Beckett glances at the sky. Then at me. "It was clear an hour ago."
"Texas doesn't negotiate." I slam the tailgate. "Get in the truck."
We make it three miles out of town before the rain hits. Not a gentle start. No polite warning drops on the windshield. Just suddenly and completely raining.
The way only Texas knows how, like the sky has been saving it up and has lost all patience. The road ahead disappears into gray and I slow down and grip the wheel and focus.
Beckett is quiet in the passenger seat, which I appreciate.
We get within a mile of the ranch entrance when the road dips through the low creek crossing and I stop the truck. The wateris already moving across the concrete pad faster than I like. It's passable now. In twenty minutes it might not be.
I make the call and go.
The truck pushes through with water sheeting up both sides. Beckett braces one hand on the dash without comment and we come out the other side onto higher ground and I exhale.
"That was fine," I say. Mostly to myself.
"Completely fine," Beckett agrees, in the tone of a man for whom it was not entirely fine.
The barn appears through the rain and I pull the truck beneath the open equipment overhang beside the main barn. I cut the engine hard.
The sound of rain hitting the metal roof overhead is immediate and enormous, the kind of sound that fills every available space and makes the world outside feel very far away.
Water sheets down just beyond the edge of the overhang in thick gray curtains.
We sit there for a second.
Then we both reach for the door handles at the same time.
"Wait," I say.
"What?"
I point toward the open stretch of ranch yard between us and the barn doors where water is already rushing across the gravel in a fast-moving sheet.
We are not getting out of this truck immediately.
Beckett leans back in his seat. Looks at the rain hammering the roof overhead. Looks at the water flooding across the yard. Then he looks at me with an expression that is almost amused.
"So," he says.
"Don't," I say.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were absolutely about to make a joke about being trapped in a truck with your ranch manager during a flash flood."
He's quiet for a second.
"I was going to say it's a good thing we got the supplies loaded before this hit."
I look at him.
He looks at me.
Outside, the rain intensifies and the roof above us roars with it. We are very much stuck and very much alone, and the space inside this truck suddenly feels a whole lot smaller than it did this morning.
"Right," I say. "Good thing."
