Magnolia (15 page)

“You want chips?” I offer as I set everything out on the kitchen table along with cups and a pitcher of sweet tea.

“Nah, this is good,” Ryder answers. He goes into the pantry for napkins and paper plates, as at home in my kitchen as I am.

We're mostly silent as we eat, with only the occasional burst of quick conversation.

“When's Nan's surgery?” Ryder asks as he reaches for one of the jars of pickles. He's already eaten two sandwiches and is working on a third.

“Tomorrow,” I answer around a mouthful of potato salad. “First thing in the morning.”

Ryder just nods and continues to attack his food.

Nan's checking into the hospital tonight after dinner. She promised to call me once she's settled. I'm trying not to think about it too much, because whenever I do, my stomach starts feeling all weird. Like it is right now, actually.

“Your dad's staying in Jackson?” I ask him a few minutes later, even though I know the answer.

“Yeah, he's got a big case. Says he'll probably be gone a couple weeks, at least.”

I can't help but frown. I mean, Jackson's just a three-hour drive from here. You'd think he could come home for a couple days—long enough to ride out the storm with his only child.

Then again, this is pretty typical of Ryder's dad. Rob Marsden is all work, work, work. He and my dad are so different that it's sometimes hard to understand why they're such good friends. Sure, Daddy loves his job, and he's good at it too. But work isn't everything to him.

Then again, they
did
grow up together, next-door neighbors
and childhood playmates. They'd gone to college together, pledged the same fraternity. Their friendship is deeply rooted, steeped in tradition. Still, I wonder if they'd be such good friends now if they hadn't married BFFs who were invested in keeping the Cafferty-Marsden attachment alive and strong.

“What about Lou?” I ask. “Is she staying over at Magnolia Landing tonight?”

“Nah. She went over to stay with Jason and Evelyn.” Her son and daughter-in-law. I'm glad she's not over at the Marsdens' house all by herself.

I chew slowly, listening to the sound of the rain hitting the windows around us. There's something else—a noise I didn't notice before, a low roar in the background that's hard to ignore. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what? The rain?”

“Shh.” I cock my head to one side, listening intently now.

Ryder's gaze meets mine, and I see my own concern mirrored in his eyes. He hears it too.

“What is it?” I ask, but then the answer hits me like a ton of bricks. “Oh my God, is that the
creek
?”

He nods, looking grave. “Think so. We better get this stuff put away and see what's going on out there.”

We clean up the kitchen in record time and hurry to the mudroom to pull back on our rain boots.

“This is bad,” Ryder says the second we step outside. The
roar is louder now and definitely coming from the direction of the creek.

We make our way around the house and down the slippery path toward the water's edge but stop long before we reach the sandy clearing. My mouth falls open at the sight that greets us, and I stand there gaping in disbelief. The picnic tables are almost completely submerged, the water from the creek pouring over the banks at an alarming rate.

“The barn!” I shout, struggling to be heard over the howl of rushing water. “We better get over there now.”

“Let me get my truck.”

We backtrack to the driveway, where Ryder heads for the Durango. “I'll meet you over there. If the water's rising, wait for me to go in, okay? I just want to go check on the main road.”

I nod and jog over to the barn. The second I step inside, my heart sinks. The water is ankle deep. I splash over to the gun safe and spin the lock before dialing the combination and pulling open the door. I lift Delilah from her case, along with a ten-round magazine. Once she's loaded and safely locked, I holster her in the waistband of my shorts. All that's left are Daddy's two pistols and the shotgun. I find a canvas duffel bag on a shelf beside the radio and carefully stash the weapons inside.

Just as I lift the bag up on my shoulder, Ryder jogs in. “The
road is out,” he calls to me breathlessly. “Completely washed out just above where your driveway intersects it.”

“Are you sure?” Because if what he says is true, it means we're totally cut off. There's no way out and no way in—not to my house or to the Marsdens'.

“I'm sure.” There's a flicker of fear in his eyes. “I've never seen anything like it before.”

My heart does a little somersault in my chest. “You think it's storm surge from whatever body of water's feeding the creek?” The Mississippi River, maybe. I have no idea.

“I don't know,” he says with a shrug, then glances around, taking in our current situation. “We better get moving here. Looks like the water's rising pretty fast.”

“Here. Can you take this?” I hand off the duffel bag. “Careful. It's the guns.”

“Got it.” He takes the heavy bag as if it weighs nothing, tossing it over his back.

I glance around helplessly. “Why don't you take it to the truck? I'm going to find something to put the rest of the stuff in, and then we can see about Daddy's workshop.”

With a nod, he wades away while I search for another bag—which I find in a drawer beneath the radio. I fill it and then unplug the radio and grab that, too.

Soon we've gotten pretty much everything we can from the workshop loaded into the Durango—everything except the
large pieces of furniture Daddy was working on when he left. I feel bad leaving them, especially the pretty Hoosier cabinet, but where would we put it all?

We make our way out with the last load, just some odds and ends. A sander, a jigsaw, a few CDs. The rain has let up—we must be between bands—but the sky is still a dark, heavy gray.

“You think we should try sandbagging it?” I ask, tipping my head back toward the barn.

Ryder shakes his head. “I don't think it'll do much good.”

“Just in front, then? The gap's pretty big under the door. It can't hurt, right?”

“I've got a few sandbags in the Durango—probably enough for the door. I'll get 'em,” he offers. “You just make sure the door is latched tight.”

