Shelter from the Storm

Ten years ago, Becca Collins caught a bus to Port Provident, Texas because it was as far south as she could get from Wisconsin without falling into the water. She never expected to take another bus to leave.

But today, she found herself standing in a line in front of Port Provident High School, waiting to board a school bus headed for San Antonio. Hurricane Hope was expected to make landfall overnight. This was the last evacuation bus scheduled to cross the Causeway which connected Provident Island with the Texas mainland.

The line had been moving consistently, but now there had been no progress in getting aboard the bus for a few minutes. The crowd, mostly made up of women and children, was beginning to get restless. Becca could hear it in the rustle of voices that were starting to rise above a whisper and in the stirring and stomping of feet as they adjusted the positions where they stood.

She could also feel it in the dense layer of humidity that had pushed ashore with the first bands of Hope's clouds and winds.

Damp circles were beginning to soak through the thin cotton of her T-shirt, and she felt a sticky clamminess working its way down her spine. She just wanted to get on the rattly yellow school bus and get moving. As the director of the Port Provident Animal Shelter, she'd seen the last dog in her care off the island this morning, headed to a shelter in a northern suburb of Houston. The final group of cats had departed around dinner time yesterday. The animals who had depended upon her would be safe.

The only thing left was to ensure her own safety before the storm arrived. If her compact Toyota hatchback wasn't on its last leg, she would have just taken matters into her own hands. But most days, she wasn't sure it would make it to the grocery store. A two-hundred-and-fifty-mile trip that was expected to take double the normal amount of time due to heavy traffic congestion? That was out of the question.

In fact, Becca realized, she might have had a breakdown before the little hatchback. The last few weeks had been so stressful. First the showdown at the board meeting with the president—and most unreasonable member—of the shelter's board of directors, Dr. Ross Reeder. Now Hurricane Hope.

She needed a break, and she needed it now.

She also needed to get on the bus. What was taking so long? Becca made a step to the right side of the line, trying to discern the cause of the hold-up.

"I'm sorry. The dog has to stay. We cannot take dogs on the bus or to the shelter." A blonde-haired lady holding a clipboard spoke with a stern voice that carried over the ever-strengthening gusts of wind.

"But she has to come. She's my grandma's dog. She requires a special diet. We can't leave her behind. She'll die." A teenager with a thick black braid down the back of her head spoke up, then gestured at a Labrador retriever near her feet.

"Then she'll have to stay behind with the dog. The Port Provident Animal Shelter is closed. Your only options are to get on board without the dog or to stay here with her. I'm sorry, but we can't make exceptions."

"But Grandma can't stay. She's not in good health. I take care of her." She gave another look down toward the dog's sturdy head. "And so does Polly. We're all a team."

The woman with the clipboard shifted slightly, blocking a little more of the door to the bus. "I'm sorry. Those are the rules. You need to decide. We have to be loaded and en route in ten minutes and there's a whole line behind you."

A dog. A grandmother. Becca looked heavenward. She took a deep breath as the memories of Bess popped into her head like fragile soap bubbles.

"I'll take the dog." Becca picked up her backpack and slung it over one shoulder, then walked toward the Labrador and her visibly shaking owner. "I'm Becca Collins, director of the Port Provident Animal Shelter. The shelter is closed. But I'll stay behind with your dog."

The girl turned her head slowly. The older woman's eyes released a stream of silent tears.

"You'll take Polly? But you don't even know us."

"I don't. But I know all about dogs and grandmothers. And hard choices."

Becca held out her hand for the leash. With deliberate, almost hesitant motions, the girl pressed the loop end of the leash into Becca's outstretched palm. Becca felt the worn weave of the purple fabric.

"Wait." The girl said, reaching into a reusable grocery store bag and pulling out a bag of specialized dog food. "There's a prescription label on the bag with directions for how to feed her. Oh, and we have to keep her well-hydrated."

"You said her name was Polly?" Becca said, giving the dog a scratch behind the flopped-over ears.

The grandmother spoke. The syllables cracked like popcorn. "Polly Wolly Doodle. I'll be back for her. Take care of her, please."

"All the day…all the day." Becca scratched the dog's ears again as her own throat tightened. Her own grandmother had loved Shirley Temple movies. As clearly as though it had happened yesterday, Becca remembered pushing a VHS tape in the recorder and snuggling on the couch with Bess, watching Shirley's little curls bounce as she sang Polly Wolly Doodle. "She'll be waiting for you when you come home. You'll find us both at the Port Provident Animal Shelter."

Before Becca knew it, everything was taken care of. Within two minutes of the last resident of Port Provident taking their seat, the bus was out of the parking lot, and the last group of evacuees was on their way off the island. The engine of the bus jumped to life with a diesel-fuel rattle…and then there was nothing but silence.

Becca stood in the parking lot, rooted. The last transport was gone, and she was not. She was still in the parking lot of Port Provident High School. With a dog. And a less than half a bag of expensive prescription-only dog food.

She lifted the bag and looked at the label stuck in the center.

Dr. Ross Reeder.

Of course, Polly's vet was Ross Reeder. Because if there was one person she wanted to stay clear of today—well, every day, really—it was Port Provident's haughty, argumentative vet. The president of the board of directors of the Port Provident Animal Shelter, Ross had blocked Becca's plan to relocate the shelter from the old, outdated facility on Harborview Drive to a building in town that she believed in her heart would give them room to grow.

He'd made every step of the last two months feel like a twenty-mile hike in the mountains. Without shoes. Or a trail.

Dealing with him was painful.

