Crazy Little Thing Called Love (21 page)

He held his breath, waiting for Vanessa to protest . . . to tell him she wanted to enjoy her shower in peace.

“Well, don't let the cold air in.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Hollister.”

Her laughter from behind the plastic curtain eased the tightness in his chest. They'd figure out tonight . . . and tomorrow and the next day . . . together.

Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.

—ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON (1850–1894), SCOTTISH NOVELIST

J
ust moments ago Cressida had shaken the car like an invisible woman bent on preventing them from getting Christian to safety. Now the air stilled, wrapping them in an eerie calmness. Trees lining the highway had been caught in an hours-long wrestling match with an unseen, mighty foe. Some stood straight and tall, victors in the battle, while others bent, broken, stripped of branches and leaves.

“Is it over?” Tonya spoke in a whisper, as if afraid she might summon the hurricane again by speaking too loud.

“No.” Logan eased his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers. “We're in the eye of the storm.”

“What does that mean?”

Logan swallowed a quick gulp of coffee, setting the Styrofoam cup back in the holder in the dash. Hot and strong—perfect. “This your first hurricane?”

“My husband's military. Air force. We moved here in August from Washington, D.C.”

“The eye is the calm part of the storm. It could last five minutes or twenty-five minutes, depending on where we're located in the storm and how fast it's moving.”

“In other words, enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Exactly.” Logan tossed her a quick smile. “And I need to make good time while I have a chance.”

Darkness was falling, but they were the only ones on the road at this point. They had a dangerously ill boy in the backseat—and picking up speed would get them to the hospital sooner. Breathing a prayer, Logan accelerated.

Less than half a mile down the road, he slammed on the brakes, causing the car to fishtail on the wet road. Tonya screamed, grabbing the dash with both hands. Christian groaned. Only Vanessa stayed silent.

“No, no, no.” Logan fought for control, turning the steering wheel in the opposite direction of the skid and slowing the car down.

“What was that?” Vanessa's voice was low.

“
That.
” Logan motioned to the battered upper part of a tree that lay a couple of feet in front of the car.

Tonya patted his arm. “We missed it.
You
missed it.”

“Yep.” The one word masked the energy coursing through his body and how he couldn't release his grip on the steering wheel.

Calm down.
They were all safe.

“What now?”

“I need to get out and move that thing. Be right back.”

Every second gave Cressida more of a chance to gain on them. A stupid tree part wasn't going to delay them—he wasn't going to stay out here any longer than needed.

The slam of a car door sounded behind him, but he focused on grasping the trunk of the tree, branches scraping his skin, and pulling it, inch by inch, out of the way.

“Need some help?”

Vanessa appeared beside him, reaching down and grabbing another section of the tree.

Logan gritted his teeth. “Get back . . . in the car.”

“I will not.” She tugged the tree in the same direction he did, her shoulder bumping against his. “Couldn't we just go around the stupid thing by driving over the median?”

“And risk getting stuck?” Logan inhaled, the strong scent of rain-soaked air a refreshing relief after being locked in the car. “It's been raining for hours now. That ground is nothing more than a bog.”

“You're right.” She tried to mimic Logan's movements. “Wouldn't this work better . . . if we counted one, two, three?”

“It would work better . . . if you let me . . . do it.” Logan took another deep breath and prepared to haul the tree farther. “Go take care of Christian.”

“His mom is with him. And the most important thing . . . is to get him to the hospital as soon as possible.” Vanessa stopped. Rested a hand on his. “Let me help you.”

Logan closed his eyes. Swallowed against the longing building inside. He was trying to outrun a hurricane, and he still couldn't handle Vanessa's touch? “We don't have to haul it all the way out of the road—just far enough out of the way so the car can get by.”

“Got it.”

“On three.”

“Count it out.”

A few moments later, they had moved the tree enough to clear the road. As they approached the car, Logan pulled a red bandanna out of his back pocket and put his hand on Vanessa's shoulder, causing her to stop. He wiped a long streak of mud off her face.

“Sorry, you got a little dirty.”

“You should see your own face.” She brushed her fingers across his forehead.

What was he more afraid of? The hurricane or Vanessa's touch? “What? No.”

“Oh, yeah. You're a mess, Mr. Hollister.”

He tucked the bandanna back in his pocket.
Mr. Hollister
. Did she even remember how they used to call each other “Mr. Hollister” and “Mrs. Hollister”?

“I'll clean up once we get to the hospital.”

The interior of the car reeked. Tonya sat beside her son, holding the bucket, tears streaming down her face. “He threw up again—and he keeps saying he's hot.”

“You should have called for me, Tonya.”

“You had to help Logan—”

Wind whispered against Logan's neck. An unwelcome
I'm back
from Cressida. “Let's go, ladies. No time to argue about who should have done what.”

Logan adjusted his speed, slowing down as the eye passed over them and the hurricane returned. He seemed to be going both forward and backward—watching the scene moving past his window. He realized the military base was on his left and the entrance was only a mile or so away.

But the wind sped up again, throwing driving rain at them, as if taunting them, daring them to try to cross the finish line.

A gust of wind buffeted the car at the same time a flying tree branch hit the windshield. The car swerved as Logan jerked the steering wheel, but then he regained control.

Tonya covered her face with her hands and screamed—high, shrill—and didn't stop.

Out of the corner of his eye, Logan glimpsed Vanessa reaching across from the backseat and gripping the other woman's arm. “We're going to make it, Tonya. We're going to make it.”

Logan couldn't risk taking another look at the two women.

