10. Cala
Angelo’s telling one of his weekend stories and I’m listening—or pretending to—while I watch Oliver Walker swing an axe and split logs for the winter. He’s got on a flannel shirt, his weekend cowboy jeans, and black boots.
Yeah, I could definitely be rich if I posted these photos online.
Lately I’ve noticed he’s been coming home earlier from the office and, without much explanation, rolling up his sleeves and working right alongside me. He’s not much for talking, but he’s there. Orbiting me with that dark little aura of his.
We’re doing the same chore right now—checking the fencing across the fields—because Angelo’s time here is almost up and I want everything squared away before he leaves. Mostly because winter’s coming and my fingers will freeze, and tasks will take twice as long.
“You’re practically fucking him with your eyes, Cala,” Angelo whispers, eyebrow cocked.
“What? Are you crazy? He’s my boss!” I snap, handing him a box of nails with a bit more force than necessary.
Is it really that obvious?
“Come on—never seen those boss/employee porn fantasies?”
“Angelo!” I shove him to shut him up. “He can hear you!”
“I’m not saying anything he hasn’t already thought, darling. Trust me.”
I glance toward Mr. Walker and catch him looking at us. My heart does a stupid little jump because I think he heard, so I turn away quick and give my back to him.
“Angelo, focus on those nails if you don’t want me to split your head open with that hammer.”
My buddy laughs and keeps working. But of course I peek again. Now he’s leaning on the fence, watching the horses, Astro—his dog—at his side. It’s a picture straight out of every lone-cowboy ad ever made: looking toward the past, wrapped in a heavy gray aura.
The wet dream of many women…
Grandma would say the man’s carrying a backpack full of bricks and we should leave him alone. But what if I want to unpack every single brick? What if I want to help him without him snapping at me? I can’t help it—I’m curious by nature. I want to know everything.
“Don’t feel bad,” Angelo says, grinning. “You’re not the first, nor the last, to sigh over Mr. Walker.”
That pulls me right back into Texas reality.
“Spill the gossip, come on,” I say, dropping down beside him.
Angelo laughs and glances over once more to make sure he’s still out of earshot.
“My mama says she’s never seen him with a woman,” he says. “She thinks he’s got his own Brokeback situation going on.”
I laugh—long and loud.
“Mr. Walker isn’t gay, Angelo. Look at him.”
We both stare at the cowboy. He looks up at us, brows knotted in that permanent frown, and as I lean toward Angelo to egg him on, we hear, “Miss Saint-Clair!”
Adrenaline shoots down my spine. I drop everything and bolt toward my boss—my sexy, moody, Heathcliff-complexed boss.
A few steps out, I put on my sweetest, most innocent voice.
“Yes, Mr. Walker?”
His sea-green eyes lock onto me, severe as hell. He leaves the axe stuck in the log and folds his heavy arms across his chest.
Looks like his shirt might burst from all that tension.
I’d pay to see it.
“I pay Angelo to work with you—not for you two to be laughing the day away.”
His tone isn’t as severe as his glare; honestly, it sounds more like a petulant teenager than a boss lecturing an employee.
“Fine,” I say. “From now on we’ll be solemn and mournful—very Walker-style. Better?”
Cala, shut up. What’s wrong with you?
His face snaps like a trap—suddenly tight and furious.
“Excuse me?” He uncrosses his arms and steps closer, shrinking the space between us.
My head tilts back so I can see those eyes. I hadn’t realized how tall he is.
“I’ll do the job the way you like it.”
I can’t back down now. This is a stand-off. Words are my only weapon against a man who’s… so… formidable.
“Don’t toy with me, Miss Saint-Clair. I’m watching you.”
“I know. Every morning from your balcony—with the binoculars.”
Yes. I said it.
His cheeks flush a deep red; his eyes dart over my face like a man trying to read a map. He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again.
“Go finish your task,” he finally says through clenched teeth. “Then we’ll reestablish the work rules. Again.”
He turns, then stops on his heel.
“Actually let Angelo finish on his own. You find something else to do. Far away from him.”
“Gladly,” I snap back, fists clenched at my sides.
This man gets my cortisol spiking for no good reason.
Winter’s here—dry, sharp, and cold.
The trees are bare, the sky stays gray, and those famous Texas storms have started rolling in.
Things just got harder.
I’ve been working here for two months now, and just when I thought I had everything under control, the weather changed—turning every little task into a battle.
But I’m an adaptable creature.
Sure, I complain more than I should at first, but eventually, I adjust.