But she'd committed to keeping Polly the Labrador safe and healthy—and she knew the half-empty bag of dog food was not going to last a dog of Polly's size very long. She also knew this specific, specialized brand was only sold in one place on the island.

Dr. Ross Reeder's office.

Ugh. The syllable pushed into every fiber of her body like some kind of green viscous slime. In fact, that feeling summed up her impression of Ross. Everywhere she turned with regard to the new shelter location, every idea she had…there he was, guaranteed to put a suffocating blanket of negativity over it all.

Polly thumped her tail on the ground twice, oblivious to Becca's internal dilemma. The simple canine gesture did remind her though that she'd promised to take care of this furry patient, and one of the basics of care was food.

Besides, most of Port Provident's citizens had already heeded the recommendations to evacuate. Ross Reeder was probably one of them. He was too uptight and by-the-book to go through a hurricane. He'd probably left before Mayor Blankenship's press conference yesterday that implored residents to leave Provident Island.

Becca didn't know Ross well—and she didn't want to know him well—but clearly, he didn't have an adaptable gene in his body. Becca assumed that staying on the island through a storm like this would take a lot of go-with-the-flow.

So, she'd knock on the door of Dr. Reeder's office, and when he wasn't there, she'd drive back over to the animal shelter and get some of the prescription food they had stocked in the back room. It was a slightly different formula, made by a different company—and a good rule of thumb was not to quickly change a dog's diet, especially a specialized one—but it was also highly recommended for canine kidney patients, and it should work for a few days until everything returned to normal.

She gave one more scratch behind Polly Wolly Doodle's furry ears. "Come on, girl, let's figure out our new game plan."

Polly let out a sound that was more bellow than woof. She hadn't really even expressed wariness at being left with a stranger. She seemed like a kind, trusting dog. You could see it in her tired, old eyes. Becca interpreted the dog's strong vocalization to mean that Polly was ready for what was to come. The idea made her chuckle. Polly the Labrador probably had more go-with-the-flow in her four chunky paws than Ross Reeder had in his whole body.

*

Dr. Ross Reeder pulled the zipper around the perimeter of the suitcase where he'd put the last of the supplies he and his traveling companion would need in the days ahead. It was time to go. He didn't know when the Causeway would be closing, but judging by the strength of the wind, it would not be a viable evacuation route much longer. The Texas Department of Transportation had been very clear in a televised press conference a few hours ago that once winds reached a certain speed, it would be too hazardous for cars to drive across the tall bridge which spanned the more than seven hundred feet that separated Provident Island from the rest of the continental United States.

Ross locked the door on the room where he kept all his veterinary pharmaceuticals and supplies.

"Come on, Cookie. Let's get in the truck." Ross snapped his fingers and headed for the stairs with the attentive cream-colored Labrador retriever who was never far from his heels.

As he walked through the main floor of the house to ensure that everything in the clinic area was as secure as he could make it, Ross noticed he'd left the television on in the front room. Typically, this space served as a waiting room for his patients and their owners, but today—like much of the rest of the island—it was empty. He put his suitcase down and walked over to catch one last glance at Rick O'Connell's report on National Weather News, the country's leading twenty-four-hour weather network.

When Rick O'Connell showed up, that was shorthand for a storm that meant business.

Ross had seen enough excitement for a lifetime. After serving as an Army veterinarian in Iraq—where he'd saved a burned and bloodied Cookie after the furry hero’s handler was killed by an IED—Ross was done with drama.

He'd moved to Port Provident a few years ago and wanted nothing other than to practice a more mundane form of veterinary medicine than what the Army offered, punctuated by watching sunrises and sunsets over the Gulf of Mexico from the widow's walk porch that crossed the roof on the back of the hundred-year-old house from which he operated his veterinary clinic.

Cookie was already waiting at the back door which led to the garage at the rear of the lot on which the distinguished Victorian house sat. Ross could hear the muffled thumps of Cookie's thick tail as it popped rhythmically on the hardwood floor.

Then Ross heard another thump from the front of the house—a pounding on the front door.

Who would be coming to a vet clinic in the middle of a hurricane evacuation?

Ross opened the door and couldn't believe what stood on the porch in front of him. One of his favorite patients…and one of his least favorite people.

But…Becca Collins did not own Polly McCaw.

"What are you doing here?" Ross knew his greeting sounded more like an outburst, but he was confused and running out of time. There wasn't really an opportunity for pleasantries. Not that anything was ever pleasant when stubborn, head-in-the-clouds Becca Collins was involved.

"Well hello to you too. I figured you'd be gone by now."

As usual, she made virtually no sense. "So why are you here? And what are you doing with Polly? Where's Eloise McCaw?"

A wind gust freed several strands of hair from the front of Becca's dark ponytail and blew them across her face. She tucked them behind her ear, where they promptly blew askew again. "She's on a bus to San Antonio with her granddaughter. They wouldn't let her take the dog."

"So, someone from the city called the shelter?" Ross kept watching the flutter of the wayward locks of hair.

"I volunteered. I was behind them in line. Polly's owner wouldn't go unless she knew Polly was safe. But she's in bad health and couldn't stay behind with Polly. The shelter is closed. The last dog left the island earlier today, headed up to a shelter in Montgomery County. I was following behind."

"On the public evacuation bus?"

She pursed her lips and nodded briefly. "Yes. We don't all make a doctor's salary. Some of us have to take advantage of other available resources sometimes."

Ross could hear the bitterness in her words. It was like listening to a lemon.

"What do you need from me?" Now he knew how Becca and Polly came to be together. He still wasn't sure, though, why they were on his clinic's porch.

