Chapter 23 #2
Finn turned the steering wheel hard to avoid a floating trash can, then angled around a submerged sedan—the back window smashed
in.
He prayed that meant the occupants got out.
Jack, hunched in the bow, shielded his eyes and scanned the water. “That’s the Cottrell house—two kids, I think. Second floor.”
Finn didn’t answer. Just gunned the throttle and turned toward it.
Dusk was falling fast, and the spotlight mounted to the front of the boat barely cut through the haze. What they couldn’t
see, they had to trust they’d feel—or miss by inches.
The damage was biblical. Trees tangled into snarled heaps. Unnatural empty patches of forests. Hillsides slumped into the
roads like melted clay. What had once been driveways were now rivers. And yards—yards that had smelled of honeysuckle and
barbecue just days ago—were overcome by silt and gasoline.
The loss glared back at them in painful clarity.
There weren’t words for what they’d seen. The heartbreak. The things they couldn’t unsee.
And yet, somehow they kept finding people. That was the only thing that kept the grief from overtaking him. That—and the quiet
strength of the man beside him.
“There!” Jack pointed.
A man was waist-deep on a porch, struggling to hold up a woman and two kids. Finn swung the boat around, slicing through the
current.
“We’re coming!” he shouted.
And the rush of relief and gratitude doused the pain a little. A few more found.
A few more safe.
The man didn’t hesitate—just lifted one child, then another, and passed them over the porch railing into Jack’s arms. Finn
steadied the boat as the woman climbed in, crying softly. The man hesitated, staring at the house as if trying to memorize
it.
“My mother,” he said hoarsely. “We couldn’t get her downstairs. And . . . and her medication . . .”
Finn’s jaw clenched. He reached across the gap and gripped the man’s wrist. “We’ll send someone back. Right now, we need to
get you to safety.”
The man nodded once—numb—and climbed in beside his family, wrapping his arms around his kids like they were the only thing
tethering him to earth.
“I’ll call it in.” Jack reached for the radio mic. “This is Jack Austen out at the Cottrell house on Woodbridge. Elderly woman
upstairs—likely in need of medical assistance.”
Static cracked. Then a calm voice came through: “Copy that, Jack. Dawson Craig’s on the west loop with the medic boat. I’ll
patch him in.”
Finn stared at the house, his hands curled around the steering wheel. Could Dawson reach her in time?
He didn’t get to decide. Jack leaned close and murmured, “Next house. Second floor. I saw a light.”
Right. Next one. That’s how they kept going. What they’d been doing for hours. And they’d helped dozens.
He could feel the pull in his shoulders, the ache in his spine, the water soaking him to the bone. But none of that mattered.
Not when people were still waiting.
He steered the boat and headed for the yellow house on the corner.
They passed a watering can bobbing near the peak of a flooded shed. A skeleton of a swing set jutted out of the water. The air smelled like rot and gasoline.
Water lapped over most of the first story of the house, but as they drew closer, he spotted a young woman holding a baby and
waving frantically from the second-floor window.
Jack took over the steering and radioed a message while Finn stood, anchoring his legs as he reached for the porch post and
used it to swing the boat close to the side of the house.
“Can you make it down on the porch roof?” Finn called.
The woman looked down, shaking her head.
Finn shot Jack a look, steadied himself on the edge, then vaulted from the boat onto the porch roof—wet, steep, slick. His
boots slid, but he caught himself on the window frame and eased the woman out slowly as she clutched her baby against her
chest.
Mr. Cottrell stood, offering his assistance, and within a few seconds, mom and baby settled into the boat with the rest of
them, and Finn dropped in beside them.
Boat full. Time to get them to safety.
They pushed off.
The baby let out a small, indignant wail. Finn looked down, breath catching.
It was one of the most hopeful sounds Finn had heard all day.
Even surrounded by devastation, life cried out.
Jack was shining the spotlight ahead, sweeping past another house, when a shout broke the quiet.
“Hey, pub guy!”
Finn squinted. A man on a nearby roof waved both arms like he was hailing a taxi. Was that—?
“Tad Akers,” Jack said, confirming it.
Finn grinned. He’d been called “pub guy” more than once today. It always pulled a laugh from someone. A dozen people had promised to stop by The Green Dragon once it reopened. A few had asked if Lucy was okay.
They’d known to ask.
“One more?” Finn looked to Jack, even as Jack steered in the man’s direction.
