Chapter 5 Lucas
LUCAS
The radar bled red and orange, a warning flare that a derecho was inbound, faster than forecasted.
Luc didn’t need the alert to know it. The air carried that charged stillness that came before hell broke loose, thick enough to taste.
Even the horses were restless, shifting in their stalls as if they could sense what was coming.
He cursed under his breath and set the phone down on the workbench. “Hey, keep moving those! They can’t be out here!” he shouted across the yard. “We’ve got maybe an hour before it hits. Y’all start clearing the lower pens and get the feed trucks under cover.”
The wind had teeth now. It lifted the brim of his hat and tossed grit into his eyes. He was halfway across the yard when the sound of tires crunching over gravel cut through the rising howl.
Beau’s black Silverado rolled through the gate and parked near the barn. It was good he’d arrived when he did. Luc needed all the help he could get. He started heading that way when the passenger door opened first.
Luc froze mid-stride.
She climbed out, her long, dark hair tucked under a hat low enough to shadow her eyes.
Her fitted tank top flashed a strip of midriff when she reached in the backseat, low-rise jeans hugging her hips, boots already catching dust. She slung a brown leather backpack over one shoulder, then looped the strap of a small black boho bag across her chest.
Luc blinked, pulling it together, and kept walking their way. His voice came out harsher than he meant. “What the hell is she doin’ here?”
Beau climbed out, shutting the driver’s side with a solid thunk.
“Relax, brother. I didn’t pick her up for fun.
Her rental’s shot and Mack can’t touch it—says y’all’s company’s gotta deal with it.
I couldn’t take her to the airport ‘cause you wanted me out here before the storm, so . . .” He gestured toward Dahlia. “She’s ridin’ it out with us.”
Dahlia closed her door and met Luc’s glare head-on. “Trust me, cowboy, this ain’t exactly my dream destination either.”
Luc’s stare moved between them, his jaw tightening. “So you brought her here, without askin’?”
“Wasn’t about to leave her sittin’ in town while the sky’s about to cave in. Would you’ve said yes?” Beau asked, one brow lifted.
“Hell no.”
Dahlia let out a mirthless chuckle. “Good thing your vote didn’t count. I’d hate to see how you treat guests when it’s sunny.”
Luc scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering a curse under his breath. Smart-mouthed, stranded, and still talking back. He told himself it wasn’t worth responding—that she was just another problem to manage before the storm hit.
Beau tipped his hat with a smirk, already moving toward the barn. “We’ve got horses to get to safer ground. You can chew me out later.”
Beau’s words barely landed before Luc turned on his heel, needing motion more than conversation. Motion was better than standing still, and safer than looking at her again.
He threw himself into work—pulling tarps, tightening ropes, driving stakes until his palms burned.
Anything to burn off the frustration that came with her being there.
But every time he glanced toward the main paddock, she was somewhere she shouldn’t have been: helping one of the men haul feed buckets, tying down the chicken-coop doors like she’d done this a thousand times.
At one point, he caught sight of his ranch hand Mara leading her toward the storm shelter to stash her things. Luc forced himself to look away. She wasn’t staying. The bags didn’t mean anything.
Beau jogged up beside him, a drizzle starting. “You still mad she’s here, or you mad she’s not runnin’ scared?”
Luc yanked another gate closed. “She’s a distraction.”
Beau smirked. “So’s lightning. Still gotta respect it.”
Thunder rolled low across the horizon, shaking the ground. The temperature dropped, sudden as a gasp.
“Wind shift,” Luc said, eyes scanning the treeline. “It’s here. Round everybody up and get inside!” he shouted over the rising roar.
They ran until voices were lost to the storm—moving cattle toward the east pasture, coaxing the smaller animals into shelter.
The wind hit bending the grass flat, rain slicing sideways.
Beau shouted something he couldn’t hear, and Luc only caught movement through the blur: Dahlia, drenched, boots sinking in the mud, guiding the goats into the pen with calm, yet stubborn determination.
“Son of a—” He started toward her. “Dahlia! Get inside!”
“Not till these babies are safe! Don’t worry. I got—” she shouted back, the sudden gust stealing half her words. “You can yell at me later!”
He wanted to haul her over his shoulder.
He wanted to kiss that sassy mouth, just to shut her up.
He did neither. The thought itself pissed him off.
This wasn’t the time, and she sure as hell wasn’t the woman to be thinking with the wind clawing and the sky coming apart overhead.
He clenched his jaw, forced the thought down, and kept moving toward her.
By the time she pushed the last nanny into the pen, thunder cracked so close it rattled his teeth. He grabbed her wrist. “Now!”
They ran.