She reached into a bag at her feet and pulled out a folded-up white bag. "Dog food. They didn't leave me with enough kibble, and I'd rather not change Polly's food if I can avoid it since she's on a special diet."

"Dog food? That's it?" This was far less complicated than most of the plans Becca dreamed up. "I've got some in the back. You two can come inside if you'd like."

Becca shrugged, then leaned over and picked up the bag at her feet. "Okay."

Ross held the door open as the pair walked in, then went back to re-open the storage room he'd just locked. When he came back, carrying two bags of Polly's prescription food, he saw Becca standing in front of the television in the waiting room. Her shoulders slumped under the straps of the backpack. Her whole demeanor changed from what it had seemed to be only moments before.

Ross placed the bags at Becca's feet, and Polly gave each a hearty sniff.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

Becca waved a hand at the TV screen. "They just closed the Causeway. We're stuck."

"No, they aren't closing the Causeway until four. TxDoT had a press conference a couple of hours ago. They won't close it until the wind hits a certain speed."

She shook her head and pointed at Rick O'Connell. "It wasn't the wind. It was the storm surge. Provident Bay is rising faster than they expected. The waves and current are proving to be too much for the Causeway. They are saying there may be structural damage below the surface of the water now. It's definitely closed. We're trapped."

Trapped. He thought back to Iraq and one particular ride in a convoy where he felt the eyes of insurgents on the back of his neck at every turn. He'd never felt more trapped in his life—a sitting duck, just waiting for whatever was going to happen. The memory poked at the deepest corners of his stomach, filling his whole body with a sense of unease.

Instantly, his thoughts turned to Cookie. Cookie had seen more and lived through more in Iraq than Ross had—and suffered the effects of it. Staying through a hurricane wasn't an option for Cookie. It would be more stress than Cookie could handle.

"There has to be an option."

"There isn't. Listen to the report. There's the head of the Texas Department of Transportation being interviewed. And that's the mayor standing next to him." She turned and looked Ross straight in the eye. "Do you have to disagree with everything I say?"

"You're picking the wrong fight on the wrong day."

"I'm not picking a fight. I'm reading the crawl at the bottom of the screen—also known as the very clear writing on the wall. It is what it is, whether you like the fact that I'm the one who told you or not." Becca leaned over and shoved one of the food bags in with the half-empty bag she'd been given by the McCaws. She slung the blue carrying bag over her shoulder and picked up the second bag Ross had handed her and tucked it in the crook of her arm. Becca gave the purple leash a tug. "Come on, Polly, let's go. We've got to figure out a plan."

Even loaded down with dog food and Labrador, she still looked like the same stubborn Becca that she was at every single board meeting for the Port Provident Animal Shelter. She carefully reached one hand out as far as she could without toppling her carefully balanced load and turned the doorknob. The heavy, solid wood door blew back in her face.

Polly jerked off to the side, and Becca lost her footing, tumbling to the floor amid a pile of bags.

"Are you okay?" Ross didn't like her, but he certainly didn't want her hurt. Especially not with a hurricane coming.

"I'm fine." The syllables were short and static. She adjusted the mess around her, propped herself up carefully, then stood.

Ross watched her struggle with rearranging her load and grabbed a bag of dog food and returned it back to its place.

"What's your plan?" he asked.

"My plan?" She cast a glance over her shoulder as she stood in the doorway.

"Yeah, where are you going?" Watching her fall to the floor made Ross realize he needed to set aside his usual opinion of Becca for a few moments. As much as he wished the breaking report on TV wasn't true, the simple fact was that they were both in the same boat now. Stuck on Provident Island. Stuck in the crosshairs of Hurricane Hope.

They weren't stuck together—thankfully, because he knew he couldn't handle that—but he did need to make sure she was going to be okay for at least the hours to come. That was the right thing to do.

It was the honorable thing to do.

He'd been out of the Army for a while, but honor and duty still remained the backbone of who he was. That was true in the dust-box of Iraq, and it was no different here in Port Provident.

The leash pulled tight as Polly kept trotting along while Becca didn't.

"I don't really know," she said, shoulders rounding again. "Plan A was to take the city-organized evacuation bus. So was Plan B. And Plan C. I don't think I can go home."

Her voice had softened, and it made Ross take note. This wasn't the combative Becca he so often encountered.

"Where's home?"

She turned to face him. "A studio apartment at the back of the shelter."

The Port Provident Animal Shelter backed up to one of the marshiest spots on Provident Island. Stuck between Harborview Drive and the harbor itself, there was virtually no doubt that the building would take on water, and probably a lot of it.

"You're right. That's probably not an option."

"I guess they'll open up the high school as a shelter. I'd heard some city officials talking about that as I waited in line. Councilwoman Angela Ruiz was there with her daughter, and she said there would be someplace safe for families to go."

Ross looked past Becca and Polly, to the almost totally deserted curb and street. "Where's your car?"

The rain had picked up significantly just in the few minutes they'd been inside. The curbs in this area of town had been laid during an era where the residents of Port Provident traveled in horses and buggies and carriages and needed a higher edge to step onto.

Ross could clearly see the water puddling over the top of the tall curb—which meant anything on the street was about to flood and be useless.

"I had a spot at the highest point in the parking lot over at the high school, so I left the car there. You weren't too far away, and the rain wasn't too bad, so Polly and I walked. But look at the storm now." She bit her lower lip and twisted it slightly between her teeth. "There goes Plan D. And probably my car. This is getting a little too real, too fast."

"Tell me about it." Ross watched the motion of the gray clouds overhead and the sustained shaking of the branches in the trees. "How about I drive you over there? I've got a truck with four-wheel drive. That should be able to get us through this. The high school isn't too far away."