Tad climbed in, soaked and grinning like he’d just won a raffle. “I owe you a pint when this is over, Dashwood.” He nodded
to Jack. “You too, Austen. I might even throw in a steak or two.”
And it hit him—the warmth that swelled in his chest wasn’t just from being useful. It was from being known.
These people had started to know him. They saw him. He mattered here.
Not just in the storm, but even before.
He hadn’t just opened a pub. He’d started putting down roots.
Little Laney Parks had cried on his shoulder a couple of weeks ago when her dog had run away. Mr. Clark’s grandson had asked
him to taste test his baking project. Old Mr. Harper had fixed his front step and refused to charge. The entire town had shown
up to vote on whether he or Daphne would win a contest over a wedding. A wedding!
He almost laughed.
And the realization took hold. This wasn’t just where he worked.
It was where he belonged.
Not just for Lucy. Not just because of Daphne—though, heaven help him, she was stitched into his thoughts like she belonged
there.
No matter what the morning revealed about this town or his pub, this was where he wanted to stay.
Because somehow, without him realizing, Wisteria had become home.
And now, he was going to fight for it.
Poor little Lucy missed her dad.
And she wasn’t the only one.
As the clock ticked past 10:00 p.m. and Finn still hadn’t shown up, Daphne had set aside the clipboard she’d been using to
coordinate cots and casseroles and spent a little cuddle time on the velvet love seat near the front desk, Lucy curled beside
her. She’d read Tangled to Lucy—again—and sometime between Rapunzel healing Flynn’s hand and the part with the floating lights, the little girl had
fallen fast asleep with her head on Daphne’s lap.
Daphne’s fingers moved absently through Lucy’s curls. The weight of the child, the warmth of her small hand curled against
Daphne’s thigh, calmed her. The comfort went both ways.
It was sweet. Tender.
Some of the emergency workers had been going since first thing that morning—hauling people out of flooded homes, navigating
washed-out roads, digging through debris. Heroes in volunteer T-shirts and turnout gear. How they kept going, she didn’t know.
She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer for them, for the ones still missing, for the ones who’d already lost too much.
So many prayers.
The lobby had quieted. Kids curled in donated quilts, the elderly dozed on borrowed cots, and the scent of peanut butter sandwiches
and rain lingered in the air. Even the volunteers were running on fumes now, slumping against counters and folding chairs
with the slow-moving weariness of people who’d given everything they could today.
A light rain still dripped from the eaves outside, but the worst of the weather had passed.
She rubbed a hand over her bleary eyes as the front door creaked open across the foyer. Another found person? Another family
member searching for a loved one? Another emergency worker in need of food or rest?
She straightened, readying to help—and her breath left her.
Finn stood in the entryway, soaked through, mud on his jeans, a line of exhaustion etched deep in his brow. He looked heavier
somehow—like the weight of everything he’d seen was still clinging to his shoulders.
But his eyes—those warm, tea-colored eyes—landed on her, and the weight shifted.
Something in her melted.
He let out a breath she felt across the room.
With a shift of her body to lower Lucy’s head onto the couch, Daphne stood, her legs shaky, and then she moved.
Didn’t run, didn’t cry—just walked straight into his arms.
The heaviness of the past few hours crashed over her as she pressed in as close to him as their bodies allowed. Pulling from
his strength. Giving of her own. Sharing the unspoken burden.
They stood in the middle of the foyer, and neither of them said anything. Just held each other, his head resting on hers,
her palms pressing in on the back of his wet jacket. He clung to her like he never wanted to let go.
Daphne exhaled against his neck. The scent of rain and woodsmoke and something uniquely him tucked between them, relaxing her coiled muscles.
He was safe.
“I had to help—” His voice cracked, low and hoarse.
“I know.”
“So many people needed us . . .”
“Here too,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to look at him. His eyes were rimmed in red, his lips pressed tight. She
reached up to touch his jaw, mud-splattered and rough. “You did the right thing.”
He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking around the room—checking on Lucy, the crowd—before coming back to her. He lifted a hand
and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her cheek.
“You smell like baby powder and peanut butter,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s a new scent for you. But . . . oddly, not terrible.”
She huffed a tired laugh, blinking fresh tears.
“There was a minor explosion while I was hunting down baby powder. For about twenty minutes, I looked like a cupcake.”
“Sounds like I missed the best part of the day.”
“You didn’t.” Her voice dropped as she searched his face. “You showed up just in time for it. And I’m so glad—”