Chapter 15 #2
A loud, heavy crack of thunder interrupts her spiraling, and it startles everyone with its abruptness.
Evidently, they’d all been distracted with time-old tales and cold cuts, because upon looking up, they find the clouds have swelled to the point of bursting.
They have an hour, probably less, before the sky opens up and swallows them whole.
Grace turns her attention back to the expanse of the property, squinting in the direction Crew went this morning, but finds nothing.
Only sparse trees and unwalked plains. Murmurs begin to sound among the group, and there’s an edge of concern in everyone’s questions, but no one is panicked.
They’re all confident Crew will come back before the storm; it’s far too dangerous for him to stay and ride it out in the open.
But he doesn’t.
When the storm begins half an hour later, it’s as though a knife has slashed through the blanket of clouds, releasing all the rain at once.
It’s unrelenting and deafening, and they crowd under a large tree near the campsite to discuss what—if anything—they should do.
It’s difficult to see through the sheet of water that surrounds them on all sides, but Grace tries anyway.
She keeps her eyes peeled in every direction, waiting with her heart beating as loud as the thunder to see Crew’s blurry figure in the distance, riding in on Duke, weighed down by his sopping wet clothes.
“He’s probably holed up somewhere, waiting it out,” Cooper reasons. His arms are folded tightly over his chest as he looks out through the rain alongside Grace.
“Probably,” Grace says, but there’s no conviction in her agreement. It’s a distracted, halfhearted sentiment that neither of them actually believes.
Forty, having overheard them, chimes in.
“Of course he is. He probably found a tree or something just like this before it started to get bad. He’d have felt it coming on.
” Grace says nothing, does nothing to concur.
She just watches the panorama of precipitation surrounding them, hoping to see something—anything—beyond the endless streaks of rain.
When another hour passes by with no emergence and little reprieve from the storm, anxiety in its purest form settles deep in her belly.
It becomes difficult to stand still, to think rationally, and alongside that blooming sense of dread, that cruel inner voice returns.
It’s singing a different song now, tinged with tragedy and self-pity, but carries the same level of vitriol.
He’s dead, it murmurs. He’s gone, just like Mom. He’s not coming back. Nothing good in your life ever comes back.
If she lets herself catastrophize, things could get ugly. She can’t let that happen right now, not when Crew could be in danger. So, Grace shuts the voice down—stomps on it with stubbornness until it’s barely a whisper.
They’ve hatched a tentative plan to go look for him on foot, but in the climax of this downpour, it would be a fool’s errand.
The visibility is too low; they wouldn’t see him in this until they practically stepped on him.
The only option is to wait for it to die down, and then launch into action as soon as they’re able.
But all of that goes to shit when a small figure comes racing in from the east.
Though they can’t quite make it out, Grace knows in her bones exactly what—who—it is.
Boone. Alone. Running toward them faster than she’s ever seen a heeler run.
“Oh shit,” Forty grunts, stepping into the rain to meet Boone as he approaches the campsite.
Grace can hear his high-pitched whine even over the roar of the rain, and as soon as he knows he has Forty’s attention, he’s already making to run back in the direction from which he came. To lead them away, toward something.
Someone.
“He’s hurt,” Grace shouts, and Forty looks at her with a furrowed brow, barely able to keep his eyes open amid the storm.
He hesitates, looking at the dog growing more and more impatient, and then out into the soaked plain ahead.
Grace looks in Boone’s direction and yells, “He wouldn’t have come back without him unless there was a reason. You know he wouldn’t, Forty. We have to go.”
“We’re coming with you,” a voice says from behind her, and soon, she’s flanked by Cooper, Caleb, and Pierce. They begin jogging, trailing behind Boone, who has already taken off. “The others will stay with the herd,” Caleb yells back to Grace. “Come on.”
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
It takes nearly forty minutes, and with every single second that passes, Grace begs the universe to not be the cruel and merciless thing she’s always known it to be.
It doesn’t make any sense, but the longer they follow behind Boone, crossing the plain with the rain still beating down on them, the more she blames herself for whatever it is they’re about to witness.
She is quicksand. Always has been. Everyone she tries to keep close ends up hurting in the end.
She should’ve known better than to start anything with Crew. He’s too good—too gallant and kind to be associated with her. It was never going to pan out well for him, becoming part of the land mine of tragedy and chaos that is Grace’s life.
The rain lets up before they find him. Hard, ceaseless, fat drops fizzle into a whisper, a gentle sprinkle that allows them to actually see what lies ahead—and as soon as Boone starts barking, they know they must be getting close.
Grace’s heart is in her throat as his barks get louder, more insistent, and when she eventually spots something in the distance that doesn’t fit in with the landscape of dirt and dead brush, she squints, trying to make it out.
When it’s finally clear enough to see, Grace gasps, and then she starts to run.