A small light caught in her eyes. They were a rich velvet brown. Ross had never noticed that before.

"You'd do that for me?"

"For Polly," Ross said, then grinned broadly. "She's one of my favorite patients."

*

In the time that Becca had been gone to Ross' office, another line had formed at Port Provident High School, this time leading up the front steps to the entrance of the school.

The rain slapped against the windshield of Ross' truck, and the wipers beat out a fast tempo, but couldn't wipe away the water fast enough. In the last hour, things had really taken a turn for the worst—a harbinger of things to come. There wasn't just wind and rain in the air, there was a thick shroud of tension. Becca could feel it in every cell of her body.

She hadn't been this nervous about anything in a long time. Certainly not since she left Milwaukee.

Cookie and Polly huddled together on the bench-style seat behind Becca. Canine intuition. The dogs knew something was coming, too.

"You can wait here for a second until the line goes down if you want," Ross offered. "It looks like the line is starting to move faster, but there's no reason to stand outside in this mess."

"I think we'll be okay." Becca reached down toward the floorboard, where she'd placed her backpack and all the dog food. "Thanks again for bringing us over here. Good luck to you, Dr. Reeder."

Becca stuck out her hand, feeling somewhat ridiculous—but not knowing exactly what to do here. She and Dr. Ross Reeder were never on the same side of anything. It felt a little awkward to know they were basically in the same boat right now—figuratively speaking—right down to a companion Labrador retriever for each of them.

Ross took her offered hand. Becca never thought she'd have expectations of a handshake with Ross Reeder, but it definitely took her by surprise that she noticed how smooth his hands were.

"You sure you'll be okay here?" He looked at the door to the high school, then back to Becca.

"Here? Of course. You wouldn't believe what I've seen in my life. A hurricane doesn't scare me." She put one two fingers behind the door latch and tugged, popping the door open. "Well, not that much."

Polly hesitated after Becca got out then opened the back door. She wiggled her big brown nose and sniffed at the rain-soaked air, giving Becca a look of chocolatey wariness.

"Come on, Polly. I'm getting soaked." Becca gave the leash a tug, and Polly pushed up from her seated position and placed one paw slowly in front of the other, then hopped.

Becca closed both doors quickly and gave a quick half-wave back at Ross and Cookie as she headed straight for the open glass door, Polly in tow.

"Stop, ma'am. The dog can't come in here." A police officer stood at the top of the steps and held up his hand.

"Can't come in? This is the shelter of last resort. Where else am I supposed to go?" A feeling like claustrophobia began to crowd in on Becca. She couldn't breathe properly.

"You can go right on in. The dog can't." The police officer didn't even crack a sympathetic smile.

"But she's old, and she has health problems. I can't leave her alone in a hurricane. She could die."

The man shifted slightly, positioning himself more directly between Becca and the door. "I'm very sorry about your dog, ma'am, but those are the rules. For a number of health and safety reasons, animals of any kind are not allowed in the shelter."

Rain started to blow almost sideways, throwing a wall of water directly under the overhang where Becca and Polly were attempting to stay as dry and calm as they possibly could.

It wasn't working.

Nothing was working.

Suddenly, Polly sneezed, coating the back of Becca's leg with a fine sheen of dog-mist. Becca barely noticed.

Becca's heart squeezed. She couldn't let Polly's family down.

She couldn't let Polly down.

Since the minute the worn purple leash had been placed in Becca's hand, Polly had been a trooper. She'd remained calm and had looked up at Becca with deep brownie-colored eyes filled with warm trust. She'd instantly sensed that Becca would help her, would take care of her.

Becca took the trust of dogs seriously.

A loyal basset hound named Rupert had taught her that valuable life lesson almost two decades ago.

She knelt down in front of the creamy-colored dog and put a hand on either side of Polly's face, then leaned down so her forehead touched the wide, flat top of Polly's head. Becca's grandmother, Bess, prayed about everything. But Becca hadn't seen much use in it. Her childhood had shown her that prayers went unanswered.

But maybe just this once…

Her tears mingled with the drops of rain soaking Polly's fur. "Please God, I don't even know what letter we're on anymore, but we need a plan. A real one. One that works for both of us."

A horn honked in the distance. Beep. Beep. Beep-beep-beeeeeep.

Becca broke her prayer off and hoped that God wouldn't hold the impatience of some jerk in the parking lot against her. She'd tried to pray a real prayer. It clearly just wasn't meant to be. She hadn't even gotten to say "amen" or any of that stuff you had to do for the prayer to count.

She heard another beep and looked up, turning her head toward the sound.

The headlights on Ross Reeder's truck were flashing on and off, then on and off again. As she stared, the truck drove toward the door. Ross rolled down the window.

"What's going on? You need a Plan E? Or is this Plan F? I can't keep track anymore."

Becca looked at Polly, then up at Ross, then back at Polly again. The dog stared soulfully, then pointed her muzzle toward the door of the car and stood.

Becca stood too, wiping her forearm across her cheeks, trying to get rid of the tears that had snuck out.

"I think this might be G," she said.

Ross nodded. "You may be right. At any rate, grab that dog food and let's G-O." He pointed at the clouds in the sky, lined up in gray rows for as far as the eye could see. "I don't think we've got much time to lose."

Ross drove slowly through the street. Water splashed everywhere—down from the sky, up from the tires, and some from places and directions that he couldn't even begin to identify. He didn't dare take his eyes from the road, but he felt acutely aware of Becca's presence in the passenger seat next to him, even if he couldn't safely turn to see her.

