~ Storms of The Heart ~

by

Cheryl Norman

Stephanie peered in horror through the windshield.

Had the wind actually moved her car? Her foot quivered atop the brake pedal, still pressing firmly against it. Another gust slammed her subcompact into the wood siding on the narrow bridge. Pushing the gearshift into reverse, she stomped the accelerator. The car slid over the glassy mud, plowed into the embankment beside the canal, then jolted to a stop.

Stephanie hardly dared to breathe. Dazed, she forced herself to focus, to concentrate on anything but the hypnotic sweep of the windshield wipers. The next gust of wind sent the Geo Metro to the water’s edge.

The hammering in her chest drove the air from her lungs. She pulled at the steering wheel to no avail. It seemed to freewheel in her hands. The car groaned, then slid sideways into the canal. Cold, dark water began to fill the interior. Saturating the carpet and upholstery, the water drenched her canvas shoes then covered her ankles, creeping toward her knees.

The irony of her plight struck her as she fumbled with the seat belt. In spite of her escape from Perry Conner, he was going to win.

She was going to die.

“No! Not like this!” Stephanie Bryant, the child prodigy who had once been proclaimed a genius, should know what to do. “Think,” she ordered herself. The inside pressure of the car would be equalized once it filled with water. How long would that take? The black water inched closer to her waist. Freeing herself from the safety belt, she grasped the door handle.

Her heart jumped along with her body as something smashed against the driver’s door window. Suddenly, the glass shattered and two large muscular arms reached inside and grabbed her. Squirming past the steering wheel, she clutched the slippery sleeves of the rescuer’s rain slicker as he pulled her through the small opening. His large hands almost encircling her waist, he lifted her to the embankment.

Standing clear of the car, she glanced back. The driver’s door window, the one she had scrambled through seconds earlier, sucked in dark water, then sank from view. She gulped grateful breaths of briny air. Brushing tiny shards of glass from her saturated clothes, she turned to thank the guardian angel who had saved her. But the words died in her throat.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he yelled.

She flinched at the sharpness in his tone. The man’s slicker covered most of his body. A growth of reddish whiskers on his face appeared below the vinyl hood, highlighting his angry features.

Squinting, she tried to look in his eyes, hoping for a trace of kindness. The guy had saved her from drowning, but didn’t sound glad about it.

He pointed toward the road with the tire iron he had used to shatter her window. “Well? You’re trespassing. Why are you here?”

“I-I got lost.” Stephanie hated the timidness in her croaky voice. “I--have an emergency.”

“We all do, girl.” Taking her arm, he pulled her up the steep bank. “Don’t you know there’s a hurricane coming?”

“Of course.” She lifted her chin and straightened, hoping to maintain dignity in spite of her soggy pants and mud-soaked shoes.

The man crouched over her, peering into her face. “You hurt anywhere?”

“No. I’m not injured.” Not physically.

“Good.” He gripped her arm, pulling her toward the bridge.

Drenched and shaking, Stephanie raised her other arm against her forehead to shield her face from flying palm fronds. Forced to run to keep pace with him, she squinted to look ahead and recognized the dilapidated bridge they were crossing, the rickety one she had braked for earlier.

“Where are we going?” Her words were lost in the roaring wind.

At the other end of the bridge they stopped beside an old pickup truck. The man opened the door, quickly pushed a beagle--he called him “Spike”--into the middle of the seat, then yelled for her to get inside. He threw the crowbar into the truck bed, then jerked open his door.

A strong brackish odor enveloped her, reminding her of the perilous canal. A tackle box in the floorboard and fishing rod behind the seat led her to believe the man was one of the area’s commercial fishermen. He jumped into the driver’s seat, shoved the vinyl hood off his head, then slammed the door. After two attempts, the truck engine sputtered to life. With a loud grinding of gears, he crammed the gearshift into reverse, then turned the truck around.

“How...how much time do we have to reach shelter?” she asked as a massive tree limb dropped in their path, thrashed at the truck, then ricocheted into the darkness.

