Galahad in Jeans (Louisiana Knights Book 2) (15 page)

The bulk of the big dually provided a certain amount of defense against the current. About the time he ran out of road, however, he also plowed past that protection.

The water swirled around him, pushing him as he swam toward where he wanted to be. He put a hand on the back window of the floating vehicle, guiding himself to the driver’s side.

The power windows had stopped operating when the engine died, of course. The door locks were powered, too, though it looked as if Carla had the presence of mind to put the car into park so they disengaged. She’d managed to get her door open a crack, but the water pressure kept it from swinging wide. Even he was no match for it.

He could see her inside, fighting to get out. The sight gripped his heart in an iron fist. With a silent prayer running through his head, he motioned for her to turn away, hoping she’d lean out of reach as far as she could go. Immediately, he swung his hammer.

The safety glass shattered, falling out of the frame in a rain as heavy as the deluge that pitted the water. She was already out of her seat belt, a small miracle. As he reached for her, she pushed up to her knees on the seat. He grabbed her under the arms and braced against the door, dragging her half out of the vehicle with one good pull. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her breath sobbing in her throat as she pressed her cheek to the top of his head. An instant later, he had her wrapped in his arms.

He held her for brief seconds only, yet nothing had ever been such a mind-bending relief. Treading water with determination then, he released her until she hovered beside him, her jeans-clad hip bumping his while her arms slowly relaxed, letting him go.

“Good girl,” he murmured. He might have been able to fight the current with her wrapped around him, but it would be far better with cooperation.

Together, they clawed and swam their way against the current, avoiding the trash and small limbs waving fistfuls of green leaves that swirled toward them. They kept their eyes on the white bulk of the truck, its lights like beacons in the rain-washed night. Slowly, they drew nearer, until they found footing on the submerged highway.

The headlamps and interior lights of the truck blinked off. The sound of the engine died.

The big dually had drowned out. A string of curses miles long filled Beau’s head, though he kept them inside. If he’d had a few seconds more, he could have gunned the diesel and backed them out of this fix.

It wasn’t happening. Time for Plan B.

With a strong effort, he made a grab for the handle of the door he’d left open. Hanging on to it, he pulled Carla closer until she could find a foothold on the running board that was under water.

It was then that he realized the door handle was less than eighteen inches above water, a mark that told him the river was still rising at a furious rate. Water filled the floorboard of the truck, though it wasn’t yet over the seats. It could get there, however, and soon.

“In you go,” he growled, and gave Carla a mighty boost, while thinking with a flash of self-disdain that he must be a pervert for noticing the enticing curves under his hands.

She grabbed the steering wheel and pulled herself up onto the bucket seat, then crawled over the console on hands and knees to get out of his way. Seconds later, he was in the driver’s seat and dragging the door closed, for what good that would do them. The river seeped inside, the force of its current forming small whirlpools in the foot wells.

Beau spun on his backside, keeping his wet feet up as he pulled his running shoes back on and then scooted up to sit Indian fashion in the bucket seat. The shoes were dry, but how long they’d stay that way was anybody’s guess. Carla was barefooted where she knelt on the other seat with her back wedged between it and the passenger door and her arms wrapped around her waist. She’d lost her heels at some point, though she scarcely seemed to notice.

The muddy river water shoved against the truck with rushing, popping sounds, making it rock with a steady rhythm. It was easy to hear, given the silent truck engine. Beau turned the key off and then back on again, hoping against hope.

Not a sound. They were stranded in the middle of this flood with no way to go forward or back, no way out of the mess without help.

His cell phone lay on the dashboard. He seized it, dialed 911 with fingers that shook from cold and rage that he hadn’t managed to prevent this disaster. For a miracle, the call went through in spite of the weather. He explained the predicament with a minimum of detail. Within minutes, the voice of Lance Benedict came through loud and clear in his ear.

“That you, Beau? You’re where? You did what?”

His cousin, the sheriff, sounded amazed and exasperated, and why not? He shouldn’t need to rescue him and Carla, Beau knew. But the situation was what it was. He’d have to take the dressing down about it later.

