Chapter Three
~ Harlow ~
I stood on the porch of our family farmhouse, counting seconds between lightning flashes and the rumble of thunder that followed.
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three.
.. The storm had been raging for nearly two days now, turning our driveway into a river of mud and bringing all the worms up from underground.
They were everywhere, pink squiggly lines trying to escape drowning, only to end up stranded on our gravel where the chickens would have a feast once the rain let up.
The sky was the color of bruises, dark purples and grays all swirled together like when I accidentally mixed paints in art class back in school.
Water poured from the gutters in sheets, making that hollow drumming sound against the metal rain barrel by the corner of the porch.
The wind whipped the rain sideways sometimes, sending it right onto the porch boards despite the roof overhead.
My stomach felt all twisted up, but not the good kind of twisty I got when Deputy Dan smiled at me or when our hands accidentally touched at Doc Miller's clinic.
This was the bad kind of twisty, the kind that meant something wasn't right.
I got these feelings sometimes, and Knox said I should trust them because they usually turned out to be important.
"Animals know things before people do," Gramps always said. "And you got more animal sense than anybody in this family, Harlow."
I watched the chickens huddled under the coop's overhang, clucking and fussing more than usual. They kept looking up at the sky then back at each other like they were having some kind of chicken meeting about the weather.
Chickens definitely know things. When old Mrs. Peterson's fox got into our henhouse last spring, the chickens knew it was coming a full day before.
They'd refused to go inside, preferring to roost in the maple tree instead.
Sure enough, next morning we found that fox had dug right under the wire, but all the chickens were safe up in that tree.
Today they were making that worried sound, the one that's higher pitched than their normal clucking. Something was coming, something more than just this rain.
"Ma!" I called through the screen door, my voice carrying over the sound of the storm. "I'm heading out to check the back acres!"
Ma appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her forehead was all crinkled up with worry lines. "In this weather? Harlow, honey, you'll catch your death out there."
"I'll wear my rain jacket," I promised, already reaching for the bright yellow slicker hanging on the hook by the door.
Ma pressed her lips together like she wanted to argue but knew it wouldn't do any good. "Take the radio at least. And be back before dark. The roads are flooding all over the county."
I nodded, grabbing the yellow jacket and slipping my arms into the sleeves.
Ransom always said it made me look like a giant banana, but it kept me dry, and that was what mattered.
The rubber boots by the door were still damp from yesterday's check on the livestock, but I pulled them on anyway, feeling the cool moisture against my socks.
Before heading into the woods, I made a quick round of the barn and outbuildings. The horses needed reassuring, especially the young mare we'd bought last month. She snorted nervously when lightning flashed, her eyes rolling to show the whites.
"It's okay, girl," I whispered, running my hand down her neck. "Just a little storm. Nothing to worry about."
She pressed her velvety nose against my palm, her breath warm against my skin. Animals understood me, and I understood them. We spoke the same language somehow.
The sheep were huddled together in a woolly lump at the far end of their pen, but they seemed calm enough.
The barn cats watched me from their perch in the hayloft, eyes glinting in the shadows like little amber lights.
Even our old cow, Daisy, seemed content to chew her cud and ignore the weather.
But the chickens still fussed, and my stomach still twisted, so I knew something was wrong somewhere.
I remembered what Newt had told me last week during Sunday dinner.
He'd seen a special on TV about flash floods and said nobody should wander around during big storms like this.
"The ground gets saturated," he'd explained, using one of those big words I had to puzzle through.
"Water has nowhere to go but up and over.
Roads disappear. Trees fall. It's dangerous, Harlow. "
Knox had nodded along, his arm around Newt's shoulders. "He's right, little brother. No need to take risks when the weather turns mean."
But they didn't understand that sometimes I needed to follow these feelings.
They were like invisible strings tugging me toward something important, something that needed my attention.
Knox had his military training to guide him, and Ransom had his art.
I had these feelings and my connection to the land.
