back. “I can do this.”

He separated her hand from the jack and held on to both. “Go back to the truck and call this delay in to your father.”

“
You
call it in.”

“Damn it, lady, I’m not going to argue—” Temper gave way to a bone-deep awareness of danger gushing toward them.

“California?”

With only a splash of sound to alert him, the rear of the car rose and shifted toward them, carried on the current of water like a log on a flume. Time was up. “We’re out of here.”

With nearly a ton of metal sailing their way, Nate picked up Jolene, jack handle and all. He reached beneath her arm and cinched her between the swells of her breasts and belly. He ignored the protest of his knee and pushed to his feet, carrying her up to the center of the road.

“Put me down.”

The instant she wiggled in protest, the instant the curve of her rump twisted against his crotch, the instant he realized she hid a distinctly feminine shape beneath her shapeless clothes, he set her on her feet. But he didn’t trust her to keep moving. Switching his grip to her arm, he hurried her toward the truck.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, fighting him every step of the way. “The water’s rising. We have to fix that car
now
.”

Wes trailed after them, dragging the shovel and pointing to the floating car. “But my brother’s—”

Nate didn’t have time to argue with either of them. “Get your bags and toss them in the back. You’re coming with us.”

“But—” Jolene protested.

“Do it!”

“California—”

“Yes, sir.” Wes tossed the tools into the bed of the truck and ran back for his and Cindy’s things.

Nate opened the driver’s side door and half urged, half lifted Jolene up onto her seat. He met her gaze, glare for glare, and closed the door behind her.

He pulled off his cap, swatted it against his thigh, then plunked it back onto his head with the bill shading his eyes. Grabbing a blanket from the supplies in back, he dodged out of the way as Wes loaded the suitcases. Once the young man was inside beside his wife, Nate gave him the blanket and climbed in after him, squeezing the four of them in like sardines to shut the door. “Drive.”

Jolene gripped the steering wheel in both hands and leaned forward to make eye contact across the couple sandwiched between them. “I do not have to follow your orders.”

Nate veed his fingers and held them up. “Two words. Lily Browning.”

The reminder was enough to get her to slam the truck into gear, though her chin still tilted at that defiant angle.

“What about driving to San Antonio?” Cindy whined.

“In a couple of hours this road isn’t going to be here,” Nate advised. “Being late for your honeymoon might be the least of your worries.”

There. She was finally scared enough to be quiet. And though Nate felt as guilty as hell for his bullying tactics, if that was the only way he could keep these people safe, then that was what he was going to do.

As Cindy sank back into her seat and snuggled beneath the blanket, Nate reached across Wes to get the radio and report in. It took a couple twists of the dial to find a clear line, and there were still glitches of static by the time he got through to Mitch Kannon.

“Yeah, Mitch. Nate Kellison here.” He felt Jolene’s wide-eyed gaze beseeching him to keep her accident a
secret. He pointed down the road, silently telling her to drive, avoiding those blue eyes. Defiance he could handle.
That
look sucker-punched him in the gut and turned his thinking erratic. “We just stopped to pick up a couple of…” He almost said
kids,
but Wes’s earnest expression changed his mind. “A young couple. Their car ran off in the ditch.”

“Any injuries?” Mitch asked, his tone conveying a mix of authority and concern.

“Negative.”

“Thank God.”

“But the car needs more help than we can give them. So we’re transporting them to the Rock-a-Bye Ranch with us.”

“Understood.” Static cut out part of Mitch’s answer. “…quite a few evacuees. We’re getting more reports of…stranded.” Nate was ready to ask him to repeat his message, but the tenor of Mitch’s voice changed. “How’s Jolene?”

“A little damp.”

Mitch laughed. The tension inside the truck ratcheted down a notch as Nate sensed Jolene relax. He breathed easier, too, feeling a bit more like a prince than a bully again. “Do you have an update on the weather?” Nate asked.

He already guessed Mitch’s answer.

“I hate it when I’m right. The hurricane turned…report says it’s going to make landfall farther south…heading straight for Turning Point.”

Nate could fill in the static blanks himself. So could the other three passengers in the truck, judging by their grim expressions.

“The hurricane’s going to hit
us?
” Cindy asked,
her meek voice more frightened teenager than disgruntled bride now. She reached for Wes’s hand. He took it, put his arm around his wife, squeezed her tight. Good kid.

Good
man,
Nate amended. He looked across the cab at Jolene to offer her what silent comfort he could—if she’d take it.

She nodded, then patted Cindy’s knee and explained in a calm, succinct voice, “Turning Point’s forty miles inland, so it won’t be hit by the full force of the storm. We’ll feel the brunt of the winds and the rain. Damon might spawn some thunderstorms or even tornadoes. But we’ll get you someplace safe. You’ll be fine.”