I want to say something along the lines of, “No, I'd thought I'd just leave it flapping in the wind,” but I manage to bite my tongue. What is it with him and giving orders? I mean, I get that he's the quarterback and all, but I'm not one of his teammates.

But, hey, if he wants to thump his chest and carry the heavy sandbags, I'll let him do it. My back is aching. I stomp off toward the door and bolt shut the lower and upper portions, securing them with the padlock.

“I may have to get a few more from the house,” Ryder calls out from the direction of the truck.

I turn and watch him walk toward me with a sandbag thrown over one shoulder. A blur of movement catches my eye, and I glance down to see something dark on the ground right in Ryder's path.

I jog toward it, curious. But a second later I stop dead in my tracks, my breath hitching in my chest.

It's a snake, about three or four feet long with a fat, black body and a stubby tail.

“Ryder!” I shout, just as it shoots forward toward him.
Shit.
“Stop! Don't move!”

It coils itself not six inches from where Ryder is standing. The snake's triangular head is raised, its mouth open in a threat display, showing white. It takes me only a split second to identify it: water moccasin. A cottonmouth, venomous and highly aggressive. The heavy rains must have driven it up from the creek.

As I watch in horror it strikes, missing Ryder's leg by mere inches. The snake recoils itself, preparing for another strike. If it bites an artery, Ryder could be dead in a matter of minutes.

“Don't move,” I repeat, more quietly this time. I pull Delilah from my waistband, forcing my hands to steady as I release the safety.

Ryder's eyes meet mine and he nods—just a small movement, barely perceptible. But it's enough that I know he understands what I'm about to do.

He does just as I say—remains perfectly still, like he's been carved from stone. His gaze is trained on me, steady and reassuring. I can sense his fear, and yet he's somehow calm. Trusting.

I know I have one chance at this—one single shot. If I miss, we're in deep shit. A moccasin bite requires antivenin, which means a trip to the ER. And right now, our road is washed out and a slow-moving hurricane is bearing down on us.

I
can't
miss.

I take a deep, calming breath and force myself to pretend that the snake's spade-shaped head is just an inanimate target as I take aim.

One shot. One chance.

And then I pull the trigger.

T
he shot is clean, right through the snake's head. To Ryder's credit, he doesn't even flinch. I squeeze the trigger a second time, wanting to make damn sure I've killed it.

Here's something you might not know—when you kill a snake, it continues to wriggle. Luckily, Ryder's smart enough to get out of the way at this point, because you can actually get bitten by a dead snake if you're not careful.

“You okay?” I call out, lowering my gun.

“Yeah. Shit, that was close.” He flings the sandbag he was carrying to the ground.

I'm shaking now, my hands trembling as I lock the safety and shove Delilah back into the waistband of my shorts. “I think it's time to head back inside,” I say. “Forget the sandbags.”

“You sure?” His face is pale, slightly ashen.

“I'm sure.” I glance up at the sky just as it opens up again, the light rain turning torrential in a matter of seconds.

“Let's go!” Ryder calls out, and we both dash toward the Durango.

We drive slowly back to the house, avoiding the deepest of the mud puddles.

“What do you want to do with this stuff?” Ryder asks as he pulls up beside the house and cuts the engine.

I turn and survey the load in the back. “We should take the guns in, but everything else can stay here for now.”

Just then, a gust of wind buffets the truck, causing me to suck in a sharp breath.

“That was at
least
a fifty-mile-an-hour gust,” Ryder says, his voice a little shaky.

“I didn't think it was supposed to get really bad till tomorrow afternoon.”

“I think this is just the beginning.”

Whoa. If this is just the beginning, then I'm terrified to see the worst of it.

“On the count of three, we make a run for it,” Ryder says. “I'll get the guns—you just head straight for the house. Ready?”

I reach for the door handle. “Ready.”

“One. Two. Three. Go!”

We both burst from the truck at lightning speed. I make a
mad dash for the front porch, slipping and sliding the whole way. I wait for Ryder in the mudroom. He runs in a few seconds later, the canvas bag thrown over his shoulder.

Again, we're dripping wet and covered in mud. Both dogs are whining, looking at us pleadingly through the mudroom door. They've got to go out, storm or no storm.

“You go on and get in the tub,” Ryder offers. “I'll take 'em out real quick. It's only going to get worse.”

I nod, soaked to the bone and shivering now. I've had enough for one day. I just want to get out of these clothes and sink into a hot, bubbly bath. I don't even wait for Ryder to leave with the dogs—I start stripping down to my underwear right then and there and race down the hall to my parents' room.

I'm still in the big Jacuzzi tub when the power flickers—once, twice—and then goes out, leaving me in total darkness, chin deep in lukewarm water. I don't know why, but it all hits me then—Nan's surgery tomorrow, shooting that moccasin, this stupid, never-ending storm. I start to cry, deep, gulping sobs. I know it seems childish, but I want my daddy. What if things get worse? What if the house starts to flood? Or the roof blows off? As much as I hate to admit it, I'm scared.
Really
scared.

A knock on the bathroom door startles me.

“Jemma? You okay in there?”

“I'm fine,” I call out, my voice thick. My cheeks burn with
shame at being caught crying in the dark like a two-year-old.

“Do you want a candle or something? Maybe a hurricane lamp?”

“No, I'm . . .” I start to say “fine” again, but a ragged sob tears from my throat instead.

“It's going to be okay, Jem. We'll get through this.”

I sink lower into the water, wanting to disappear completely. Why can't he just go away and let me have my little meltdown in private? Why, after all these years of being a jerk, does he have to suddenly be so
nice
?