By seven in the evening, the horses are in their stalls, the cows are settled, and the sheep and goats, my personal favorites, come to me willingly now. They actually recognize me, which helps a lot. The bruises on my legs are finally fading, too.
“Bedtime, everyone!” I call out as I leave the barn.
I dust off my jeans and officially declare the day done.
Thank God, because the sky looks like trouble—gray and violet, the kind of color that hums with thunder.
Back at my parents’ cabin, the air’s warm and smells like stew.
Mom’s cooking something hearty enough to survive the apocalypse, and Dad’s helping, chopping vegetables at the table.
The house is quiet, the energy heavy. I can’t wait to crawl into bed and bury my nose in a book that takes me somewhere else.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” I announce, heading straight to the bathroom. “I smell like a horse.”
“Alright,” Mom says. “But don’t take long. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Won’t be long.”
I shut the door behind me and savor the rare moment of privacy. Like I said before, my “bedroom” is basically an attic with an imaginary door.
Under the shower, I finally let my muscles relax. The hot water beats against my skin, easing every ache.
And I’ll admit it—this kind of work has its perks.
My butt has never looked better, my waist’s a little slimmer, and my legs… let’s just say they’ve gotten strong.
“Everything’s got a pro and a con,” I quote my grandma, turning the handle until the water warms up just right.
I check my phone. Roger texted around seven this morning—something about being nervous for an exam. I ignored it as long as I could, but now I’m out of excuses.
I ask how it went, and he replies instantly:
I miss you. Campus feels empty without you.
I step under the stream, thinking about what life would’ve looked like if I hadn’t had to come home.
I liked my job. I loved my postgrad program.
I could’ve gone far—or at least that’s what my old boss used to tell me.
Don’t think, Cala. Don’t think.
I shut off the water, wrap myself in a towel big enough to cover everything, and dry off quickly. No lingering tonight.
I get dressed, run a brush through my hair, tugging the knots out harder than I should—just to drown out the silence.
But then something hits me.
A weight, low in my stomach, uneasy, heavy, wrong.
Grandma would’ve called it bad energy.
What the hell is this? Nerves? Or something else?
I open the bathroom door and freeze.
The radio’s on.
My parents never play the radio.
Through the static, a distorted voice repeats coordinates, then the same phrase over and over—
“Tornado warning. Take Shelter now. Tornado warning. Take Shelter now”
A second later, a horn blares outside—long and panicked.
Through the rain-smeared window, headlights cut through the dark.
Mr. Walker’s SUV.
Before I can reach the door, it bursts open.
Wind rushes in, carrying dirt and the metallic scent of storm.
He’s already inside, shouting.
“There’s no time! Lucien, take my shoulders—now!”
Everything turns into chaos.
The air’s thick with electricity; the floor trembles.
The smell of wet earth and gasoline mixes with the stew still cooking on the stove.
Mr. Walker moves like a soldier—steady, commanding—lifting my father as if he weighs nothing.
I grab the wheelchair, my mother’s hand clutching my sleeve as she prays louder and louder.
The world outside howls.
The rain’s coming sideways, needling my face, stinging cold.
We pile into his SUV and he floors it, headlights slicing through sheets of rain.
The sound of debris scraping the ground fills my ears—a thousand claws dragging across the dirt road.
The sky flashes white, then violet, then black again.
At his house, he jumps out first, muscles tensed, barking orders over the roar of the wind.
“Go, go, go! Downstairs, now!”
Under the grand staircase, he yanks open a hatch I hadn’t even noticed before—a steel door leading to a narrow set of steps.
The air inside smells like dust and cold metal, a safe pocket beneath the chaos.
Eliza’s already there with Astro, her face pale but calm.
“Here! Quick!” she shouts, pointing to a space cleared for my father’s chair.
We get him settled, but my heartbeat hasn’t slowed; it’s pounding in my throat, refusing to quit.
Mr. Walker turns to climb back up.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he shouts when I follow. “Stay with your family!”
“No! The animals—”
“I’ll take care of it!”
I push past him, the wind slamming into me as I burst outside.
The door bangs against the wall like a gunshot.
“Cala!” His voice rips through the storm, raw and furious.
He grabs my arm, his hand burning hot against my wet skin.
“Go back!”
“I said no!”
I tear free and run toward the barns.
The night swallows me whole. Wind shrieking in my ears, dirt pelting my face, the scent of hay and ozone clinging to my breath.
Somewhere behind me, he curses and then I hear his boots hit the ground, chasing me into the storm.
In moments like this, the only thing to do is let the animals go.
It sounds cruel, but it isn’t—they’re safer out in the open than trapped in a barn that could collapse on them.