He lowered his voice. “Tonya, please, you're scaring your son.”

She covered her mouth with her hands, swallowing back her screams.

“It's okay.” Vanessa rested one of her hands on Tonya's shoulder. “Logan knows what he's doing. He'll get us there.”

“Vanessa—” Logan used the rearview mirror to make eye contact. “—you talked about praying—”

“I have been praying. I am praying.”

“I'll pray, too.” Tonya's shaky voice was muffled behind her hands.

Logan focused all his attention on navigating the car through the increasing velocity of the storm . . . past the gate at Eglin Air Force Base . . . not seeming to breathe until he pulled the car up underneath the awning protecting the ER entrance.

As people ran out of the hospital to help Christian, he leaned into the driver's seat, his sweat-soaked shirt pressing against his back. After a few seconds, he peeled his hands off the steering wheel. Tonya stumbled from the car, as Christian was assisted into a wheelchair, one of the nurses taking the IV bag of antibiotics from Vanessa as she exited the car. Logan knew she'd tell the hospital staff everything they needed to know. She paused for a moment, glancing back.

Logan nodded for her to go on, her smile the catalyst for a slow burn in his chest.

She's getting married. Remember that.

Logan closed his eyes, resting his forehead on the steering wheel.

A sharp one-two knock on the window jerked him upright.

“Sir, you need to park your car.”

The muffled command had his gaze connecting with that of the military policeman standing outside the car.

“No problem.”

“Just park it by the ambulances and get in here—the second eye wall of the hurricane has already passed over us.”

•  •  •

Adrenaline only lasted so long—and Vanessa was ready to admit her supply was tapped out.

The steamy shower in the hospital call room had rinsed the dirt and grit from her skin, but also left her wanting to do nothing else but crawl into one of the waiting hospital beds. The clean pair of black scrubs she'd been given could easily be a luxurious robe provided by a five-star hotel. She'd washed her hair but was too tired even to braid it, so the damp strands hung around her face and down past her shoulders.

Oh, well. She'd just played chase with a hurricane—she wasn't a beauty pageant contestant.

She wadded her wet clothes up into a ball, shoving them into a plastic bag, the kind surgical patients used to stow their belongings. She set her brown boots at the foot of the bed, knowing they'd still be wet when she put them on again.

The hospital commander had promised them food, but she needed to text Ted. And her parents. Her phone was loaded down with unanswered messages—including ones from Mindy and her brother.

They'd all be watching the news, getting information about the progress of the hurricane from various updates by reporters paid to stand outside and take on storm surges. She'd texted them hours ago and told them she was evacuating to a shelter—that she was safe. For now, they didn't need to know anything different—the real story in between the first “I'm safe” text and this “I'm still safe” text.

The brief messages were sent with a series of soft
ping
s. Now to slip on her soggy boots and find some food. But the thought of putting her warm, dry feet back into something wet and cold . . . she couldn't do it. No one would notice if she walked the hospital hallways in bare feet, right?

Logan found her twenty minutes later, as she sat in the ER waiting room listening to the storm go one last round outside.

“Hungry?” Removing the magazines on the table beside her, he set down a plastic cafeteria tray loaded with containers obviously filled with food before taking the chair across from her.

“Where did you get all of this?”

“Well, there's only a skeleton staff manning the hospital—but they're eating well.” Logan began removing the lids from several plastic containers. “Let's just say the field ration meals in a brown plastic bag—”

“MREs.”

“What?”

“They're called MREs—for Meal, Ready to Eat.”

“Okay, whatever. They're being ignored.”

“Homemade fruit salad . . . fried chicken . . . Oh, my gosh! Biscuits!” Vanessa ignored the paper plates and broke a biscuit in half, taking a bite that caused crumbs to dust the front of her scrub top.

“Almost makes it worth driving through the hurricane, doesn't it?”

“Indeed. I know people like to pour gravy on these, but I think it's sacrilegious. Biscuits, butter, and honey, and I'm happy—”

“Sorry. Just biscuits tonight.”

“No complaints.” She wiped her fingers on a paper napkin and reached for a piece of chicken.

“Be right back.” Logan jogged down the hallway to the ER, returning a few moments later with two plastic bottles of Coke. “Now the meal is perfect, right?”

“Almost. No lemon slices?” Vanessa knew her smile wavered as she accepted the soda from Logan. It was stupid—he'd handed her a carbonated drink. Nothing more.

“Sorry. Those I couldn't find.” He settled into the chair facing her. “You okay?”

“Me? Yes.” She twisted off the plastic bottle cap. “I talked to the ER doc before you came. Christian was taken to surgery. Sounds like his appendix ruptured.”

“So it's a good thing we brought him here.”

“A very good thing.” She set her soda aside, reached over, and risked resting her hand on his. “You saved his life, Logan.”

Logan turned his hand palm up so his fingers wrapped around her hand. “I couldn't have done it—couldn't have driven through that storm—without you, Vanessa.” Logan's mouth twisted. He seemed to fight against the words wanting to be spoken.

“Of course you could have—”

“No . . . you . . . your prayers kept me calm.” There was something dark, something unspoken, in his eyes. “You know I didn't want to do that drive.”

“Why? You're a storm chaser. I knew you could do it—”

His grip on her hand tightened, almost as if he were clinging to her because he was afraid that if he let go, he'd be lost. “Even storm chasers never forget the power of a storm. And you prayed for me.” His eyes reflected questions, as if trying to unravel a mystery. “Knowing that, I knew I could get back in that car and drive as far and as long as I needed to. Today I remembered that we make a good team.”