Crazy Little Thing Called Love (13 page)

“It'll be fine. We're probably looking at some wind and rain, but we'll be out of here before anything serious happens—if it does.” Logan moved back up onto the beach, the salt-scented air cooling his sunburned neck. “Yeah, they've upgraded the storm to a weak hurricane, but it's not supposed to make landfall until the day after tomorrow—maybe as a Category 1. By then we'll be back in Oklahoma. I'm not worried.”

“Just keeping you posted, boss. It's what I do.”

“Thanks.”

•  •  •

She had not requested a wake-up call.

Vanessa lifted her head off the pillow, shoving her hair out of her face, squinting into the darkness of the hotel room. The second sharp ring of the bedside phone had her grabbing for the receiver. Who was calling this early in the morning?

“Hello?” Her tone of voice should broadcast how little she appreciated this unplanned phone call.

“Ms. Hollister, this is the front desk. I'm sorry to disturb you, but we're evacuating the hotel—”

Vanessa scrambled upright, pulling the phone off the bedside table with a crash. “What?”

“We're evacuating the hotel. Hurricane Cressida increased speed overnight and is now expected to make landfall later today. Destin is under mandatory evacuation.”

“Thank you.” She hung up, stumbling to her feet, turning on the lamp, and righting the phone.

Mandatory evacuation.
She needed to pack. To leave. But where was she supposed to go?

She found the remote control and hit on, clicking the channel selector and surfing for the local news station. When she pulled back the blinds shielding the sliding glass door to the balcony, the scene on the beach matched the ones on the TV. Winds whipped the Gulf into a frenzy, the sky dark, rain pummeling the sands of the deserted beach. In the background, a newscaster reiterated what the front desk person had already told her.

“. . . Cressida gained strength overnight and is expected to make landfall as a Category 3 hurricane . . .”

No, she wasn't
having
a bad dream—she was wide awake in the middle of one.

She needed to stop alternating between staring at the TV and the view outside her hotel room. She needed to pack. But first she was going to shower—even if she only got two minutes of hot water, she was going to wash her hair and put on clean clothes. After she figured out where she was going, she didn't know how long she'd be there and when she'd have access to hot water again.

Once in the shower, Vanessa resisted the temptation to close her eyes and savor the steamy water sluicing over her skin. Pretend everything was calm outside. Two minutes, that was it. As she toweled off, her cell phone rang. Mindy started talking even as Vanessa said hello.

“Vanessa, are you okay? Are you off the island?”

“I'm not even dressed yet. The front desk guy woke me up ten minutes ago to tell me that they're evacuating the hotel.”

“The hotel? The entire island is evacuating. This hurricane caught everyone off guard!”

“I don't have any intention of staying here, Mindy.”

“Come to my house. Jett's been boarding up windows since yesterday when they declared a voluntary evacuation.”

Somehow she had missed that information. “Why don't you go to the shelter?”

“Well, we could—the shelters take animals—dogs and cats. But six not-quite-housebroken puppies in an arena with two thousand people? We're just going to ride it out here. We'll be fine. Jett bought a generator a few years ago.”

“Okay, let me pack. I'll call you when I'm on my way. Or text. The phone lines are going to be a mess.”

“The phone lines? Have you seen
the roads
?”

Vanessa could imagine what Highway 85, the main road heading out of Niceville, looked like. “I'm hanging up now. Don't worry about me.”

“Of course I'll worry—but only until you get here. Then we'll play board games.”

“I'll be fine. See you soon.”

Vanessa started a small pot of coffee in the hotel pot. It wouldn't be a perfect cup of coffee—but it would be caffeine. She surveyed the leftover seafood scampi in the hotel fridge. Nope. That wasn't going with her. Two cans of Coke. A couple of slices of lemon. Those were a yes.

She hauled her suitcase onto the bed and opened all the dresser drawers, first selecting a pair of jeans and a sleeveless top to wear, along with her burnished leather boots with harness-ring accents—sturdy and casual. She needed to get dressed first, and then finish packing.

The strong aroma of coffee filled the room, and the ongoing commentary of the TV news the background music as she transitioned her clothes from the dresser to her suitcase, hiding her journal under a mound of clothes. She tossed her bottles of shampoo and conditioner and face wash into her kit, not even taking the time to dry them off from the shower.

“Go to Florida, he says.” She checked the drawers one more time. The shower. Underneath the bed. The closet. “Have fun planning our destination wedding, he says. Relax, he says.”

What part of going to Destin to plan their destination wedding, running into her ex-husband, and then having to evacuate because of a hurricane would Ted consider
relaxing 
?

She did a quick three-sixty of the room. All ready to go. It was too early to call her parents to tell them she was fine. She would call Ted later, too, but for now she'd just text her parents and her fiancé.

Evacuating because of hurricane. I'm fine. Going to stay with Mindy. Will call soon. Love you.

It was only once she was checked out of the hotel, on her way toward the bridge, a bitter cup of hot coffee in the car's cup holder, that she thought of the Wrights. Were they okay? Surely they wouldn't stay in their house—not with a Category 3 hurricane headed for the Panhandle. What did Cat 3 winds max out at? Somewhere around 125 miles per hour.

But Cressida had surprised everyone—coming in faster and stronger than expected.

Most likely the Wrights were sound asleep, unaware of what was happening—just like she'd been an hour ago.

God does not remove us from all harm; He uses harm to move us close to Him.

—DILLON BURROUGHS (1967– ), AUTHOR

T
hank God they were going back to Oklahoma later today.

