On either side, the creek surged just beneath the road. A fallen tree, its gnarled limbs stripped of leaves, shot under them in the current like a torpedo. Another slammed against the downstream side of the culvert, wedging at an angle, creating a partial dam.
Ellen’s throat was dry. She felt the subtle vibration of the flood beneath them as the car rolled over the slab. The sound of water filled her ears, louder even than the rain.
“Hold on,” she muttered, not just to Margery. She had to keep her wits about her.
Midway across, the wind gusted hard from the northeast, rocking her heavy truck. The water lapped at the very edge of the road now. A stick, a branch—no, part of a fence post, barbed wire sticking up—skimmed the road’s shoulder and vanished beneath the car as they passed.
Margery whimpered beside her.
“Almost there,” Ellen said. “We’re okay, Margery. We’re okay.”
A hard bump jolted them—the back tire dipped into a potholehidden beneath a puddle—and for a split second, Ellen felt the wheel tug sideways. She clenched her jaw, corrected the drift, and accelerated gently.
Then they were over. Just like that, safe on solid road again.
Ellen exhaled. Her shoulders slumped an inch, her pulse still racing.
“You okay?” She glanced at Margery, but her gaze rested on the generally quiet inlet behind them that now roared like a river.
“Is it worse farther down?” Margery asked, her voice trembling.
“Rock Creek usually floods first when we get this kind of rain,” Ellen said. “So we should be okay for now.”
“But this is a main road and it’s going to be underwater in minutes. How are we going to get to your house?”
“The other creeks cut through farmland; they have more space to spread out.” Which wasn’t going to do her crop any favors, but right now that was the least of her concerns. “But I’ll drive as fast as I dare.”
She turned off Rock Creek Road and headed west, leaving Rock Creek behind them. The road was riddled with water-filled divots and scattered branches. The rain was so dense now it felt like driving through a car wash, the wipers unable to keep up, forcing her to drive slow.
She just prayed Whisper Creek wasn’t as bad, or they wouldn’t make it home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the time Brock turned off the crappy, unpaved main road and onto the crappier, rougher, mud-and-gravel drive leading to the Coulters’ farmhouse, the storm had fully arrived. Sheets of rain lashed the windshield in relentless waves, the wipers doing little more than smearing the water from side to side. Thunder rolled low and deep, like distant artillery. A jagged fork of lightning tore the sky open just as the house came into view—a homey silhouette hunched against the horizon.
He pulled up close to the porch, tires crunching over wet gravel, and killed the engine. The rain drummed fiercely on the roof of his truck. Brock sat for a moment, watching the house. No lights. No movement. The place looked deserted.
But after what happened with Baldwin, he didn’t know if he trusted the word of Tom Garza anymore.
Still, it didn’t look like anyone was home. No truck in the carport. The chickens were locked tight in their hutch. He couldn’t hear them over the wind and rain, but he imagined they were as annoyed as he was.
He didn’t want to be here. But he wanted the money more than he worried about the consequences.
He stepped out into the storm, boots splashing in the rising puddles, the bottom of his jeans immediately soaked. The slicker he put on to run up the steps to the covered porch did little to protect him from the rain. He slid it off onto a sturdy wood chair by the door. All plants and lighter furniture were gone; the charming farmhouse now looked stark and abandoned.
The screen door screeched as he pulled it open, the wooden door behind it locked.
But he was hired because he was good with locks. Sam was good with security systems. He didn’t have Sam today, and it wouldn’t matter if he were here. The old Coulters didn’t have an alarm.
Fifteen seconds later he was inside. He didn’t worry about anyone seeing him, no neighbors were in line of sight. He shut the door firmly behind him, let his eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer light indoors.
It smelled like old wood and something faintly medicinal—liniment, maybe. Something his grandma used to put on her arthritic joints. He paused in the doorway, dripping, heart ticking a little faster than usual. Not fear. Just alertness. Awareness. The kind that comes from doing things you aren’t supposed to be doing, in places you’re not supposed to be.
He moved through the front room, boots creaking against the worn hardwood floor. A floral-print couch. Two modern reclining chairs in front of a television a quarter of the size of his. A TV too small to watch a football game, for sure. A china cabinet filled with fading family photos and a porcelain Jesus. An entire wall of portraits through the years, of weddings and births, of school milestones and family gatherings.
A folded flag centered on the mantel, framed by two photos: one of a handsome young man at his high school graduation with his mom and dad—the Coulters—on each side, and two young girls standing in front. The other of the same young man in uniform, the standard military portrait with the American flag in the background.Above the memorial was a framed cross-stitch that read:As for Me and My House, We Will Serve the Lord.
A lot of clutter, but clean and neat. A house in order, of quiet routine. A family that had come and gone and left two old people with just each other and a few farm animals.