As he focused on getting back home in one piece, his mind wandered slightly. He knew he had to keep his concentration as the streets of Port Provident became increasingly treacherous, but he struggled to wrap his thoughts around the changes which had happened in the last hour.

Sixty minutes ago, he had a suitcase in hand and was ready to get in the truck and drive off the island before the Causeway closed. Then a knock at the door came, and all his careful plans changed.

While he didn't like the idea of being trapped on the island, he'd been in Iraq. He'd seen much worse. And that deployment had lasted for months. Hurricane Hope would be over in probably less than thirty-six hours. He could do anything for thirty-six hours.

He allowed himself the briefest of glances to his right. Well, almost anything.

Ross wasn't sure what was going to happen to him, being in the presence of Becca Collins for thirty-six hours. She usually drove him up the wall in less than thirty-six minutes.

"Do you live near the clinic?" She asked softly, breaking up his thoughts.

"A few feet away. There's a garage apartment in the back of the lot, right next to the alley. I live up there."

"So, we're headed back there?"

Her voice was low, and Ross struggled to hear her words against the competing sounds of rain on the roof, windshield wipers on high, and the spray of water under his tires.

"Yeah. About two more blocks."

She didn't say anything in return.

Visibility was almost non-existent, but Ross could make out a yellow-and-red truck parked in front of the clinic. He slowed even more, the truck barely crawling, so he could better tell what was going on.

There was a small boat in the bed of the truck. Ross looked toward the porch and saw an officer knocking on the door. A few alarm bells went off in his head—this wasn't something he could ignore. He parked his truck behind the red-and-yellow one and noticed that the tailgate read "Port Provident Beach Patrol."

No easy way to do what had to be done—he was going to get wet. Very wet.

Ross took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out into water that lapped over the top of his knees.

"Can I help you?" he shouted.

"I'm looking for Dr. Reeder—do you know if he's evacuated? I was told he might still be here." The man on the porch had on long swim trunks, high boots and a long-sleeved blue shirt with the Port Provident Beach Patrol logo on it. The shirt stuck to him so closely and was so wet that it reminded Ross of a seal's skin.

"I'm Dr. Reeder. Hold on—let me come up to the porch."

Ross turned around and saw water lapping on the driver's side floorboard where he'd opened the door. More surprising than that was the look on Becca's face. Fear had flooded into her wide eyes just like the water pooling in the truck.

"I'm going to go see what he needs. Are you okay to sit here for just a second? Then I'll get you upstairs to the garage apartment. It'll be dry up there, I promise. It's twelve feet off the ground."

Her gaze locked on the water streaming in the car, but she nodded affirmatively. Ross thought he heard an "mmm-hmm" through her tightly pursed lips, but he wasn't one hundred percent sure.

"Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can for you and Cookie and Polly. Just hold on."

She nodded again, and Ross fought against the door, trying to close it. With a little more effort, it latched. Ross walked away from the frightened woman and dogs, trying to shake the uneasy feeling that had taken up residence in his heart.

The man on the porch stuck out his hand for the quickest of greetings. "I'm Rigo Vasquez, Chief of the Port Provident Beach Patrol. My team and I have been out doing water rescues, and I don't have to tell you that things are getting bad—you can see it for yourself. I just moved several people from the Sand Ridge apartments to the shelter at the high school, but there are two cats that had to be left behind. They're not allowed at the shelter."

Ross nodded. "I know. I've got an extra Labrador in my truck because of it."

"Councilwoman Angela Ruiz said she saw Becca Collins from the animal shelter in line for the last evacuation bus an hour or so ago. So, I know the shelter's not an option. Chris Lansdowne on my team said you might still be here and could possibly help us with these animals. My first responsibility is obviously to the people of Port Provident, but I just can't leave these cats to die if there's something I can do about it."

"Die? You really think it's going to be that bad, Chief?" In spite of the soaking rain all around, Ross couldn't keep his mind from snapping back—lightning fast—to the scorching sands of Iraq. His time of dancing with death was supposed to be over.

Ross guessed he'd assumed wrong.

"The storm surge is rising faster and higher than anyone thought. It's going to be a long and dangerous night." Rigo spoke flatly. There wasn't any embellishment needed.

"So how can I help?" He was stuck on this island and in his garage apartment because he wasn't leaving Cookie or Polly—or Becca—behind. The only option was to do what he could for the rest of those in the same situation.

"Can you take these cats? With the shelter closed, we don't have any other options."

"We'll take the cats. Becca Collins is with me." Ross pointed back at his truck.

It felt strange to say that, but it looked like they were a team now. They may have had their differences, but there was no doubt that Ross and Becca both cared a great deal for the animals in this community.

Maybe that would be enough to get them through the next several hours without being at each other's throats.

"Can you come with me to get them?" Rigo asked. The apartments aren't far. We can take my truck, that way we'll have the boat if we can't get all the way there."

"Give me a minute to get Becca and Cookie, and Polly settled in the garage apartment and then we can go. Meet me in the back alley. My garage is painted light blue, like the house."

He and Chief Vasquez worked out a few minor details and then they each waded back to their respective trucks.

Back at the truck, Ross pulled forcefully on the door and then awkwardly climbed back inside. He needed even more force to shut the door behind him.

"What's going on?" Becca's voice still sounded unsure but was at least no longer so quiet that he could barely hear her.

"That's Chief Rigo Vasquez with the Beach Patrol. They had to evacuate the Sand Ridge apartments, and there are some pets left behind that he needs us to take in."

Ross carefully put the truck back in drive and pulled away from the curb, around Rigo's truck. He soon took two short right turns and drove back along the alley to his garage.

