Riding the Storm

“We’ll tell the mothers to cross their legs until the storm blows over, okay?” Even Mitch smiled at Dana’s ludicrous suggestion.

As they stopped at a crossroads near the center of town, Nate turned the conversation back to practical information about the hurricane. He was feeling more responsible by the minute for his team’s response. “When you say heavy rains, how much are we talking about?”

The light turned green and Mitch drove on toward the half brick, half vinyl-sided building with lettering that read Turning Point Fire Department. “Six to ten inches, on average, from the outer bands or leading edge of the storm. Sometimes thunderstorms or even tornadoes spin off inland along the storm’s track as well.”

Mitch pulled into the parking lot in front of the building. He pointed out the garage doors marking the three bays where Turning Point’s emergency vehicles were stored. “We’ve got one ambulance and two engines, all fully-equipped. But most of our volunteers use their own vehicles when responding to a call. I’ll make sure you’re partnered up with someone who knows the area. Or I’ll let you use the Suburban and give you directions if it’s here in town.”

Parking by the front door, Mitch killed the engine. The first ominous drop of water plopped onto the windshield with a portentous splash. All five of them stared at the tiny puddle for an endless moment.

The storm was on its way.

Nate wondered if he should trust the dull throb in his rebuilt leg the way Mitch seemed to trust his instincts. If that was the case, he had a feeling this was going to be one very long, very wet day.

The second raindrop hit. Then the third. Soon there were too many to count. Like an alarm bell, the sudden change in weather spurred the five travelers into action.

Nate adjusted the bill of his cap low on his forehead and opened the door. The cleansing scent of ozone filled his nostrils as he inhaled a deep, recharging breath and mentally prepared himself for the anything and everything Mitch had warned them about.

He circled to the back of the Suburban and met Mitch, who’d opened the doors to start unloading supplies. A splash of rain hit the bill of Nate’s cap and dampened his cheek. The light shower seemed deceptively gentle. “Looks like things are pretty dry around here. I imagine a heavy rain could lead to some flooding?”

Mitch nodded, balancing three crates against his stocky chest. “The Agua Dulce River flows south of town, straight into the Gulf, so we might get some back-flow from the storm surge. Plus, we’ve got a web of lakes, creek beds and man-made irrigation ditches crisscrossing the farmland and ranches west of here. I’m expecting a few road washouts, especially in the countryside.”

“Is there high ground we should direct people to?”

“These are the flat, Texas coastal plains. High ground around here is the back of a horse or a rooftop.”

Nate was beginning to understand Mitch’s skepticism about Corpus Christi sending its evacuees to Turning Point. He grabbed three more crates and followed the chief inside, past the front office and dispatch room. Things weren’t improving. Both rooms stood dark and empty. Where was Mitch’s crew? This had to be the craziest disaster preparedness setup he’d ever seen.

Mitch flipped on a light switch as they entered a large room, which appeared to be a general meeting area. Cabinets, shelves and a small kitchenette lined one wall, and tables and chairs were scattered about the room. Following Mitch’s direction, Nate set the crates down on one of the countertops and followed the chief back outside, passing Dana, Cheryl and Amy in the hall along the way. Each carried equipment and supplies.

“I can read the doubt in your eyes.” Mitch might be a blustery worrywart, but Nate had already realized he possessed a lot more depth than his good-ol’ boy facade let on. “You’re thinking we’re some backwash little town with more heart than common sense.”

“I didn’t say—”

“I’ll have you know we’ve got an ample supply of both.”

Mitch shoved a couple of paramedic kits into Nate’s hands. “We aren’t as slick an operation as Dan runs back in California. We don’t have the resources or the personnel that you’re used to. And, yeah, I’m worried. This is my town and these are my people who are at risk.”

He picked up the last kit himself and closed the vehicle doors. When Mitch stopped to look him in the eye, Nate realized the barrel-chested man stood as tall as his own six feet. “But make no mistake. We’re tough here in Turning Point. Resourceful. My staff might not have your formal training or wear a uniform or keep a regular schedule. But when the chips are down, you can rely on ’em.”

The pride and certainty in Mitch’s tone and posture brooked no argument. Whatever doubts this man had about the storm—about the next several hours of this dull, drizzly day—he had none regarding the people of his community.