Rain hammered them all the way to the storm cellar—the heavy steel door yawning open at the edge of the barn. The men piled down the narrow steps, boots clanging against metal. Luc pushed Dahlia ahead of him, slammed the door shut, and dropped the crossbar just as the first debris hit outside.
Luc took the steps down through the passage, turned, and collided with someone. Unexpectedly soft and solid, but definitely not one of his ranch hands.
“Lord,” Dahlia gasped, palms bracing his chest. “You walk the same way you drive, don’t you?”
A few muffled snickers broke out from his crew. Luc’s head snapped toward them, his glare cutting the sound quick. He looked down at her. “You got a death wish, or you just like testing me?”
She tilted her chin, droplets of rain clinging to her lashes. “Maybe both.” A smirk formed. “Didn’t mean to bruise your pride, cowboy. Just an observation.”
He opened his mouth to give her a piece of his mind, but the lights above flickered once, again, then died, plunging them into dark.
The next instant, she jolted forward and grabbed hold of him, arms wrapping tight around his torso.
He went still, every muscle tensed, the sound of her quickened breathing rising against his chest. Around them, boots shifted, someone cursed under their breath.
Then came the scent that cut through everything else. Despite being soaked, she smelled of cherry, almond, and something else. Vanilla, maybe. It wound through him, grounding and disarming all at once.
He cleared his throat. “Everybody stay put. The generators’ll kick back on.” He lowered his head, voice rougher. “Especially you.”
“Wasn’t plannin’ to go anywhere,” Dahlia murmured, letting out a sigh that sounded like relief. “And for the record, cowboy, you did good out there.”
“So did you.” He huffed a breath, that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Appreciate the help.”
“Well,” she said, that spark returning, “good to know your ranch doesn’t fall apart when I’m in it.”
Thundering boomed above and Dahlia’s fingers dug into his shirt.
She pressed against him, her body quivering in a way that had nothing to do with their rain-soaked clothes.
This feisty woman was afraid of the storm.
And just like that, something in him eased.
His jaw unclenched. His shoulders dropped.
The fortress he’d built around himself developed its first crack.
The storm growled against the bunker’s steel roof. A mechanical whine cut through the darkness, and the backup generators sputtered to life. Amber light bloomed overhead, casting long shadows across concrete walls.
Luc quickly stepped away, his palm rubbing against stubble to scrub off the ghost of her touch.
“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
Water still cascaded from his hat brim, pooling at his boots. His gaze swept the room—life returning to the storm cellar in a low electric hum.
Around him, the crew stirred to action. Jackets slapped against wall hooks, boot heels scraped grit, and someone drawled something about drowning in the apocalypse. Tension dissolved into the low rumble of men finding their bearings.
“Beau,” Luc called.
His foreman was already hunched by the generator panel across the room. “We’re set for forty-eight at least,” he said, eyes on the gauges. “Solar’s good. Air system’s clear.”
Luc gave a curt nod, taking inventory. The underground shelter stretched wide— reinforced concrete walls, a row of bunks along one side, shelves of rations and gear along the other. Beyond that, a steel door opened to the kitchen area, where long tables sat beneath industrial lights.
A movement caught his eye. Dahlia stood at the foot of the stairs, trembling, arms crossed tight. Her clothes molded to every curve, dark curls snaked against her neck. Her chin stayed high, but her fingers betrayed her, shaking against her arms.
Luc’s tone softened, though not by much. “Storage locker’s by the bunks. Dry clothes, blankets—plenty for everyone. Get changed before you start catching somethin’.”
Mara nodded and moved toward Dahlia. “C’mon, honey. It’s where we put your bags. We got some flannel shirts and sweats in the back. Ain’t fancy, but they’re dry.”
Dahlia hesitated, glancing at Luc, as if she was weighing whether to argue. Then, with a small nod, she followed Mara across the room.
Luc’s gaze followed her retreat, his jaw clenching against an unfamiliar tightness beneath his ribs. He squared his shoulders and pivoted toward his waiting men.
“Hang those tarps by the vents,” he barked. “Last thing we need is the stench of mildew if we’re bunked down here all night.”
Boots scuffed against the floor as the men got to work. Beau joined him a moment later, passing him a dry towel. “You look like a drowned bull, brother.”
Luc swiped at his face. “Still beats what’s outside.”
Beau chuckled, but his gaze bounced toward the bunkroom where Dahlia had gone. “That one’s got fire. I’ll give her that.”
Luc said nothing. His gaze kept returning to the steel door, drawn by the kitchen’s electric hum and the soft murmur of women’s voices beyond it. He couldn’t shake the image of her standing there—drenched, chin raised, shoulders quivering—from his mind.
Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was her.
Either way, for the first time in a long while, he could breathe without bracing for impact.