“Wes?” She snuggled closer to her husband.

“I’m right with you, honey. If Mrs. Angel says we’ll be safe, we’ll be safe.” He betrayed his confidence by turning to look at Nate. “Right, sir?”

“Right.” Nate pressed the talk button again. “Mitch, we’re en route to the Rock-a-Bye again. We’re at…” He looked to Jolene for a location.

“About five miles out.”

“We’re about five miles from our destination,” he reported. “Any update on Mrs. Browning’s condition?”

“Yeah.” More static. Or was that papers rustling? “Ruth! Where’s the…Browning?” There was another pause, then, “Her contractions are about ten minutes apart. You’d better book it…her and the kids.”

“Did he say ten minutes?” Jolene asked.

Nate felt the truck picking up speed. “Get us there in one piece, Andretti,” he warned.

She didn’t slow.

“We’re on it.” Nate had one more question he needed
an answer to, just so he’d know how much worse things were going to get. “When is Damon supposed to make landfall, Mitch?”

Mitch Kannon’s grave warning filled the cab of the truck. “We’re predicting it’ll hit us around midnight.”

More static warned them that the storm was building in intensity. Electricity in the atmosphere was already playing havoc with the radio waves.

“Unless that baby’s already here, y’all might have to hole up and ride out the storm at the ranch.”

“Roger that, Mitch. We’ll check in when we can. Kellison out.”

He hung up the radio. The only sounds were the grinding of the truck’s twisted axle, the spray of gravel and mud beneath the tires, and the endless staccato barrage of rain coming at them from every angle.

Hole up and ride out the storm.

Crazy Texans.

They’d be riding out a damn hurricane.

T
HUNDER RUMBLED
in the distance, mimicking the fusillade of silt and gravel hitting beneath the floorboards of the truck. The rain was steady now. Relentless. Inescapable. The ditches were overflowing and it was only a matter of time before the wind or something worse swept across the flat Texas plains.

But right now the world outside seemed more inviting than the world inside the cab of Jolene’s truck.

The humid air swallowed up her pensive sigh.

He was rubbing his knee again.

Jolene watched the subtle, yet methodic clench and release of Nate’s hand as he dug into the muscles around the joint. It probably didn’t help that they were wedged in so tightly that his knee banged against the door with every bounce and jolt.

Not that Nate Kellison had complained.

Of course, they were less than a mile from the Rock-a-Bye’s front gate and he hadn’t said a word about anything. Not one, despite the chatter among the newlyweds and herself.

He was watching again, studying the movement of the storm, taking note of the dark sky along the horizon to the north—toward her own ranch. He watched Wes
and Cindy, too. He’d even reached over to crank up the heat after noticing how Cindy shivered in her sodden wedding dress.

Was that stoic silence—interspersed with bouts of bossing her around—the way he dealt with his pain? Did losing control of a situation give his
handicap,
as he’d called it, a chance to sneak in and take control of him?

Guilt that her actions might have aggravated his “old injury” flared inside her. In a gesture that had become habit of late, she cradled her left hand against her tummy, soothing the baby when she couldn’t soothe herself.

She’d lived with guilt all her life. Despite her father’s love, she’d grown up with the irrational notion that she should have been someone different, done something better to make her mother love them enough to want to stay.

She should have married Joaquin the first time he’d asked her, but she’d been holding out for some mythic ideal of happily-ever-after. When it became clear that Prince Charming was never going to show his face in tiny Turning Point, she’d settled for caring and being cared for.

If she’d said yes sooner, she might have learned to feel passion for her dear friend. She might have made love with her husband, instead of being the freakish virgin who’d conceived her child in a hospital lab.

If she’d been artifically inseminated sooner, the baby would have been here by now. If she hadn’t delayed, there might have been a chance to save Joaquin. She’d have a companion for life instead of a grave to tend.

As though sensing her troubled thoughts, Joaquin, Jr.,
shifted positions in her womb. Gently, she caressed the spot where life was stirring inside her. Her son would never know his father, never know what a kind, good man he had been.

But he’d know her love. Her baby would never lack for that.

If it was enough. If
she
could be enough.

Way too many
if
s.

Jolene rubbed her stomach, unsure whether the baby was restless, or if her own self-doubts were responsible for the queasy feeling rising in her gullet. Heck. Maybe she should blame her oddly introspective mood on the rough road and the weather—or the unsettling presence of that wounded know-it-all from California.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Nate’s hand go still. Automatically, hers did as well. She was going to add mind-reader to the list of things that irritated her about the visiting paramedic. While he might not be truly psychic, he had a way of noticing her moods and movements that was distinctly unsettling.

