Chapter 3
This is bad.
I shove against the door again, harder this time. Nothing.
The water’s up to my knees now, icy and relentless. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts as panic threatens to boil over. And it’s so cold in here. How did the temperature drop so fast? More importantly, why am I shivering so much? This can’t be good.
I twist toward the window, debating whether to try climbing out or maybe even breaking the glass, when headlights flash through the rain blinding me for a split second.
A truck. Big. Older model. Mud-splattered and dented in that charming I’ve seen some shit kind of way.
It screeches to a stop just ahead, wheels skidding on the edge of what used to be a road.
Before I can do more than blink, a figure jumps out—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a beat-up Carhartt jacket and a cowboy hat pulled low over his face.
He splashes toward me like he doesn’t even feel the cold, reaching the car in seconds. I see him yank at the driver’s side door, grimace, then disappear from my view. No! He can’t leave!
“Come back!” I yell, my breath coming out in puffs of fog.
A heartbeat later, he’s at the passenger side, bracing against the current.
“Don’t panic,” he says, voice low and calm, like this is just another Monday. “We’re getting you out of here.”
“Working on not panicking,” I reply, voice shaking more than I’d like.
He jerks the door open with a grunt. The sudden rush of water nearly knocks the wind out of me as it soaks through my clothes. Before I can react, his arms are around me, hauling me out like I weigh nothing and not the two-hundred fifty pounds that I am.
The wind hits hard. The creek is louder out here, roaring like it’s angry I got away.
I shudder as water splashes on me, soaking my clothes even more.
I’m really regretting my outfit choice because these leggings and t-shirt are doing nothing to keep me warm.
And the jacket? Might as well have left it back in the car.
The man carries me through the freezing mess back to the truck and sets me down gently on the passenger seat. I’m soaked, shivering, and trying to pretend I don’t feel like a drowned cat.
He slams the door shut, jogs around, and climbs in beside me.
“You okay?” he asks, glancing over.
I still can’t see much of his face since the collar of his jacket is flipped up.
I nod, teeth chattering as I hold my hands in front of the heater. “I think so. You, uh, always make dramatic rescues, or is today just my lucky day? ”
He huffs a breath but says nothing. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the road ahead, knuckles tight on the wheel as we take off.
Fine by me. If we’re going swimming again, I’d at least like to see it coming this time.
“Buckle up,” he says, voice low and steady.
There’s something about it—gravelly, unbothered, and somehow familiar—that sends an unexpected prickle down my arms. I tell myself it’s just the cold. Definitely not the voice.
I snap the seatbelt into place and glance down at my legs. Then I laugh. Short. Bitter. Almost unhinged.
“Guess these boots weren’t as ‘functional’ as the online reviews claimed.”
My brand-new white leather cowboy boots complete with delicate little blue flowers stitched up the sides are absolutely ruined. Waterlogged. Caked in mud. One heel’s already breaking off.
He glances sideways at them.
“You wore those to Broken Heart Creek?” he asks.
“I was going for local flair,” I shoot back. “Clearly, I overshot.”
This time, he actually lets out a soft chuckle.
“You here to see Phern?” he asks casually, eyes still on the road.
“I, uh, got lost,” I lie. “Think I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up here.”
He hums. “Ah. Let me guess. You watched Yellowstone and now you’re out here trying to find your very own Jamie.”
“Jamie? Eww, no,” I scoff. “I’m more of a 1923 and Spencer girl. Jamie is the worst.”
“Agreed.”
Without missing a beat, he reaches behind the seat and tosses a blanket into my lap. It smells faintly of leather and cedar.
“Wrap up,” he says. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”
“Yes, sir,” I mutter with a roll of my eyes.
But when I glance over at him—really look at him—my words die in my throat. My heart skips a beat. Or maybe three.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
Either I’ve officially gone into shock, or Sam Stone is the man who just pulled me from a flooded road and handed me a blanket like it’s no big deal.
He catches me staring out of the corner of his eye. “You okay over there?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Totally fine.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Let me guess. You’re a fan?”
That makes me snort. “Of country music? No. But I do know who you are.”
He gives a low chuckle and nods slowly, then focuses on the part of my sentence that clearly struck a nerve.