Nate wasn’t sure if the chief’s remarks had been a dressing-down or a pep talk, but he got the idea.

Maybe he should have a little faith, too.

“All right.” He nodded his head in lieu of a salute. “I promise I’ll keep an open mind about the way you run things here in Texas.”

“Just do your job, Kellison.” Mitch’s gruff expression eased into a grin as he headed for the station door. “Just do your job.”

“Not a problem.”

The splash of tires over wet pavement ended the discussion. Nate turned at the sound of two quick honks of a horn and saw a dark green, extended cab pickup truck zip into the parking lot. The driver of the pickup spun into a space opposite Mitch’s Suburban and jolted to a stop.

Nate admired the brawny truck while bemoaning the merciless treatment of its shocks. “Looks like your first volunteer.”

“Oh, no.” Mitch didn’t sound nearly as relieved as a man in dire need of help should be when the cavalry started to arrive. “No, no. Not today, baby.”

Baby?

Mitch shoved the paramedic kit into Nate’s already full arms and hurried over to the truck, where a sunny-haired woman in a pair of baggy overalls and scuffed-up Lacer boots climbed out. Instead of politely excusing himself and joining the rest of his team inside, Nate stayed on the front sidewalk and adjusted his load, half-hidden by the translucent mist as he watched the scene unfold.

He was scoping out the volunteers he’d be working with, he rationalized. Staying close to offer Mitch whatever backup he might need, since this woman’s arrival had obviously upset him. Nate narrowed his gaze to take note of every detail that weather and distance allowed him to assess.

The woman wore her butterscotch cream hair pulled back in a straight, practical ponytail. The long strands hung past the collar of her man-size, bright green polo shirt. She might be a tad on the skinny side, though her bulky clothes and above-average height could be playing tricks on his perception. She had a definite spring to her step.

And quite possibly the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

As she circled to the rear of the truck to greet Mitch, her face came into sharper focus. Nate’s fine-tuned senses responded with something more than curiosity. Her eyes were as cool and blue as a pristine mountain lake. She was pretty enough, he supposed, in an un-adorned, girl-next-door kind of way. But those eyes made her unforgettable.

How could her arrival be a bad thing?

“Hey, Dad.” She braced one hand on Mitch’s shoulder and rose up on tiptoe to exchange a kiss. So this was the daughter from the Double J Ranch that Mitch had been worried about.

“Honey, we talked about this.” Mitch made a move to hug her or halt her, but she’d already stridden beyond his reach en route to the passenger-side door.

“I know. But I also know how short-staffed you are right now.”

“I recruited help.”

“Right. The California contingency. Sun-babes and surfer dudes.”

Surfer dudes? Nate frowned. Was that a joke or an insult? He hadn’t been on a surfboard since he’d blown out his knee, and phrases like totally rad and gnarly had never been part of his vocabulary.

“You know Dan would only send his best.”

Her ponytail bounced as she nodded. “I know Uncle Dan’s dependable, but you yourself said we were going to be shorthanded. So I’m here to volunteer for whatever job you need. Oh, and I passed Micky Flynn and Doyle Brown on the way in. They should be here soon.”

“I’m glad some of my firefighters are finally showing up, but—”

“Here. Do you mind?” She leaned in and pulled out a large flat box from the passenger seat. Once she handed the package off to her father, she propped her hands against her hips, rolled her shoulders back and stretched, tipping her face to the rain and breathing deeply, as if she found the cool drops a soothing comfort. “Mmm. I love this moisture. My garden’s going to love it, too. Everything’s so dry.”

“Now, honey, you know damn well that…”

The rest of Mitch’s warning got lost in the pounding alarm stopping up Nate’s ears. Her arched posture had pulled her loose clothes taut.

She was pregnant. Maybe four or five months’ worth, judging by the subtle yet distinctive swell of her belly. Mitch was going to be a grandpa. No wonder he wanted her to stay home.

The blue-eyed angel with the nonstop mouth was pregnant.

The attraction humming through Nate’s body braked into regretful silence. He didn’t need to be lusting after somebody else’s woman.

Wait a minute. She was pregnant?