Wes and Cindy cuddled between them, whispering sugary apologies to each other over and over, sneaking kisses. But the honeymooners weren’t enough of a distraction to keep Jolene from sensing the ripple of awareness radiating across the truck cab. Goose bumps puckered along her arms and legs, and she knew the sudden sensitivity had nothing to do with the damp clothes that stuck to her skin.

Nate was watching her now. As sure as the touch of his hand, she felt him.

An upward glance gave her a glimpse of whiskey-
brown eyes, shaded by that omnipresent ball cap. But his gaze was no less piercing, no less questioning.

She slipped her fingers back to the steering wheel and peered into the dull, drab excuse for daylight outside.

What now?
she wanted to shout. Where was she falling short this time? How was she pushing his worry buttons? Did he blame her independence for the ache in his knee?

She gripped the wheel tighter and pressed on the accelerator. It was his own fault! He should have just let her fix the damn tire instead of doing all that lifting and bending.

Of course, when he’d picked her up, she’d gotten absolutely no sense that there was anything weak or disabled or hurting about the man. His chest had been hard and warm against her back, his arm strong and secure.

She’d been startled when the car had shifted. Despite the deceptive gentleness of its movement, thousands of pounds of drifting metal could be unpredictable. She could have been struck or pinned beneath it.

But Nate had saved her. He’d picked her up, lifted her out of harm’s way, held her tight. He’d saved her. Saved her baby.

For a second time.

Jolene rubbed her tummy again.

“You okay?” Even though she’d been thinking about him, knew he’d been thinking about her, Nate’s low-pitched voice surprised her.

She’d felt edgy from the moment he’d caught her watching him at the fire station. The deteriorating weather, the stupid mistakes she’d made, the close calls they’d had didn’t help. But she wasn’t about to tell him
she wasn’t feeling like herself today, that she hadn’t felt normal since he’d volunteered to be her shadow-slash-savior for the day.

“I…” It was a weak start to an explanation she hadn’t come up with yet. Her stomach suddenly growled, protesting the passage of time since breakfast and reminding her that she was eating for two now. The grumbling sound echoed loudly through the cab, earning a giggle from Cindy and turning Jolene’s cheeks red.

Wes grinned. “Somebody’s hungry.”

Baby Joaquin, at least, had given her an easy, honest out to deflect Nate’s concern and depersonalize her thoughts about him. “What a surprise, huh?” Jolene joked. “I guess we’re ready for an early lunch.”

Wes and Cindy took the bait and laughed. But not Nate. He remained serious as ever. “If Mrs. Browning doesn’t have something we can fix, there are power bars in the med kits. We’ll get you and the baby fed ASAP.”

Funny how he could sound comforting and condescending at the same time. “Despite what you probably think, California, I’m prepared for emergencies like this. I keep snacks in my purse.”

Nate twisted his neck, looking into the extended cubby space behind the front seat where she’d stashed her bag. “Where are they? Do you need something right now?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “
We’re
fine. I—”

“Here.” He held out a package of cheese and stick crackers from her purse, extended them across the seat like a peace offering.

Jolene slowed the truck and looked down at the strong hand that held the snack out to her. It was a sim
ple gesture, purely practical. Still, a yearning—something unexpectedly needy and all too feminine—surfaced inside her, disrupting her protest. What would it be like to have someone looking out for her and her baby? Especially someone with the considerable caretaking skills Nate Kellison possessed?

What would it be like to put her faith and her future into someone else’s hands and know she wouldn’t be left alone again?

She slid her gaze up along the sturdy arm and ample shoulder. Even the tanned column of his throat and prominent outline of his jaw indicated strength.

But when she looked into his eyes, she saw no warmth, no emotion whatsoever. They were as unsmiling and serious as ever.

“Eat,” he ordered.

Poof.
So much for that wayward fantasy. It was probably just hunger, or hormones out of whack, that had allowed her to consider liking—perhaps temporarily lusting after—California Kellison for even one crazed moment.

He sat back, peeled open the package and removed a cracker, handing it off to Cindy, who held it out to Jolene. “Go on,” he urged. “Junior needs it.”

Practicality won out over wounded pride. Jolene took the cracker from Cindy’s fingers and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing around her reluctant thanks. “This should tide me over.”

She was just another rescue project to him, another call. Maybe, if she put a positive spin on things, she was a temporary partner he felt obligated to protect.

But she was nothing special.

Too skinny, too annoying, too small town—she would never be anyone special. Especially to a cocky California dude who had no clue how to lighten up.

So she went back to taking care of herself. “I’ll eat the rest when we get to Lily’s. We’re almost there.”

Cindy pointed over the dashboard into the rain. “Look out!”

