14. Against the Gale #2
“The latch is giving out!” I shouted over the wind, shielding my eyes.
The roar of the storm outside was deafening. Water began pooling on the concrete floor, creeping close to the stacked flats of delicate seedlings we had just secured.
“The wind is catching the bottom track!” I yelled, stepping toward the buckled metal. “If it blows open, the rain is going to flood the entire prep area!”
Hayes abandoned the fertilizer cart. His boots slapped against the wet concrete as he sprinted across the room. He didn’t search for a tool. He threw his shoulder and his full body weight against the buckled panel.
The door groaned, fighting him. Hayes grunted, his wet boots sliding an inch on the slick floor before he found purchase. His forearms strained as he fought the storm battering the other side of the metal panel.
If that door failed, we would lose everything in the shed. Watching Hayes use his own body to hold back the violent storm cut through my panic. He was protecting the farm.
“I’ve got the panel pushed flat against the frame!” Hayes shouted over the roaring wind, his face strained in concentration. “Drop the iron bolt into the floor slot before the next gust hits!”
I stepped in close beside him, avoiding the spray of rain still leaking through the seam. I grabbed the iron drop-bolt mounted to the door. The metal was freezing, and the pressure of the wind vibrating through the panel made the iron stick.
My wet fingers slipped on the handle. I wiped them on my overalls, gripped the iron with both hands, and threw my weight downward.
“The iron is locked in the concrete!” I shouted, stepping away from the baseboard. “Get your hands clear before the wind shifts and pinches your fingers!”
Hayes released the door, stepping back as the wind hammered the exterior again. The panel held firm.
The iron slammed into the concrete slot with a ringing clang, sealing the shed against the storm.
I released the bolt, letting my hands fall to my sides. The metal panel rattled in its frame, bucking against the storm outside. Icy water pooled at the base of the track, soaking into the concrete floor. The relentless drum of the rain battered the tin roof above us, echoing in the damp air.
“Step back from the track,” I said, raising my voice over the noise. “The wind is still pulling at the metal.”
Hayes backed away from the buckled seam, putting distance between himself and the rattling door.
He wiped a mixture of mud and sleet from his forehead, leaving a streak across his pale brow.
His cotton shirt clung to his shivering shoulders, soaked through.
A jagged cut across his forearm welled with fresh blood, mixing with the water dripping down his wrist to splash onto the concrete.
“It’s holding,” Hayes said, wiping his uninjured hand on his ruined jeans. “You got the bolt down in time.”
He did not ask for a towel. He did not ask for a bandage or complain about the stinging cut.
Back in Los Angeles, a minor scratch on set required a hovering medic and a mandatory production delay.
Here in the shed, the bleeding went ignored.
Hayes just stood in the draft, taking the beating without a word.
Hayes shoved a hand into his wet pocket. He pulled the black rental fob from his pocket. Without looking at me, he turned away from the main prep tables and headed straight for the small side exit near the walk-in cooler.
“I’ll get out of your way now,” he muttered, staring hard at the floor.
I watched the keys dangling from his blistered hand.
The coastal storm outside was escalating into a lethal, blinding gale.
In his past life, he demanded access to every room he entered, assuming the world was built for his convenience.
Now, he was choosing to walk out into dangerous weather just to avoid overstepping my boundaries.
I crossed the wet workspace before he could reach the handle, the sudden movement pulling sharply at my lower back. I planted my boots in front of the doorframe. I pressed my palm flat against the cold metal, putting myself between him and the exit.
“The shed is secure, so I’m going to head back to the motel for the night,” Hayes said, stopping just in front of me. “I’ll be back at sunrise to help clean up the debris.”
He intended to leave. The man was shivering, bleeding, and ready to isolate himself in a miserable roadside room rather than ask for shelter. The stupidity of his plan overrode my lingering anger. I stared at the blood still dripping from his arm.
“You can’t drive a rental sedan back to town in this downpour,” I said, maintaining my grip on the door. “The coastal highway completely washes out during these storms, and you will end up in a ditch.”
Hayes looked down at the sludge slathered across his boots. The tremor in his shoulders worsened as another gust of wind battered the exterior walls. He tightened his grip on the plastic fob, stubbornly refusing to look up.
“I’ll drive slow and keep my hazard lights on,” Hayes insisted, his voice strained over the screech of the wind. “I don’t want to intrude on you and Ruby.”
The Hollywood arrogance was gone. He was willing to risk the flooded coastal highway in a gale just so he wouldn’t intrude on me.
I hated what he did to our marriage, and I hated the media circus he brought into my life.
But I refused to let the father of my child drown on a flooded highway just because he finally learned how to follow directions.
I kept my palm pressed flat against the metal, refusing to move.
I dropped my hand and grabbed the handle. I shoved the side exit open, bracing my shoulders against the gale roaring through the gap. The freezing rain slashed across the threshold, instantly soaking my boots.
“Put the keys away,” I ordered, stepping out into the storm. “You are following me to the house.”
Hayes did not argue. He pocketed the fob and followed me out into the blinding downpour.
We trudged across the flooded gravel yard, battling the wind that threatened to knock me off balance.
Freezing water sloshed inside my boots, chilling my toes as we climbed the wooden steps to the main farmhouse porch.
I pushed the front door open, ushering him into the mudroom. The space smelled of damp wood, coastal rain, and wet coats hanging on the wall hooks. Ruby stood near the benches, peeling off her soaked rain gear. Water dripped from her gray hair, pooling on the floor.
She paused, looking past my shoulder to study Hayes. She took in how badly he was shaking, his ruined cotton shirt, and the blood still seeping from the cut on his arm.
“Clementine is safe, and the generators are on,” Ruby announced, tossing her wet jacket onto the bench. “The glasshouses holding up, Gallagher?”
“Sutton locked them down tight,” Hayes replied, his teeth chattering as he leaned against the doorjamb. “The sheeting held.”
Ruby nodded, her gruff expression softening at the mention of the secured inventory. She pointed a calloused finger at his chest.
“Good,” Ruby said. “You earned your keep today. Don’t bleed on my rugs.”
That settled it. I led Hayes out of the mudroom and into the dim living room. The stove sat in the corner, a roaring fire already crackling behind the glass door. The intense heat radiating from the iron stove began to drive the chill from my bones.
I walked over to the armchair and picked up a folded blanket. I squeezed the rough fibers between my fingers, steadying my nerves before turning back to face him. He stood awkwardly by the edge of the rug in his damp socks, refusing to step further into the room and ruin the floorboards.
I tossed the blanket onto the couch cushions near the fire.
“Take the couch by the fire tonight, Hayes,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But this doesn’t mean everything is forgiven.”
“I understand perfectly, Sutton,” Hayes said, his tense shoulders sagging in relief. “I won’t overstep.”
He grabbed the wet hem of his shirt, struggling to peel it off as his raw, blistered palms scraped against the fabric.
Providing him with a blanket wasn’t a surrender; it was basic human decency.
But watching him strip off his wet clothes in the warm glow of the stove, knowing what he had risked to protect my world today, made it impossible to stay entirely cold.
For tonight, I felt safe knowing he was sleeping just down the hall.
I turned my back on the stove and walked down the hallway to my bedroom, leaving him behind.