A familiar sense of urgency buzzed his senses back on full alert.

She was Mitch’s idea of a volunteer?

Every doubt that had been temporarily laid to rest resurfaced.

No wonder he’d called Dan Egan for help.

“I figured Aunt Jean’s Café wouldn’t be open this morning.” Mitch’s daughter pulled a second box from the truck, then closed the door with a subtle wiggle of her hip. She was smiling. Beaming like a ray of sunshine, despite the rain, the clouds and her father’s scowl.

“So I got up early and baked some cinnamon rolls for the briefing this morning. If I know you, you didn’t eat any breakfast.” She winked. Nate zeroed in on the movement, fascinated by her animated expression and the spell she seemed to be casting over her father. “And I know you. C’mon. Let’s eat one while they’re still warm. I made them without nuts the way you like them. I’ll brew some fresh coffee to go with them, too.”

She hiked the box higher in her arms and marched across the parking lot, heading straight toward Nate and the front door. Mitch’s big shoulders expanded with a sigh before he fell into step behind her.

“Promise me, all you’ll do is make coffee and then go home?” Mitch asked.

But Nate had a feeling the concession had fallen on deaf ears. Mitch’s daughter glanced up at the sky, arcing the slender column of her throat. “Maybe I’d better get the urn out and fill it up. I imagine we’ll have people in and out all day who’ll be looking for something to warm them up if this rain hangs on.”

Nate barely got the door open for her before she came charging through. She tipped her chin and gave him a smile, which, even at a fraction of the wattage she’d shown Mitch, was still dazzling. “Thanks. I’m Jolene Kannon-Angel. You must be the California boy Dad told me about last night.”

California boy? Surfer dude? “Nate Kellison.”

He was too stunned by her exuberance, which somehow managed to intrigue yet condescend at the same time, to do more than utter his name.

She didn’t give him time to say “pleased to meet you,” set her straight on the whole California misconception, or tell her how good those rolls smelled. She breezed on by, leaving a waft of cinnamon and a void of energy in her wake.

Mitch paused in the open doorway beside Nate, staring after her retreating backside with openmouthed exasperation. “That’s my daughter,” he announced unnecessarily. “She didn’t stay home.” He turned to Nate. “I didn’t really think she would. But I hoped. She does have some medical training. She’s been a volunteer firefighter for eight years now—since she was twenty. She’s as passionate about her hometown as I am. She’s good with people.”

The credentials petered out as Jolene disappeared into the main room. They could hear a chorus of cheerful greetings as she introduced herself to Dana, Cheryl and Amy.

“She’s pregnant.” Nate stated the obvious. “Her volunteerism is commendable, but she doesn’t need to be here.”

Mitch nodded. “Yep.”

“Isn’t her husband worried about her being on the road by herself?”

“She hasn’t got one.” That bit of news finally seemed to shake Mitch free from the lingering effects of Hurricane Jolene. “She’s been a widow four months now.”

A knot of compassion twisted itself in Nate’s gut. He knew more than he wanted to about losing someone he loved. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s probably a good part of why she worries about me so much. She lost her mother years ago. And now Joaquin.” Mitch led the way down the hall. “Probably why I can’t say no to her, either. I don’t want her to lose anything else. I don’t want her to hurt anymore.”

Nate supposed he could understand a father wanting to protect his daughter. Still…“You might not be doing her any favor by letting her work today. Does she have a friend’s house where she can stay to ride out the storm?”

“You don’t know my daughter.” Mitch muttered a frustrated curse that was more of a growl than an actual word. “I’m beginning to think you four might be the only thing standing between us and…oh hell, I’m not even going to say it.”

He didn’t have to.

No doctor. No EMT. Not enough supplies. No volunteers except for one pregnant, widowed woman with more energy than sense.

And one powerful, unpredictable storm that could turn a routine evacuation into disaster.

CHAPTER TWO

JOLENE SAT AT THE DESK in the dispatcher’s office, licking the sticky sweetness of her second cinnamon roll from her fingers and drinking her carton of milk.