"Where are they?"

"Still at the apartments. I'm going to get you and the dogs settled and then go with him to get them."

He clicked the button on the opener to the garage and watched the garage door slide upward. As it did so, he noticed the items stored on low shelves in his garage were already floating in the water, freed from the organization that had existed just hours before. Ross pulled straight in and silently prayed that he wouldn't hit anything that would cause more trouble than they were already in for. At least inside the garage, there wasn't water pouring down.

Ross got out of the truck and then signaled for Cookie to hop on the front seat. He reached out and scooped up a hundred pounds of cream-colored Lab, then sloshed toward the stairs to the garage apartment. Cookie scampered up the stairs and bolted through the dog entrance in the front door.

One down, two to go.

When he got back to the garage, Ross saw Becca trying to open the passenger side door.

"Becca, stay put." Ross raised his voice to be heard over the noise of the storm. "Let me get Polly upstairs with Cookie, and then I'll come get you."

Becca took her hands off the door, then patted the driver's side seat, trying to coax Polly to take the same exit as Cookie had. The dog could have been Cookie's twin. She hesitated at first, then Ross whistled, and Polly's ears perked up. She placed two paws in the seat, then took a hesitant step and came to sit on the driver's seat.

Ross reached in and slid his arm under Polly’s hips and shoulders. She was slightly lighter than Cookie, but she was a wet mess and slipped a little as she wiggled in his arms. Polly walked a little more slowly up the stairs, then hesitated at the dog door.

"It's ok, girl. Go on through. Cookie's in there." At Ross' gentle insistence, Polly sniffed the door and pushed her muzzle on the weighted plastic flap. Quickly, she forced herself the rest of the way through.

Ross turned and headed back to the truck. One more passenger to see to safety.

He waded over to Becca's door. She waved him off.

"I'm coming with you."

Never in a million years had he planned on weathering a hurricane with Becca Collins. But now that she was here, in his truck, feet from his apartment…well, Ross felt a deep responsibility to keep her safe.

"Becca, you need to stay here. You can see it for yourself. It's not safe out there."

"If it's not safe for me, then it's not safe for you, either."

"I'll be fine. I'll be with Chief Vasquez."

She raised her eyebrows. "See? I'll be fine too. Since I'll also be with Chief Vasquez."

Ross pushed his fingers through his hair. This is how every conversation with Becca went. Things started out fine, then she got unreasonable. So much for that short-lived protective streak he felt for her.

Everything was back to normal. Except for the weather.

"I don't have time to argue with you, Becca. Chief Vasquez is waiting, and this storm is not."

She pushed the passenger door open and poised herself to get out. "So, it's settled, then?"

*

They could see the apartments, but they couldn't reach them by truck. The water was just too deep through here.

"If I go ahead," Chief Vasquez said, "I'm going to stall out my truck and never get it started again. So, we'll need to take the boat."

"I'll help," Ross quickly volunteered, and both of the men got out of the Beach Patrol truck.

Becca climbed over the console and hopped in the front seat, ready to join them. Ross hadn't said much to her on the way over, although he'd asked several questions of Chief Vasquez. That was fine. She didn't need the grumpy vet’s approval anyway.

She'd stopped trying to figure out Ross Reeder a long time ago.

As she scooted out of the truck, the water felt like the contents of a bathtub that had sat too long. It was vaguely temperate, but trending toward cool. The color was deeply brown, like yesterday's coffee grounds, and Becca surrendered all hope for the white tennis shoes she was wearing. She knew that much like Port Provident, her shoes would never be the same again.

She held to the side of the truck bed as she carefully walked back toward the two men.

"Becca, if you can climb up on the rear bumper here, we'll hold the boat steady while you get in."

Rigo closed the tailgate with one hand as he spoke, then maneuvered the small jon boat parallel with the bumper of the truck. Becca gripped one hand around the edge of the bed of the truck and boosted herself up.

She flopped into the boat rather ungracefully but reminded herself that she didn't need Ross Reeder's approval—and that extended to her gracefulness in a boat. She'd already slipped and fallen once today anyway. He probably thought she was a grade-A klutz. And she was okay with that. He didn't need to know the personal details of her life.

Because she didn't care what he thought of her.

"Becca? Are you okay?" Ross boosted himself into the boat next.

"Fine. These shoes are a little slippery, that's all." She'd blame it on the shoes. That was perfectly believable.

Rigo got in, pushed the boat back from the truck, and started the engine. The rain fought them at every foot they tried to advance, but they eventually made it back to the apartment complex. Rigo angled up next to a rusted metal staircase and tied a sturdy knot to moor the small boat.

"I left them up here in 408."

He got out first, followed by Ross. When it was Becca's turn to get out, Rigo held the side of the boat, trying to keep it steady.

Ross held out his hand. "Let me help you, Becca."

She tried to wave off his offer. "I'm okay."

"No one pays attention when I stretch out my hand," he muttered.

"What? You make no sense."

"It's from the Bible. Proverbs 1:24. There really isn't time for a Sunday school lesson. Can you just give me your hand, Becca?"

What kind of person quoted the Bible in the middle of a hurricane? Bess would have, Becca reminded herself. But Bess was special. She wasn't anything like Ross Reeder. "I told you, I'm okay."

"These stairs are just as slippery as the bumper." Without waiting for her to say anything in reply, he leaned back into the boat, put his hands around Becca's waist, and pulled her out.

She'd noticed his hands earlier, but as they circled her waist, she did a lot more than notice them. Her shirt was soaked through with the deluge of Hope, but the warmth of his palms soaked through the wet cloth and warmed her skin.

