Chapter Seven
Brynn
The shower did nothing to wash away my guilt. Water pounded against my skin, almost scalding, yet the shame clung stubbornly to every inch of me. I stood beneath the spray until my fingertips wrinkled and the hot water began to fade, then reluctantly stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel and wishing I could go back to bed and start the day over as if the morning never happened.
Mack’s discovery of my notebook—my private thoughts about him, my observations, my fantasies—had shattered whatever fragile connection we'd begun to form. The raw hurt in his eyes haunted me, an expression I'd never forget.
After dressing in the cleanest clothes I had left, I ventured into the kitchen, every corner of the space reminding me of his absence along with Scout’s, who had become just as intrinsic a part of my life in the few short days since the crash. The coffee pot sat unused, the living area untouched, as if they’d simply vanished into the mountain air. Only the lingering echo of the slammed door testified to Mack’s furious departure.
I spooned oatmeal into a bowl, adding the last drizzle of honey and a handful of dried cranberries from his pantry. The familiar motions felt hollow and mechanical. When I finally sat at the table, spoon in hand, my stomach rebelled at the very thought of eating. Three forced bites later, I surrendered, scraping the remainder into the trash.
Had he eaten before leaving? The question nagged at me as rain continued to pelt the roof, a constant reminder of the harsh conditions he faced on the mountainside. A man his size needed sustenance, especially trekking through mud and undergrowth in such weather. The image of him hungry and cold, driven from his own home by my betrayal, twisted my insides into painful knots.
My laptop waited on the table, its blank screen seeming accusatory. I opened it, determined to salvage something productive from this disaster. The manuscript that had brought me to Montana stared back. The cursor blinked with maddening regularity as I placed my fingers on the keyboard, willing the words to come.
Nothing.
How could I possibly write about genuine intimacy when I'd just destroyed the most honest connection I'd experienced in years? Each sentence I attempted withered before I’d reached the end of it. No matter what I wrote, it all sounded contrived, a total mess. After thirty frustrating minutes, I slammed the computer shut, pushing away from the table with enough force to make the chair legs scrape against the wooden floor.
Where was he? The question circled relentlessly as I paced the cabin, pausing at each window to scan the tree line for any sign of movement. Would he return at all? Perhaps he'd hiked to a place with cell reception, called his brother Ian to arrange alternative transport for me. The thought of being removed from Mack's life without a chance to explain, to apologize properly, tightened my chest to the point of physical pain.
By mid-afternoon, anxiety had evolved from a nagging concern to consuming preoccupation. I filled the kettle for tea, a pointless ritual to occupy my hands while my mind raced through increasingly troubling scenarios. As water heated on the stove and I stood gazing absently through the kitchen window, my attention was caught by a flash of movement near the forest's edge.
Scout emerged first, his German Shepherd form unmistakable even through the rain-smeared glass. My heart leapt painfully as Mack appeared behind him, tall frame bent slightly against the downpour. Relief weakened my knees momentarily before apprehension returned full force. What would I say to him? How could I possibly make this right?
Before I could assemble my scattered thoughts, the kettle whistled shrilly. I removed it from the heat just as crackling static emanated from the radio on the counter. Usually silent, the emergency channel Mack monitored suddenly burst to life with an urgent transmission:
"—repeat, overflow warnings for Miller Creek and eastern junction of the Ashwood River. Heavy rainfall has caused accelerated runoff from higher elevations. Chief Thornton requests immediate evacuation of zones three through five. Repeat: immediate evacuation of zones three through five."
The back door swung open as I absorbed this information. Mack entered, water streaming from his jacket and hair, creating dark puddles on the hardwood. Our eyes met briefly—his distant, heavily guarded—before he crossed to the radio without a word, adjusting the dials to turn up the volume.
"Fire Chief Dawson reporting riverbank erosion threatening Lindstrom Orchard and adjacent properties," another voice announced through the static. "All available personnel requested for sandbagging operations. Over."
Scout shook vigorously, adding to the indoor deluge, then trotted to his bed near the fireplace. The normalcy of the dog's behavior contrasted sharply with the electric tension between Mack and me.
"—access roads to northern properties already compromised," the dispatcher continued. "Requesting four-wheel drive volunteers for welfare checks on Fire Mountain residences. Over."
Mack stood motionless before the radio, water dripping steadily from his clothes to form expanding circles at his feet. He seemed unaware of his soaked state, attention fixed entirely on the emergency broadcast.
"That's your brother they mentioned, isn't it?" I ventured, desperate to break the suffocating silence. "Ian? Coordinating evacuations?"
He nodded once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin that discouraged further questions.
"Sounds serious," I pressed gently. "Especially the orchard. Wasn't that where you helped last autumn?"
"Yes." The single syllable emerged flat, emotionless.
I watched him struggle out of his sodden jacket, his movements stiff from cold and exertion. His obvious discomfort spurred me forward despite his clear desire for distance.
"They're asking for four-wheel drive volunteers," I said, gesturing toward the radio. "Your truck could—"
"Not my problem." He hung his jacket on a wooden peg, still avoiding my gaze.
The callousness of his response, so contrary to the man who'd pulled me from a wrecked car during a storm, stunned me momentarily. "How can you say that? These are your neighbors—Mrs. Lindstrom—they could lose everything."