She’d dashed in to answer the phone twenty minutes ago and wound up with a full-time job. Ruth, their regular dispatcher, hadn’t made it in yet, so Jolene had redirected the inquiry about Hurricane Damon’s projected path to the weather bureau. Then she stayed put to field three more phone calls from volunteers reporting in with their ETA’s, and one from a Corpus Christi resident asking for directions to the high school evac site.

Answering phones rated at about a negative two on the excitement scale—she’d much rather be doing than sitting. But as she’d told her father, she was here to do whatever needed to be done. The people of Turning Point were her family as much as Mitch was.

Needing to fill the temporary lull, she swiveled the chair around to watch the gathering meeting through the glass window that separated the dispatch office from the station’s commons area. A handful of locals had arrived for the briefing and had quickly dug into rolls and coffee, greeting their out-of-state guests.

The town’s resident hot-shot pilot and fellow volunteer firefighter, Micky Flynn, had swaggered in a few minutes ago and was already trying to make time with the three female medical personnel from California. Jolene was slowly revising her opinion of the sun-in-the-fun crowd she’d expected her Dutch uncle, Dan Egan, to send from the Golden State. Cheryl, Amy and Dana were definitely babes, she supposed. Each woman was pretty in her own way. But they seemed friendly and competent and unafraid of hard work.

The man who’d flown in with them, Nate Kellison, was definitely more standoffish. Taking a swallow of milk, she searched the perimeter of the commons area. As she peered over the rim of the carton, she spotted him on the far side of the room, discussing something with short and squatty Doyle Brown.

Or rather, Doyle was talking and Kellison was nodding his head.

He didn’t have a handsome face—the nose was a little too crooked, the jaw a little too square—but it was undeniably compelling.

A smile would help ease the tension bracketing his mouth. But she got the feeling Nate Kellison didn’t smile much. Not recently, at any rate. A sprinkling of lines beside his eyes indicated smiles and laughter had once come easily to him. But there was something almost Atlas-like in the gravity surrounding him. For a man who couldn’t be more than thirty, he seemed to carry a heavy weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

“What’s your secret, Kellison?” she mused out loud.

He’d taken off his ball cap, giving her a better view of his ultrashort crop of coffee-dark hair and a chance to gauge the color of those unsmiling eyes. They were a dark, golden-brown, reminiscent of the fine sippin’ whiskey her father liked to drink from time to time.

Those brown eyes blinked. When they opened again, they were focused on her. Dead on. Staring with an almost psychic intensity that said he’d known she’d been watching him. Startled at being caught, Jolene swallowed an entire mouthful of milk, forcing the liquid down her throat in one gulp.

There was something coiled and canny and downright unsettling in those whiskey-colored eyes.

But she couldn’t look away.

Why was California Boy staring at her?

Jolene defiantly tipped her chin and held his gaze, ignoring the inexplicable clutch of nervous energy tightening her chest. She knew she didn’t turn the heads of too many men—they were more likely to call her to set them up with a friend or bemoan their woman troubles than to ask her out herself. And she was okay with that. She had plenty of friends of both sexes to fill up her time. She had other people to give her heart to—her father, her baby, her hometown. They would always need her.

Joaquin had needed her. In some ways, he was the only man who ever had. And even with his big, generous heart, her husband had never given her more than his trademark bear hug or a platonic kiss.

Of course, he’d been so sick.

They hadn’t even made their baby in the traditional way.

Automatically Jolene slid her hand down to cup the gentle swell of her belly, protecting that most precious part of her from any hurts the world tried to throw at them. Kellison’s brown gaze dropped to follow the movement of her hand. Jolene flattened her spine into the back of the chair, instinctively putting distance between her baby and those probing eyes.

He blinked again and turned his attention back to something Doyle had said. Freed from the mesmerizing spell, Jolene expelled a sigh of unexpected relief.

What the heck had just happened? She didn’t think Kellison had been scoping her out as a pretty woman or potential conquest. He was judging her for some reason. Judging her and deciding she’d come up short, even though they’d done nothing more than exchange names.

And some seriously intense eye contact.

With a grunt of exasperation, she turned and tossed her empty milk carton into the trash. Nate Kellison’s I’m-here-to-work-not-make-friends attitude pricked at her sense of fair play, that was all. When she looked through the window again, he was following Doyle out the back hallway to the three bays where the Turning Point ambulance and engines were parked.