Ross pivoted and swung her behind him, placing her carefully two steps up where the stairs were not under water.

"Um, thank you," Becca said, still acutely aware of the elevated temperature where his palms had pressed above her hip bones.

"You're welcome."

"Okay, team. Let's go." Rigo scooted around both Becca and Ross and led the way to apartment 408. The door was marked with a blue X, drawn on with spray paint.

Becca stared at the graffiti. "Have people already started looting? What is that?"

Rigo gave a hard shove to the door and forced it open. "It means this home has been checked. We're trying to go door-to-door and make sure everyone is getting to the shelter, if possible."

Becca saw a carpeted climbing tower, but there was no sign of any cats. "I guess they're hiding."

"Probably. They were pretty shaken up when I left. The door's been shut, though, so I know they're still in here," Rigo said.

"Becca, you take the living room and dining area. I'll take the bedroom and closet. Rigo, can you check the other areas?" Ross took charge of the situation.

"Sure. I'll look in the bathroom and the hall closet first." Rigo walked down the hallway, and Ross followed him.

Becca stood in the middle of the room for a moment, listening for a sound, a clue. In a short moment, she heard a faint mewling. Lowering herself to all fours, Becca scooted toward the couch and lifted the red-and-blue plaid ruffle around the bottom, then looked underneath. It was dark under there, but she could easily make out two green eyes.

She reached out her hands, but the kitten was just out of arm's reach and wouldn't budge on its own.

"Found one, but I can't get to it. Can one of you help me move the couch?"

Ross answered. "Coming. I found the other one behind the shoes in the back of the closet."

He turned the corner and came back into the living room, one orange-and-white kitten tucked securely between his elbow and his shirt. The furball wiggled a bit, and Ross stroked the kitten's head gently and reassuringly.

Laying the cat in the corner of an upholstered chair, Ross picked up the end of the couch closest to Becca. She wiggled closer to the kitten, then touched the soft fur. With a gentle tug, she scooped the cat into her hands and pulled it from the hiding place.

"Got ‘em both," Rigo said. "Let's go."

Ross scooped his kitten out of the chair and stopped for a second in front of Becca and her kitten. A gust of wind howled like a banshee outside and rattled the window. The kitten tried to burrow more deeply into Ross' arms. Ross reached out and rubbed his pointer finger from side-to-side between the kitten's ears.

Becca's mind flashed back to how securely Ross had held her a few minutes before as he pulled her out of the boat.

She wasn't jealous of a kitten—that would be crazy.

But as the winds continued their thrashing, she reluctantly admitted that a little reassurance was a good thing right now.

Even if that reassurance came from a man, she'd long ago deemed "least likely to daydream about."

*

"Rigo! Stop!" The voice in the back seat was edgy with panic.

"That's easier said than done, Becca. Why?" Rigo stayed calm. Ross wasn't surprised. The man headed up Beach Patrol—the law enforcement division responsible for all the lifeguarding, water rescues and more in Port Provident. He'd probably seen it all.

"There's another cat on the porch rail of that red house ahead to the left. We can't just leave it out in this storm!"

The two kittens in Becca's lap meowed softly in agreement.

"Ross, you want me to try and stop?" Rigo glanced at the passenger seat, then immediately turned his stare back to the flooded road.

"Ross—we can't just drive by. We have to stop. We have to. That cat will die." Becca pushed more stress, more emotion into every sentence.

The rain continued to come down in sheets. They were four houses from the clinic, and Ross strongly wanted to get back to Cookie. The furry veteran of war had a hard time with spring showers. This would be his companion’s biggest test since Iraq, and Ross did not want to leave Cookie alone any longer than necessary.

"Please, Ross."

Becca's voice had sounded so strong only seconds before, but now Ross heard a quiver in the plea.

Ross took a deep breath. Cookie would be okay for another few minutes.

"Let us out wherever you can, Rigo, and we'll go get the cat. We'll get back to the house ourselves." Ross unbuckled his seatbelt. "Hand me the kittens, Becca. I think I can put them inside my shirt. We're probably going to need all hands free to make this work."

Rigo slowed down and pulled as close to the high curb as possible. It was a difficult task. As he maneuvered the truck, Becca handed the two rescued kittens to Ross, one at a time.

Ross felt the brush of kitten fur as Becca handed them off. He was used to cats—he petted cat fur countless times a day. But the whisper-light touch of Becca's palm as it crossed his felt entirely unexpected—soft and chilled from the rain and storm.

She passed off the second kitten, but this time, there was no connection between their hands. As he tucked the second cat inside his T-shirt, Ross couldn't place why he felt like something was missing—but he did.

"Ready, Becca?" Ross placed his hand on the handle to open the door.

Becca did the same in the back seat. "Ready. Let's go get a cat."

"Rigo, thanks, man. We'll take good care of these kittens. Stay safe out there."

"Thanks, Ross—I will. Y'all don't need to stay out. Get the cat, then get to your place and get as high as you can. The water is going to keep rising, and it's going to be getting really dark soon. It's going to be a long, dangerous night. I mean it—no matter what else you see, get only this cat and then go to your house and stay inside. Call me if there's something else that needs to be taken care of—but at some point, even I'm not going to be able to be out doing rescues—and that means for neither man nor beast."

Ross felt it as soon as he stepped out of the truck. The water swirled around his legs—a certified river, where once there had been an ordinary street. The top of the water was coated with the rainbow sheen of spilled gasoline and clumps of floating ants and trash. He didn't want to think about what drifted lower under the surface.