"They have emergency services. Trained personnel." He moved toward the kitchen, maintaining maximum possible space between us. "One person won't make a difference."
"That's not true." I followed, caution overridden by disbelief. "You know these mountains better than most. You have skills—"
"Skills for destruction," he interrupted bitterly. "Not useful."
"That's not who you are." My voice softened despite the frustration building inside me. "I've witnessed how you operate in a crisis. When you found me after the crash, you knew exactly what to do—how to assess injuries, how to transport me safely."
"Basic training," he dismissed, filling the kettle with mechanical precision. "Nothing special."
"And what about navigating flood conditions with your truck?" I gestured toward the radio. "They need help with welfare checks and sandbagging. That's you, Mack."
"Still constructing your hero narrative?" His laugh held no warmth, just jagged edges. "Looking for more inspiration for your bestseller?"
The barb struck its intended target, but I refused to flinch. "This isn't about me or my writing. This is about people who need help, including your brother."
"Ian doesn't need my help." A muscle worked in his jaw. "He's the reliable Thornton. Always has been."
"This isn't about sibling dynamics," I countered. "It's about doing what's right. About using your abilities instead of hiding up here, convincing yourself you're worthless."
His hands stilled on the kettle, shoulders tensing visibly. "You don't know anything about me. About what I've done—or failed to do."
"You're right," I acknowledged, softening my approach. "I don't know what happened overseas. But I see who you are now—a capable man who rescues strangers, who provides shelter and safety, who possesses exactly the skills needed in this emergency."
"You see what you want to see." He turned, finally meeting my gaze with eyes that burned with emotion.
"I see you, Mack," I insisted. "Not some fictional creation. You. And right now, you're hiding from yourself more than anyone else. You can do this. I know it.”
The radio crackled again before he could respond. A new voice transmitted—deeper, with the same cadence as Mack's, but edged with controlled urgency.
"All units be advised: Lindstrom Orchard levee compromised on the north side. Evacuation priority alpha. Equipment and volunteers needed immediately at access point Charlie. Ross, do you copy?"
Another voice answered: "Copy that, Chief. En route with sandbags and three volunteers. ETA twelve minutes."
"Acknowledged. We need every hand we can get. Out."
Silence descended, punctuated only by rain hammering against the roof. I watched conflict play across Mack's features—concern battling resistance, duty warring with fear.
"You know where access point Charlie is," I said quietly. "You know which roads remain passable in your truck."
"It won't make any difference," he muttered, though with noticeably less conviction.
"One person can be the difference." I moved closer, ignoring the invisible barrier he'd erected between us. His expression darkened, but I held my ground.
"I'm asking you to see yourself as I see you—someone with value, whose presence or absence matters. Not because it creates a compelling narrative, but because it's true."
For a breathless moment, I thought I'd pushed too far. His eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. Then something shifted in his expression—there it was—a crack in the fortress walls.
"I haven't worked with a team since..." The sentence trailed into silence, implications hanging heavy between us.
"You don't need to lead," I offered gently. "Just show up. Do what you can."
"And what about you?" His gaze traveled over me, assessing. "Can't leave you stranded if the access road floods again."
Hope flickered in my chest. He was considering it. "I'll come with you. I can fill sandbags, make coffee, whatever they need. I'm stronger than I look."
Something almost resembling a smile touched the corner of his mouth, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Never doubted that."
Before I could savor this microscopic victory, the radio emitted an urgent alert tone, followed by an automated broadcast:
"FLASH FLOOD WARNING UPGRADED. All units be advised: Dam release upstream from Ashwood imminent due to safety concerns. Projected surge will reach Lindstrom property within forty minutes. Repeat: water surge expected at Lindstrom Orchard within forty minutes. Immediate evacuation ordered."
The transformation in Mack's demeanor was immediate and absolute. Military training overrode personal reluctance, back straightening as decision crystallized in his eyes.
"Grab your boots and jacket," he commanded, already moving toward the gear closet with purposeful strides. "Anything waterproof. We'll need it."
I rushed to comply, collecting my limited wet-weather gear while Mack assembled an impressive array of equipment—rope, flashlights, first aid supplies, and what appeared to be military-grade communication devices.
"Your brother will have radios," I suggested, zipping my borrowed raincoat.
"Different frequency than mine," he replied tersely, checking batteries with practiced efficiency. "These are backups. Better to have gear we don't need than need gear we don't have."
The military maxim revealed glimpses of the man beneath the wounded civilian—the Marine who had led, who had saved lives, who had functioned under pressure that would shatter most people.
"Mack," I said softly as he secured his go-bag. "Thank you for doing this."
He paused momentarily, hands stilling on the zipper. For a second, I thought he might acknowledge the significance of his decision. Instead, he merely nodded.
"Stay close to me down there," he instructed, shouldering the bag. "Flash floods are unpredictable. Water can rise feet, not inches, in minutes."
"I will," I promised, following him toward the door where Scout waited expectantly. "What about him?"
Mack assessed his companion briefly. "He's coming. Good in rough terrain, and he's pulled people from water before."
The radio transmitted again: "All available volunteers proceed to Lindstrom Orchard immediately. Situation deteriorating rapidly. Safety equipment provided on site."
Mack's expression hardened with resolve as he grabbed his truck keys from the hook by the door. "Let's move."