“The view’s better from this side, buddy,” she muttered as he turned his back to her. It was a silly, defensive retort, but one she realized was halfway true.

Without the intensity of those amber eyes to make her feel like a specimen beneath a microscope, she could relax and enjoy the scenery. From this vantage point, she could almost envision the laid-back surfer dude she’d expected to meet and share a few laughs with. Almost.

Laid-back didn’t fit Nate Kellison. Not in any way, shape or form. Like his sparsity of words, there was something tightly controlled about the way he moved. His dark blue shirt clung to the rolling flex of his shoulders and his tapering back. Even lower, his glutes bunched and released beneath the drape of his uniform slacks, creating a taut, lean silhouette.

But something was off.

Before he disappeared around the corner, she lowered her gaze past the squared-off hips, the powerful thighs, and spied a subtle unevenness to his gait. The glitch in his body’s disciplined perfection was nearly undetectable. But it was there.

Surprising.

Curious.

All that muscle and control, and the man walked with a limp.

Wounded.

“Oh, no.” That chink in his armor humanized him. Stoic and grumpy she could handle. She could even get used to those all-seeing eyes. She could ignore his perfect tush and forgive his California roots.

But if he was in pain, she was in trouble.

Stray puppy syndrome, her father called it. Orphaned pets. Abandoned fathers. Wounded men. She was a sucker for them every damn time.

Jolene clenched her fists as the familiar emotion sparked inside her. No, she warned herself. Don’t do it. But despite his less than friendly response to her, Nate Kellison’s secrets were already tugging at more than her curiosity. How had he hurt himself? When did it happen? Was he in pain right now?

Thankfully a loud eruption of male laughter diverted her attention and gave her an excuse to squelch that dangerous rise of compassion.

Jolene shifted her focus, grateful for the distraction.

Micky Flynn, the tall, flirtatious pilot, doffed her a salute and a handsome smile. Grinning, Jolene waved in return and watched him turn back to the new female volunteers. Unlike the ultra-intense Kellison, Micky was easy for most women to lust after. With his handsome face and daredevil personality, he was a natural-born lady-killer. But Micky and Jolene had never been more than friends. Maybe that was because she was the boss’s daughter, a co-worker. Or maybe she was just too tied to the land to have much in common with a man who loved the sky.

She was all about home. Stability. Community. Taking care of her ranch. Taking care of her friends. Taking care of her family.

No matter how small that family might be.

Jolene flattened her hand against the blossoming curve of her belly and tried to picture the precious little boy growing inside her. Joaquin Angel, Jr., was a tiny miracle of modern science and answered prayers.

The science hadn’t saved her husband, and the prayers had changed over the past few months. But she loved her little guy. He was hers alone now. And she cherished pending motherhood in a way her own mother never had.

One of those tender, butterfly flutters stirred beneath the press of her hand. At five months, he was still too small to deliver a real kick, but she could feel him shift inside her. An intuitive connection bonded them already. He’d know what it was like to grow up with only one parent, the way she had. He’d also know what it was like to have that one parent love him more than life itself.

The way she had.

Little Joaquin would never be abandoned. Not by choice. Not by fate. “I’ll always be here for you, sweetie,” she crooned, stroking her belly as if she could caress the baby himself. “Grandpa, too.”

Jolene looked up, intent on finding her father, to tell him she loved him with one of their coded winks.

Though he was engaged in a conversation with Dr. Sherwood, he winked right back and she smiled. His steady reassurance grounded her in a way that nothing else ever had. She was proud of him. Still handsome at fifty with those piercing blue eyes and easy smile, he had a friendly confidence about him that commanded respect, as evidenced by the way Dr. Sherwood nodded her head, then quickly crossed to the supply shelves to do his bidding.

Her father pointed to Jolene and then the outside door, marching his fingers through the air in imitation of someone walking. Subtle hint. Not.

Jolene shook her head and mouthed, “No way.”

He shrugged and moved to the podium at the end of the room, where he picked up the latest printout from the weather bureau. He was such a worrier. A frown creased his brow as he pored over the stats, and she wished there wasn’t a crowd or phone lines to monitor so she could run in and give him a hug.