Chapter 2
Chapter two
Rhett
By the time I pull into the ranch drive, the storm’s has strengthened. Rain hits sideways, wind ripping through the cottonwoods, thunder grumbling somewhere deep in the hills. The porch light on the big house burns steadily, haloed by the downpour.
“This place is beautiful,” Frankie says softly, peering through the glass. “Even during an apocalypse.”
“Glad you think so.”
I park by the front steps. “You’ll stay here tonight,” I tell her. “The ridge road’ll be too dangerous in the storm. There’s a guest room.”
She hesitates. “You sure that’s okay?”
Before I can answer, the front door opens and Grandma Martha steps out, gray braid tucked into her collar, raincoat buttoned to her chin.
“Well, there you are,” she calls over the storm. “Who’s in the car with you? Did you finally find a woman?”
“Tourist,” I say.
“Close enough.”
Frankie laughs as Grandma ushers her inside, out of the wind.
The warmth of the ranch house hits the second we step in, with the wood stove humming, cinnamon and sugar in the air, and a faint sound of Luke singing off-key somewhere in the kitchen.
“Lord, child, you’re soaked,” Grandma says, patting Frankie’s arm. “Upstairs, second door on the right. Fresh towels are in the cabinet. Rhett, show her where things are before she catches a chill.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say automatically.
Luke appears in the kitchen doorway, flour dusting his shirt, grin easy. “Another rescue, huh, big brother?”
Frankie offers her hand. “Francesca Andrews. You can call me Frankie.”
“Luke Carson.”
I roll my eyes. “You done baking?”
“Mostly. You’re dripping on the floor.”
“Not your floor.”
“Grandma’s, then. She likes me better anyway.”
“Boys,” Grandma warns. “Let the poor girl get warm before you start sparring.”
Luke flashes Frankie a wink. “Welcome to Brush Creek. Sorry about the entertainment.”
“Honestly?” She grins. “It’s better than cable.”
Upstairs, the old staircase creaks under our boots. I can hear the rain pelting the roof, the steady hum of the wind through the rafters. Frankie follows closely, clutching her coat around her. She’s quiet now, which feels strange after the chaos of the pumpkin stand.
“This place is incredible,” she says finally. “It smells like cinnamon and feels so homey.”
I shrug. “Grandma and Luke are baking again.”
“Lucky you.”
The hallway’s dim, lit by the old iron sconces along the wall. I open the second door on the right. The guest room is small but cozy. There’s a patchwork quilt, fresh flowers on the dresser, and a window overlooking the barn.
“You can use this room,” I tell her. “Bathroom’s through that door. Hot water comes fast ande the handle sticks.”
She sets her bag down and looks around with a small, relieved smile. “It’s perfect. Thank you, really.”
“You should get out of those wet clothes before you freeze.”
Her gaze flicks up, amused. “Are you always this charming?”
“Only when rescuing pumpkin vandals.”
She laughs, quietly and warmly, then starts to unbutton her coat. I catch myself watching the movement before I can stop, then force my eyes to the wall.
“I’ll, uh… get you something hot to drink,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Coffee’s great,” she says. “Or tea. Whatever’s not poisoned.”
“I make no promises.”
Her laughter follows me down the stairs.
In the kitchen, Grandma’s got a tray ready before I even reach her. “Cocoa and cookies,” she says. “Take them up to her. Girl needs something sweet after that mess of a day.”
Luke leans against the counter, smirking. “She’s cute.”
“Don’t start,” I warn.
“Hey, I’m just saying. You spend all your time talking to tractors and cows. A little conversation won’t kill you.”
“She’s a tourist. She’ll be gone in the morning.”
Grandma clucks her tongue. “Storm says otherwise. Roads are already icing. She might be here awhile.”
“Then she can rest. That’s all.”
Grandma gives me a long, knowing look. The kind she’s perfected since I was a boy caught sneaking pie before dinner. “You’re so afraid of feeling anything again, Rhett Carson, you wouldn’t know a blessing if it danced naked in your pumpkin patch.”
“Grandma.”
Luke barks a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”
“I’m going to shower,” I mutter, grabbing a towel from the laundry stack.
“You do that,” Grandma says sweetly. “Maybe scrub off a little of that attitude while you’re at it.”
The upstairs hall is quiet. Frankie’s door is shut. A faint light glows under the frame. I knock and get no answer. Quickly, I slip in and leave her the tray of cocoa and cookies.
The storm outside drums on the roof, steady and relentless. I head to my own room, kick off my boots, and turn the shower hot.
The pipes groan, and for a moment, I hear another set of pipes upstairs come to life.
Water rushes through the walls, two showers running in tandem. The thought is harmless until it’s not.
Steam fills the room. The heat soaks into my skin, but the rest of me’s restless.
I can’t stop hearing her laugh, the bright sound bouncing around in my head.
The way she’d looked standing in the doorway, her cheeks flushed, hair dripping, eyes wide with gratitude and something else she probably didn’t even know she was giving off.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. This is ridiculous. She’s a stranger, just a tourist passing through a storm.
Still, the awareness lingers. The rhythm of water, the faint scent of her shampoo lingering in my memory, the soft cadence of her voice.
I tell myself to focus on the work waiting after the storm. The fences, the stalls, the half-crushed pumpkin stand, but all I can think about is her upstairs in my grandmother’s house, wrapped in a towel, finally warm.
The kind of woman I promised myself I’d never want again.
I shut off the tap and brace my hands on the sink, water dripping from my hair, heart thudding heavier than it should.
Outside, thunder rolls low and slow, echoing through the valley. The storm isn’t letting up.
Neither, apparently, am I.