“What’s wrong with country music?”
I smirk. “You mean besides the trucks, the beer, the heartbreak, and the songs about all three?”
He raises a brow. “Sounds like you’ve been listening.”
“I’m from Oklahoma,” I say quickly, like that explains everything. “Growing up, that’s all we listened to. Every station, every party, every long-ass car ride was country music, on repeat.” I shake my head. “It’s all the same. Trucks, dirt roads, daddy issues. I can only assume it still is.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, like he’s not sure if he’s offended or impressed .
“Well,” he says after a beat, “you’re not wrong. But there’s more to it than that.”
“Sure,” I say. “Like dogs and divorces.”
He glances at me, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You sound like someone with unresolved musical trauma.”
“You’re not wrong,” I mutter.
The cab falls into a beat of silence. Outside, snow flurries swirl past the headlights, the road slick and glinting beneath the tires now that we’re out of the water. When did it start snowing this hard?
I pull the blanket tighter around myself. Because I’m cold. Not because I’m flustered by a country music legend sitting two feet away who is one-hundred times hotter in person than on TV and in photos.
Definitely not that.
I glance out the back window and gasp. My Prius is now floating. Actually floating.
“Oh my god,” I moan, watching it bob like a pathetic little tin can in the floodwater. “I’m never going to be able to rent another car.”
“Hope you had insurance,” he says, calm as ever.
“I did, but I’m not sure ‘drifted away in a rural flash flood’ is covered.” I run a hand down my face like that’ll scrub the disaster away. “Too bad my pusillanimous nature means I won’t even fight them on it.”
He glances over. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I’m lacking in courage.” I let out a breath. “Which, honestly? Story of my life.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps his eyes on the road while the truck hums beneath us and the snow whispers against the windshield.
Then, quietly, he says, “I disagree. ”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? You’ve got me all figured out after what? Ten minutes?”
His lips twitch, just barely. “Out here, you learn to trust your gut.”
“And yours says…?”
He looks at me, just for a second. Steady. Sure.
“My gut says you’re stronger than you think.”
Something warm flutters in my stomach, and it has nothing to do with the truck’s heater. It’s a dangerous warmth that’s unexpected and unwelcome. Especially when the rest of me is soaked, frozen, and teetering on the edge of a complete emotional breakdown.
I shiver, tugging the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
“You okay over there?” he asks, voice softer now.
“Cold,” I murmur.
He reaches over without looking and turns up the heat. Warm air hums through the vents, fogging the windshield slightly, just as something massive comes into view up ahead.
I blink.
A house.
No, a lodge, practically. Built from stone and timber, nestled against the snowy hills like it’s been part of the land forever. The snow filters down behind it in soft curtains, catching in the porch lights and glowing like something out of a dream.
“Wow,” I breathe. “Is that your house?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Looks like you’ll be staying with us for a few days.”
My head jerks toward him. “Days? What do you mean ‘days’?”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches the road. “That bridge is going to need to be repaired. And it’ll be a while before the creek calms down. Might even rise again tonight.”
He glances toward the clouds like they’ve insulted him. “And I don’t like the way those look.”
I follow his gaze. They’re clouds. Gray and moody, sure. But they’re just clouds.
“How are they supposed to look?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
He doesn’t answer that. Just keeps driving.
“Surely there’s someone I can call in town,” I say, clutching at the last thread of practicality. “A tow service. Or, I don’t know, a rescue helicopter.”
He smirks. “Not for a few days, darlin’.”
The darlin’ isn’t flirtatious. It’s casual.
Uncomplicated. Like he says it to everyone.
But it still knocks something loose in my chest. Something fragile and reckless I wasn’t prepared to feel.
Which is probably why this is starting to feel like a bad idea.
I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve waited for the creek to go down.
I should’ve called Frederick. I should’ve?—
“Darlin’?”
The word snaps me out of my spiral.
I look up. We’ve stopped. The engine is off. The world is quiet except for the ticking of the cooling engine and the soft whisper of falling snow.
Sam’s turned toward me, one brow raised. “You coming?”
I nod, but my fingers don’t cooperate. They tremble as I fumble with the seatbelt. It’s stupid, really. After everything, it’s this that nearly breaks me. A plastic button I can’t press.