Jolene saw the man a second later. He was stumbling along in his cowboy boots, turning into their path to circle around a soupy bog of mud and water.

“Damn crazy…” Nate muttered.

“Idiot!” Jolene slammed on the brakes, pitching them all forward. Fortunately, with seat belts on—Wes and Cindy sharing one—and the road sucking the tires to a stop, no damage was done. “Everyone okay?” Jolene verified.

A chorus of yeah’s and fine’s and what-the-hell’s answered her as she set the gear into Park and honked the horn.

The man in the road slowly turned, shoving his well-creased Stetson back on his thinning gray hair and squinting into the headlights. Jolene shook her head. She didn’t have to be a native Texan to assess the situation. Rail-thin cowboy, decked out in faded bandanna and worn leather chaps, walking the road while a storm brewed around him—and no horse in sight. He’d lost his mount and was hiking back to civilization.

She didn’t have to be the man’s next-door neighbor, either, to recognize the stoop in the old cowboy’s back or the string of colloquial curses rattling off his lips. Standing in front of her was one of Turning Point’s most cantankerous characters.

“Deacon Tate.” Jolene huffed his name out on a sigh that revealed both irritation and affection.

“Why am I not surprised you know this guy?” Nate grumbled. “Don’t any of you Texans have enough sense to stay in out of the rain?”

Jolene ignored the rhetorical question. “Lily said she’d lost contact with him early this morning. His radio’s probably with his saddle. Wherever that is.”

Deacon, a Rock-a-Bye employee for more years than she’d been alive, had obviously been thrown from his horse. And judging by the way he’d cinched his left arm beneath his belt, at least one of his old bones had been damaged in the fall. Jolene unhooked her seat belt.

“Stay put,” Jolene and Nate ordered in unison, each sliding out their respective door and hurrying around the hood of the truck.

Nate was shaking his head and blocking her path by the time they met in the middle of the road. “I can handle this.”

She tipped her chin up, squinting against the rain that pelted her face and chilled her skin. “So can I.”

“Go finish your snack. Feed your baby.”

“When we get to the house.” She pointed to the ten-foot-high brick pillars only a few yards away, marking the main entrance to the Rock-a-Bye. She quickly scooted around Nate as he turned to look. Hooking her hand through the crook of Deacon’s good arm, she led him toward the relative shelter of the truck. “C’mon, old-timer. No sense in all of us getting soaked to the skin.”

“Miz Angel.” Deacon would have tipped his hat if he could. “Mighty glad to see ya.”

Five strong, insistent fingers closed around her upper
arm and pulled her away. “No sense in you getting soaked, period.”

Clasping Jolene in one hand and supporting Deacon in the other, Nate guided them both back to the driver’s side of the cab.

“Careful, California.” She eyed him over her shoulder, not wanting to struggle too hard with Deacon so close beside her. “I’m starting to think there’s some sort of sexual discrimination going on here. That you don’t think I can do my job because I’m a woman. Or worse, because I’m pregnant.”

“What?” Nate stopped and loosened his grip, instantly freeing her. “There’s no…” With a sharp huff of breath, he helped Deacon find a seat on the running board of the truck. Then he straightened, squared his shoulders and leaned in close enough that the bill of his cap shielded her face as well as his own from the rain. “I’m following your father’s orders,” he articulated between tightly clenched teeth. “Trying to keep you safe. I didn’t realize what a daunting task that was going to be when I volunteered.” He ticked off her transgressions on his fingers. “You talk too much. You act before you think. You take better care of everybody else than you do yourself or that baby. And it’s Nate. Why the hell can’t you call me Nate?”

Jolene held his gaze, steamed in it. Caught fire inside and withered in the face of it. She’d been wrong to think this man didn’t show any emotion. There was plenty of something—anger, frustration, fear—brewing in those dark eyes.

Fear?

Her self-defense mechanism instantly went on the
fritz. Instinctively, she reached out. To soothe, to comfort. Not quite to touch him, but to finger his collar, to idly straighten the damp material into a pleat it could no longer hold.

What did a take-charge California boy with broad shoulders, steely control and a soul-piercing stare have to be afraid of?

“I didn’t really mean to accuse you of anything,” she told him. “You just…you tend to be a little on the bossy side. Okay, a lot on the bossy side. I’m used to thinking and doing for myself. I might not be a licensed paramedic like you, but I have eight years of experience doing this kind of thing. I’ve survived pretty well so far. So have the people I’ve helped.”

A deep sigh expanded his chest beneath her palm. “Maybe you just do things differently down here in Texas. I know you get firefighting and first-aid training as an emergency volunteer. But you insist on taking risks you don’t need to. I’m used to the people I work with following procedures and listening to common sense.”