“Tell him—it was—my fault.”

Carla’s teeth were chattering so hard Beau had trouble understanding her for a second. He shook his head at her, even as he listened to Lance telling him it might be a while before anybody could get to them, that his was the sixth call in the past half hour and manpower was short.

“Fine,” Beau answered. “When you can.” Punching off the phone, he started to stash it in his shirt pocket, but stopped in time. He was sopping wet, which wouldn’t exactly be good for the cell. They might need it again before this was over.

“They aren’t—coming,” Carla said with shaky fatalism.

“Oh, they’ll be here, just not any time soon. Other folks are stranded, too.”

“At least I’m not the—the only idiot.”

He gave her a quick look. “Don’t beat yourself up. It could have happened to anyone.”

“I suppose you—you would have stopped in time.”

“I know the road and have seen it flood before.”

“Yes, well, in that case, you really should—should have gone ahead.”

He grinned in the dark, glad to hear the edge in her voice that said she was recovering from the shock of being swept off the road. Yes, and maybe warming up a bit with annoyance at him as well as the protective cover of the truck. He didn’t mind being cast as the dummy as long as that was the result. Though she was right; he’d never have driven into the flood pouring across the road.

“You do see that the water is getting higher?” Her face seemed calm enough, from what he could see in the darkness, but distress echoed in the query. No wonder, since she’d been swept off the road once already.

“Yep.” What else could he say?

“We can’t stay here.”

“We can’t go, either,” he returned in grim acceptance. If he was in this alone, he would strike out for the road at the edge of the flood, now a good thirty yards away. He was no Olympic swimmer, but did have a strong forward crawl. Carla could swim and had a brave heart, but she’d struggled to make headway against the current before. The last thing he wanted was to lose her in the dark. Besides, with both vehicles disabled, they weren’t going anywhere even if they reached solid ground.

The silt-laden flood was definitely creeping higher. It lapped the edges of the bucket seats now. Another couple of inches, and it would be in their laps.

Beyond the windshield, Beau could make out the swirling water that inched up the struts of the iron bridge. A part of the shudder they felt inside the truck was actually from the shaking of those old supports built back in the late thirties. The whole bridge could give way; it was a miracle it hadn’t already. Not that it posed any grave danger if it did; it would go downstream, away from them. But Beau didn’t want to be trapped inside the cab if the water building up behind it broke free and took the truck along for the ride.

Leaning over the seat back, he pulled out the big golf umbrella he’d used earlier, also the yellow slicker he kept on hand for emergencies. “Come on,” he said to Carla. “When I get up top, hand these things to me.”

“Up top?” Her eyes were dark pools as she turned to stare at him, but her voice said she thought he’d lost it.

“That’s right.”

He didn’t bother to explain since she’d see soon enough. Shoving open the door beside him, he grabbed its frame, used the door handle recess for a foothold, and vaulted out and up onto the roof of the cab. He scrabbled backward and then went to his knees.

“Okay, hand me that stuff,” he called.

She had apparently shifted to the place he’d vacated, since she immediately passed up the folded slicker and umbrella. He put them under one knee for safekeeping, and then turned back to the door below him.

“Now you,” he shouted above the rush of wind and water.

Her head appeared, and she clutched at the top of the door. As she reached up toward the roof, he caught her arm in a fireman’s grip, though well above her injured hand. She gasped in pain anyway, but immediately clamped down on his wrist with tight fingers. She found the foothold in the handle recess and used it to spring upward. He pulled, falling back to haul her forward in a classic sea rescue move. Seconds later, she was sitting beside him on the roof of the truck cab.

“Is this really necessary?” she demanded as she scooted further away from the edge.

“Unless you can breathe underwater.”

“It might not have gotten that high.”

He snorted. “Then again, it might.”

“You’re such a pessimist.”

The words might have been cutting except they carried no heat. They were, Beau thought, solely for form’s sake, because she disliked being dependent on him.