Before I can even process the frustration, he leans over and presses it for me, his hand steady. The seatbelt releases with a soft click, and he’s out of the truck a second later, rounding the front without a word .
My door opens.
He offers a hand. Big. Calloused. Solid.
I hesitate for half a second, then take it.
And just like that, he helps me down into a world that feels nothing like the one I left behind.
Sam leads the way up wooden steps to the front door. He opens it, stepping aside. The warmth hits me first. Not just from the air, but from the way it feels inside, like the house has been alive for generations, collecting stories in its walls.
The entryway is all polished wood and worn stone, with a giant braided rug that looks handmade and well-loved. Coats hang from iron hooks by the door. Boots are lined up haphazardly beneath a bench. The scent of something savory lingers in the air making my stomach growl.
It’s beautiful in a quiet, lived-in way. The kind of place where everything has a purpose, but nothing tries too hard to impress.
A wide staircase stretches up to a lofted second floor, its banister carved with the kind of intricate patterns people used to take time for.
The living room opens to the right. Vaulted ceilings, exposed beams, a stone fireplace that looks like it could survive the apocalypse.
A fire crackles lazily inside it, throwing shadows across a leather sofa and a patchwork quilt slung over the arm.
To my left, there’s a long hallway that disappears into the rest of the house, but I don’t move.
I just stand there, dripping on their rug, clutching a borrowed blanket and trying not to feel too much.
Because something about this home makes my bones ache in a way I didn’t expect. Like I’ve stepped into a version of life I wasn’t supposed to have.
Sam shuts the door behind us with a soft click, and the sound of the storm is instantly muted .
“You okay?” he asks again, voice low.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Just taking it in. It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. I?—”
“Sam? Is that you?” A soft voice drifts down from upstairs, and a moment later a woman appears at the top of the stairs, her hand gripping the railing.
She’s stunning, just like her photos online.
Dark hair twisted into a loose braid, hazel eyes wide with curiosity, and a natural glow that makes her look like she stepped out of a country lifestyle ad.
Petite, curvy, dressed in jeans and a sweater like the effortlessly cool girl next door. Phern Stone, Sam’s only sibling.
She pauses, eyes flicking from Sam to me. “Who’s this?”
Sam glances at me, then back up at his sister. “Never got her name.”
He turns fully toward me now, and it feels like the whole room holds its breath.
“I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself, either.” His voice dips, rich and deliberate. “Sam Stone.”
He extends his hand again but this time it’s formal. Personal.
I take it, his palm warm against mine.
“Charlotte Wilson.”
He looks back up to Phern, still holding my hand. “This is Charlotte.”
Goosebumps ripple across my skin at the sound of my name in his voice. Darlin’ was hot. But this? This is dangerously hotter.
It must be why I feel like I have a fever, right? And why is everything so bright in here?
I don’t even realize they’re speaking to me until I feel a gentle pressure on my shoulder .
“Darlin’?” Sam’s voice cuts through the fog like a thread of light.
I blink up at him, confused. “Sorry. I don’t feel so good.”
My voice sounds strange. Slurred. Detached. Like it’s coming from someone else entirely.
Everything blurs as edges soften and sounds fade. The room tilts beneath me, slow and syrupy, and Sam’s mouth moves, but I can’t make out the words.
I lean instinctively toward the heat near me, not even knowing what it is. Just needing it. The fire? Sam? I can’t tell.
Light turns to dark, then back again, the shift making my stomach lurch.
Then I’m lifted with surprising gentleness. The scent of cedar and soap fills my nose, grounding me in the storm inside my body.
A mattress catches me like a cloud. Soft. Clean. But I’m cold. So cold.
I moan, curling in on myself. My limbs feel heavy and numb.
Then warm hands. Rough palms cupping my face, thumbs brushing my temples.
“I know, darlin’,” Sam murmurs, voice thick with concern. “I know.”
The blanket around me shifts. Air hits my skin—icy and shocking. It hurts.
But then the warmth returns, wrapping around me like arms I can’t see.
I sigh and sink into it. Into him.
Letting go. Letting sleep pull me under.
And I pray I don’t wake up and find this was all a dream.