He steadied one hand underneath the kittens in the bowl of his tucked-in shirt and extended the other to Becca as she tentatively found her footing outside of the truck. As soon as the doors shut, Rigo pulled away. Becca held on to Ross' hand, pulling him in the other direction—back toward the cat.

Ross jerked her back, and she slipped off the curb and splashed backward. "Watch out, Becca!"

"What?" she sputtered. "What was that for?"

He let go of Becca's hand and gestured at the S-shaped swirl a few yards past.

"Moccasin."

Becca let out a scream and flailed back toward Ross, bumping into the side of his chest. She was soaked through, but he could feel the soft curves beneath the sticky T-shirt.

"Come on, let's go," Ross said. He needed to focus on something other than curves—both the S-curve of the snake's motion and the other ones he'd become acutely aware of.

One set of curves definitely scared him far more than the other.

Becca shook her head.

"I can't." Her teeth gave a ch-ch-chatter, and her voice was so low he could barely hear the objection.

"Becca, it's pouring. We're in the middle of a mess. We have to go."

She still hesitated.

"I have wet cats in my shirt, Becca." He held out his free hand, hoping she would take it, but she didn't. "Please come on."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide as they locked on his. "Do you think there are more?"

The answer was an unequivocal yes. But the truth wasn't going to help this situation. Instead of lying to her, he placed his hand between her shoulder blades and applied a gentle pressure.

"We've got to get this cat and get inside. Becca, look at me."

Her eyes were dark like chocolate cake, but in the downpour of Hurricane Hope and the gray of the skies above, they looked almost black. Now they looked utterly stripped of the bravado she'd displayed when she'd begged Rigo to stop the truck for one more rescue. Even though snakes weren't high on his list either, Ross knew Becca spent all day around all types of animals. He didn't expect this kind of reaction from her.

She kept her gaze focused upon his face, but Ross could tell she was looking through him. "When I was little, my mother's boyfriend had a snake. He would lock me in the closet and put the snake's cage right outside the door so that I didn't try and escape." The narrowest ribbon of liquid lined her lower eyelid. Her voice dropped even lower. "I hate snakes."

Ross couldn't believe what she'd just revealed. He couldn't believe the far-away fear he heard in her voice. And he couldn't believe that anything Becca Collins could tell him would scare him more than standing in the middle of a street with water up to his knees as a hurricane blew in.

But her quiet revelation blew him away.

He adjusted the position of the kittens in his shirt, pushed them higher, so they rested more closely to his chest than his abdomen. They wriggled around at the adjustment, and he felt the downward swipe of tiny claws scratching through the uppermost layer of skin.

Ross leaned slightly, still holding the kittens at bay with his forearm, and reached his hand awkwardly behind the very top of Becca's thighs—the only part of her legs still exposed above the line of the water. He adjusted the hand that had been between her shoulder blades, taking it all the way around the front of her shoulders, squeezing the round curve at the juncture of her arm with his elbow. And then he tugged upward, picking her up and pulling her tight against his waist.

He readjusted his left arm to support under her knees, positioning her leg to pin in the cats in his shirt. Ross then waded to the porch, carrying her above whatever might have been in the water below.

Ross focused on each step, acutely aware that if he lost his footing, they both would fall. Alarm bells rang in his ears that this situation was precarious at best—in every way possible.

They sidled up to the black ball of fur sitting atop the gingerbread railing.

"Lean forward and grab the cat, then put him in your lap. I'll carry you back to the house."

As they sloshed back down the steps and back toward the house, Ross realized that he would have carried her anywhere to not hear her whispered voice filled with long-held fear ever again.

That thought scared him almost as much as the thought of whatever lurked under the water. Ross had never thought of Becca Collins as anything other than an impulsive woman with big ideas and no common sense about how to practically execute them. He'd certainly never thought of her as a scared child, locked in a closet, crouched with fear.

And he'd never thought of her as a woman with melting brown eyes that he wanted to protect from snakes and storms.

Until now.

Eventually, they reached the edge of the stairs to Ross' garage apartment. Ross gently lowered Becca to the first dry step, then peeled the kittens out of his shirt and lowered them into her waiting arms. He laughed.

"What's so funny?" Becca frowned as the water from the clouds above pelted them all with more stinging rain, each drop sharp as one of the tiny kittens' claws.

"You." Ross was still lost in his thoughts, wondering how his opinion of Becca had softened in just a matter of an hour or so. He still thought she didn't have much common sense and was full of crazy ideas—but now he saw another side to her, and he couldn't get it out of his head.

"Me?" The frown tucked in a little tighter around the corkscrewed corner of her mouth.

"You've got a bouquet of wet kittens."

She looked down at the rolling, wet mess of fur in her arms. The frown on her face melted like butter in a Texas summer, and he saw her thoughts shift far away again. Ross braced himself for another unimaginable childhood revelation.

"No one's ever brought me a bouquet before—not flowers or anything." She smiled, and this time, the look in her eyes was fully engaged in the here-and-now. "So, I guess this is where I say, ‘Thank you, they're beautiful'—except it's just too wet for small talk."

Her smile broadened, and the roundness in her cheeks transformed her whole face, then she turned and walked up the stairs to the door. Ross stayed at the foot of the stairs, unmoving, watching Becca's ponytail streaming behind her, limp and drenched with the liquid calling card of Hurricane Hope.

She may have been joking about the beauty of the impromptu kitten bouquet—but the little furballs weren't the only thing Ross would call beautiful in the midst of this storm.

He couldn't push the thought from his mind. And as Becca tucked each cat through the little dog door that Cookie usually used, he wondered if he was about to be way in over his head—in a way that would have nothing to do with Hurricane Hope's storm surge.