“I thought I was a boy scout,” he drawled as he reached to shake out the slicker. He draped it around her shoulders, then raised the golf umbrella as a shield against both wind and rain.

She twisted at the waist to stare at him. Putting out a hand, she clasped his shoulder. Immediately, a shiver rippled over him.

She made a sound of disgust. “So macho gallant, giving me the coat when you’re as cold as I am.”

The shudder she’d felt had more to do with her touch than his wet clothes and their exposed position, though Beau could hardly explain that to her. She gave him no chance, anyway. Grasping one edge of the slicker in her good left hand, she lifted the rest of it until it covered most of him. The heavy, plastic-coated fabric was a godsend, removing the wind’s cutting edge. But sharing it with him left her with less protection.

“Here, take this,” he said, his voice a grumble in his throat as he shoved the umbrella handle into her hand. When she seized it, holding tight against the tug of the elements, he picked her up bodily and set her between his legs.

She yelped as she was enclosed between his bent knees, and a rap from the ribs of the flailing umbrella made him shake his head. She drew breath to protest, or so he thought. Then she let it out in a gusting sigh as he drew the slicker around both of them, closing them within its voluminous folds that were sized to go over a winter coat.

It was better, that new position. It was much, much better. Beau encircled her with his arms, drawing her closer against him. She was chilled, trembling with cold, at first. Or so he thought. Then the combined heat of their bodies under the impermeable slicker seemed to seep into her exactly as it was sinking into him. Little by little, she allowed herself to relax against him. After a moment, she bent her head and began to fasten the clips down the front of their protective covering one by one, closing the two of them together inside.

They weren’t exactly comfortable. The wind battered against the umbrella so they had to hold it in a tight grip. Handfuls of rain whipped around its scalloped edges in gusts so unpredictable the chill wetness took their breaths every time. They were soaked to the skin, their perch was less than sure, and rescue was nowhere in sight.

Yet, strange as it seemed, Beau could think of no place he’d rather be at that particular moment.

The rain began to slacken, becoming a light tapping on the umbrella and skirts of the slicker. The wind died away. The water roiling past them was as strong as before, but seemed less violent.

“I hope Lizzie and her mom got home okay,” Carla said into the oddly comfortable silence that hovered between them.

“They left the gym before we did.”

“And Granny Chauvin, too.”

“I’m sure she did, since she didn’t have far to go.”

“She didn’t waste time at the Watering Hole, either.”

Beau tilted his head, trying to see her expression. “Was it wasted?”

“We never got around to what we went there for, helping Trey with his poem.”

“No, and I’m not sure we ever will. It may not have survived it’s dunking.”

“It was in your pocket?”

Her voice was bemused, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. Beau understood that fine, since he felt the same. He gave a nod that he was fairly sure she could feel, even if her back was plastered against his front.

“Men don’t write poetry for women any more. I guess it’s a relic of a more sentimental time, but it seems a shame.”

“You think so? I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic.” It wasn’t something he’d have said aloud in another time and place, but this was different somehow.

“Oh, I’m not,” she said in quick denial. “I’m not a sentimental romantic, anyway. Somehow it doesn’t go with Internet dating.”

He gave a short laugh. “Internet dating? I wouldn’t think you needed that route.”

“Actually, I don’t. Or I haven’t.”

“No?”

She shifted a shoulder. “It’s seems so risky, even given online background checks. I’ve never speed-dated, either, or hooked up for a one-night-stand. Sad, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His voice was as firm as his convictions on that particular route to romance. It was fine for some, but seemed to promise more problems than it solved.

“Of course you wouldn’t. Steadfast and old-fashioned, that’s you. Sleeping together is a serious business, nothing casual about it.”

“Pretty much,” he said in wry agreement.

She was quiet a minute, maybe taking time to absorb the pitiful conventionality and lack of adventure in his admission. Finally, she said, “I suppose you believe in the concept of one true love per person, that we can never be truly happy if we don’t find the special someone meant for us alone.”