Out there, at least, they can run from the danger.
Mr. Walker and I head straight for the SUV, slamming our doors in sync.
Both of us know we’ll have to move fast.
The rain starts—thin and needling, not heavy yet, but sharp enough to sting.
Lightning splits the sky open; thunder crashes right after, deep and bone-shaking.
The air smells like iron, wet earth, and ozone—like the world’s been peeled open.
“Go to the barn. I’ll take the stables!” he shouts, flinging the door open.
We run in opposite directions, boots hammering the mud, wind tearing at our clothes.
My hair whips across my face so hard it burns, but I push forward, grab the latch, and throw the barn doors wide.
Goats and sheep bolt past me in a blur of white and brown.
I guide them into the open field, my throat raw from shouting, my pulse a drum in my ears.
From the corner of my eye, I see the cows running too—Mr. Walker’s driving them out, his silhouette flashing bright and dark between lightning strikes.
Our eyes meet for half a second across the chaos.
No words, just a spark of shared urgency.
Then we sprint together toward the stables.
We work in rhythm.
He claps the horses awake, slapping their haunches to make them move.
I undo every latch I can reach. One by one, they gallop into the storm.
When the last one’s gone, I turn and he’s looking at me.
For the first time since I’ve known him, he smiles.
Not a big grin, just a quiet, honest curl of his mouth.
But it lights up his face and God help me, he’s even more beautiful when he’s human.
The wind dies.
Just… stops.
My stomach twists. The air feels wrong—too still, too heavy.
His smile fades, eyes cutting past my shoulder, wide with panic.
He grabs my hand, his fingers iron-tight.
“Run. Now!”
“Where—?”
“Just run!”
We sprint. My lungs are on fire, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“Not the stable!” I yell. “It’s not safe!”
“No time!” he roars.
I make the mistake of looking back.
Lightning splits the clouds again, and for one frozen heartbeat, I see it—a thin, silver funnel twisting down from the sky, graceful and terrible, stretching toward us like a finger from God.
My stomach drops to the ground.
I don’t think—I just run.
He yanks the stable door shut behind us and jams the lock in place.
The wood creaks, groaning like it knows what’s coming.
He’s already searching, frantic, eyes darting through the shadows.
“What do we do?!” My whole body’s trembling. My heartbeat’s too loud to ignore.
“Here—come here!”
He grabs me by the waist and pulls me toward a metal pipe that runs along the wall.
He ties a horse rein around my middle, then loops it tight around the pipe, securing the knot with a chain.
The leather bites into my skin; I don’t care.
He does the same for himself and sits down beside me.
“This is the main water line,” he shouts over the wind. “It’s deep in the ground. It should hold if the storm shifts.”
Outside, the roar builds—low at first, then monstrous.
Wood cracks. Something slams against the outer wall, rattling the boards.
The air pressure drops, stealing the breath from my chest.
The smell of dust and hay mixes with the sour scent of fear and sweat.
Instinct takes over. I press closer to him.
He wraps his arms around me, his chest solid and warm even through the cold.
The walls start to tremble.
The sound is indescribable, like the sky itself is tearing open.
I can feel it vibrating through him, through the ground, through me.
And all I can think is:
Please, let my parents be safe.
Please, let the animals make it.
“Cala, breathe. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says against my ear.
Tears stream down my face before I can stop them.
I clutch his jacket like a lifeline, fingers buried in the fabric.
The world is shaking, The roof groans, wood splintering above us.
“Oh God!” I cry out, holding tighter.
He shifts, pressing me closer against the pipe.
His chest and stomach are flush against my back, his arms locked around me—around us—holding the pipe like it’s the only thing keeping us on this earth.
“Hold on!” he shouts. “It’s close!”
The pipe itself starts to rattle beneath our grip, vibrating with the force of the storm.
I dig my nails into his sleeve and into the leather rein, every muscle in my body screaming.
My eyes squeeze shut. My pulse is a drum in my throat.
I’m terrified.
Not just scared—shaking-down-to-the-bone terrified.
The air feels alive, charged, pulling at my breath.
The sound is deafening, so deep it’s not even a sound anymore, just vibration.
Like the sky itself is growling.
Oliver presses harder against me, his body shielding mine from flying debris, from everything.
I can feel his heartbeat through my back—fast, heavy, steady in the chaos.
He’s fighting the storm.
Holding me, holding the pipe, holding everything together.
Then, just when I think the roof’s going to rip off. Silence.
The air stills.
The ground stops trembling.
Only the echo of my heartbeat remains, and the weight of his arms still locked tight around me.