Logan rolled over on his side, twisting the rumpled sheets and the dark geometric-design bedcover even more, and checked the time on the bedside clock. Four-twenty. Still too early to get up.

He shoved aside the blankets, sitting up against the pillows. Who was he kidding? A nightmare had awoken him hours ago, and when he'd fallen back asleep, it had started again, right where it had left off.

Thanks to unreality woven with just enough truth to make his heart ache and slick his skin with sweat, he'd been awake for the past two hours, staring into the dark. Not wanting to think about Vanessa. About what waited for him in Oklahoma.

He'd lost his wife because of his involvement with the Stormmeisters. And now he was walking away from the team. What would Vanessa say if she knew that?

He huffed out a short laugh, scratching at the roughness of his jaw. She wouldn't even talk to him—disappearing while some guy with a video camera acted like he was employed by
NBC Nightly News
and asked him a string of questions about rescuing that teenager. When he'd finally managed to get away from the wannabe reporter, Vanessa was gone. In eight years, he hears nothing from her—and then he gets, what, a minute with her? Two minutes?

She probably thought he was “living the dream”—chasing storms and loving his life—unaware of how many nights he was jarred awake by nightmares or how often he reached for the warmth of her, only to find emptiness on the other side of the bed.

The terror had been worse tonight. He'd been caught in a chase car, tumbling over and over, the tornado a merciless adversary . . . and someone else was in the car with him . . . screaming . . .

But it wasn't Max.

This time it was Vanessa.

Logan switched on the lamp, twisting the cap off the bottle of water he'd left on the table and draining it to ease the dryness in his throat as he paced the hotel room. Outside, the storm winds rattled the glass-paned door to the balcony. In years past, he would have stood outside, let the rain drench him. Laughed, even.

Known God was in the storm.

God was with him when he chased storms.

But something happened when Vanessa walked out of his life. Like a broken compass, something had spun out of control. Gone off-kilter. She said he didn't need her . . . but she couldn't have been more wrong. Vanessa was his ballast—helping him stay balanced . . . not capsize.

“God, why couldn't I have my dream and Vanessa, too?”

His question, spoken out loud, marred the stillness inside the room. Not that he expected an answer. He knew God wasn't listening.

How many times had he thought of trying to find her—only to feel as if God had blocked that path, said no to that desire? And yet there'd been no one else besides Vanessa—no matter how many times Julie fixed him up with a friend, or Brady suggested online dating, or Max told him to take another look at the women in the church's singles group. Dating dulled the isolation for a few hours, but he'd rather be alone—and lonely—than imagine pursuing a serious relationship with someone else.

Just like his grandfather, he'd found the woman he loved early in life. But he'd lost her.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

And his pursuit of tornadoes.

Well, he'd be finished with that in a week or so—but too late to save his marriage.

A sharp rap on his door interrupted his musings. A distorted view of Brady through the peephole had Logan opening the door.

“Do you know what time it is? Are Julie and Max okay—”

Brady held up his hands for silence. “Logan, the island's being evacuated.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The hurricane sped up and is making landfall
today
—not tomorrow. We're not going anywhere—except to a hurricane shelter, boss.”

•  •  •

Logan barreled the rental car through the toll lane, the booth empty of anyone waiting for drivers to pay the customary fee. Brady sat in the front passenger seat, hanging on to the handle of the door.

“Nice of them to not ask us to pay a toll.” Brady saluted the vacant booths.

Logan gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands ached. “No toll when they've evacuated Destin, buddy. It's all about getting off the island—fast.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror. Julie and Max sat next to each other in the backseat. Max watched news updates on his iPhone while Jules stared out the window at the rain and wind buffeting the trees lining the road.

As they traversed the bridge, the bay below tossed and turned like an unruly beast seeking release from the confines of the shoreline. High winds heralded the oncoming hurricane, lashing rain across their windshield. Logan ratcheted the speed of the car's wipers as high as they would go. The branches of trees along the side of the road tangled together, a few broken limbs skittering across the roadway.

When Julie leaned forward and touched his shoulder, Logan met her gaze in the rearview mirror.

“So where we headed?”

“The evacuation shelter—Raider Athletic Arena at Northwest Florida State College.” Only fifteen minutes or so—in good weather. He could do this. He would get them all there safe and sound. “I tried to reach my parents, but the cell towers are already jammed. I'm sure they've invited all of their neighbors over. My parents' home can handle a decent hurricane.”

Logan trained his eyes on the road, keeping a safe distance from the car in front of him, even as he resisted pressing down on the gas pedal. He was not getting into an accident—or causing one.

“I'm surprised you didn't want to hang around the island—” Brady talked fast, his voice pitched higher, just like he did when they chased a tornado. “—maybe hook up with a weather crew.”

Logan shook his head, forcing a laugh. There was no way Brady could hear the pounding of his heart. Or the second-guesses that had circled his self-confidence for months. “Not my turf. We'll let someone else handle this one, right?”

“That doesn't sound like the Logan Hollister I know. What happened to the guy who would go after any thing, any time?”

What happened to him? Did Brady even have to ask? They'd all been there in Kansas. Hadn't the sight of Max's bloodied body, his leg twisted at a bizarre angle, affected him at all?

“I'm still here.” Logan kept his eyes focused straight ahead. Forced a grin. He could only hope Brady didn't see past his bluff. “I'm just on vacation.”

“Oh. Got it.” Brady lowered his voice, the rain pelting the roof of the car muffling his words even more. “You do know Max doesn't hold you responsible—”