I zipped up the yellow jacket and pulled the hood over my head. The walkie-talkie went into my pocket, though the reception would be spotty at best once I got deep into the woods. Ma waved from the doorway as I stepped off the porch into the downpour.
The rain hammered against my jacket, drumming a steady rhythm as I made my way past the chicken coop and toward the tree line that marked the edge of our property.
Water squelched beneath my boots, each step creating a little pool that quickly filled in behind me.
The worms were everywhere, making the ground look like it was moving in places.
Once I reached the trees, the rainfall lessened slightly, the thick canopy overhead catching some of the water before it reached the forest floor. I didn't have a specific destination in mind, just that tugging feeling leading me forward. My feet knew where to go even if my head didn't.
I followed deer trails and creek beds, noticing how the usually placid stream that cut through our property had swollen to twice its normal size.
The water rushed by, brown and angry, carrying branches and leaves in its current.
I stayed well back from the edge, remembering Pa's warnings about creek banks giving way during floods.
The deeper I went into the woods, the stronger the tugging sensation became.
Something or someone needed help, and somehow, I was being pulled toward it.
My tracking instincts kicked in without me even trying.
Broken twigs, bent grass, the way water flowed around obstacles—all of these told a story if you knew how to read it.
I ducked under low-hanging pine branches and stepped carefully over fallen logs, making my way southeast toward the old country road that cut through the back of our property.
The bad twisty feeling in my gut intensified with each step, but now it was mixed with something else—a certainty that I was headed in the right direction.
The rain continued to pour, soaking through my jeans despite the protection of the yellow jacket. My boots were heavy with mud, but I kept going, following that invisible thread that pulled me forward.
The woods were alive with the sounds of the storm—raindrops pattering on leaves, branches creaking in the wind, water rushing through newly formed channels in the earth.
"Chickens know things," I whispered to myself, thinking of their worried clucking. "And so do I."
I heard the creaking metal before I saw it. Pushing through a tangle of wet bushes, I stumbled out onto the old country road that cut through the back of our property—and my heart nearly stopped.
Deputy Dan's patrol car lay upside down in the ditch, its wheels still spinning slowly like they were confused about being in the air instead of on the ground. Blue and red lights flashed weakly through the rain, reflecting off puddles and making everything look underwater.
"Oh no," I whispered, my voice so small the storm swallowed it whole.
My heart did a somersault inside my chest, thumping so hard I could feel it in my throat.
My hands started shaking so bad I had to sit on them for a moment, pressing them between my thighs and the muddy ground.
The twisty feeling in my stomach was screaming now—this was what it had been warning me about all along.
I forced myself to stand up and move toward the car. Water streamed down my face, getting in my eyes and making everything blurry. Or maybe those were tears. I couldn't tell the difference with all this rain.
The patrol car had crumpled on one side where it hit the ditch. The windshield was spider-webbed with cracks, and one of the doors had popped open partway. Inside, I could see Deputy Dan, still strapped in his seat belt, hanging upside down like a turtle stuck on its back.
My throat went tight.
"Deputy Dan?" I called out, my voice coming out all squeaky and high like it did when I was scared or nervous. I hated how childish it made me sound. Knox said not to worry about it, that everybody's voice did funny things sometimes, but it bothered me anyway. "Deputy Dan? You okay?"
I crouched beside the car, rain pelting my back as I peered inside. My hands were still shaking, but I didn't have time to sit on them again. I needed to see if he was alive.
Through the cracked glass, I could see Deputy Dan's eyes were closed. A thin line of blood trickled from his forehead up into his hairline—which looked weird since he was upside down. The airbag had deflated and hung like a sad white flag across the steering wheel.
"Deputy Dan?" I tried again, a little louder this time.
His eyelids fluttered, and my heart did another flip-flop. Then those eyes—those warm brown eyes that reminded me of Hershey's Kisses—opened halfway and tried to focus on me.
"Harlow?" His voice sounded scratchy and confused.
Relief washed through me like a warm wave, making me light-headed for a second. He was alive. He knew who I was.