“We may already be too late.”

The wind rocked the truck, much as it had Stephanie’s car. Yet she found herself relaxing in spite of the bouncing ride. In an attempt to calm the whimpering beagle, she brushed through his fur. Spike rewarded her with an adoring brown-eyed stare and a generous dog kiss.

She studied her rescuer surreptitiously. He was younger than his voice implied. His bearded face appeared lean and sculpted, with well-tanned skin and a strong nose. She couldn’t determine the color of his narrowed eyes in the darkness. He wore his rust-colored hair pulled back from his face, secured at the nape by a rubber band.

A quick glance downward revealed hard, lean muscles in his long legs. Even through the slicker she’d felt the strength in his arms. He’d lifted her to safety with confidence and ease. Earlier, she’d been too frightened to fully appreciate the pure masculinity of her rescuer. Now it filled the truck’s cab, shrinking the space between them.

Her instincts told her the gruff man would keep her safe. She chewed at her lower lip, reminding herself that her instincts had failed her before. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place.

She knew driving in a hurricane was reckless. Hadn’t the civil patrol volunteers tried to stop her at every state and county road? But one set of fears outweighed the other.

Knowing she needed to head inland, she had turned onto dirt road after dirt road, determined to bypass the roadblocks. When the road had narrowed to two ruts and a rickety bridge in the middle of a Florida swamp, she’d cursed her sense of direction. But she had no regrets about driving through a hurricane to escape the nightmare of Perry Conner. She fervently prayed he wouldn’t find her trail.

~ * ~

A dark shape loomed ahead. The power must have gone off. David had left the concrete block house well-lighted when he’d hurried out to gather fish. He should have had plenty of time. But a hurricane had a mind of her own. She’d make landfall whenever she pleased. He’d barely filled the cooler with the day’s catch when he’d seen the accident at the bridge.

Great. Now he would need to fire up the generator to keep his freezer running, and that meant burning precious gasoline. No power also meant no electric pump for water. Although he had filled his bath tub and two thirty-gallon trash cans with water, it wouldn’t last long with an extra person. He had a hand pump by the workshop, but he’d have to haul water to the house and boil it.

He glanced at the slip of a girl he’d pulled from the sinking car. A lot of help she would be. She weighed all of a hundred pounds dripping wet and stood about five feet tall. Her short raven hair, trickling water down her slender neck and face, made her dark eyes appear huge and frightened. Wasn’t it just his luck to be isolated with a helpless teenager in the middle of a category-three hurricane?

He shut off the motor, grabbed Spike, and opened the truck door. “Hurry up!” he yelled.

Spike, the fickle beast, turned to wait for the girl. A few scratches behind the ears and the beagle had bonded with her. Shaking his head, David dashed for the covered stoop. He pushed the door open, then plunged inside. Water puddled at his feet from the slicker, saturating his already soaked boots.

He stepped back to allow the girl and his “faithful” dog to spill inside. Spike immediately rewarded him with a vigorous shake, spraying water over walls, parquet, and the two already-wet people crowding the hallway.

“Just dandy,” David mumbled.

The girl stood, wide-eyed and trembling. Her arms, pale and goose-fleshed, crossed protectively over the soaked fabric clinging to the curves of her small breasts.

Averting his eyes, he barked out orders. “Hold the flashlight so I can find us some towels.” He pointed his Mag-lite toward the linen closet door next to the bathroom.

She took the flashlight with trembling hands. He didn’t know if she was scared, cold, or both, but she couldn’t hold the light still. He pulled two large bath towels and a thin blanket from the narrow shelf, handing her a towel in exchange for the Mag-lite.

“Use one for your hair.” He took the blanket and draped it around her shoulders. “Take Spike into the breakfast room while I check the shutters.”

“W-where’s the breakfast room?”

“Center of the house, turn left.” Turning toward the door, he tightened the drawstring on the hood of his slicker. “Look in the kitchen under the sink and see if you can find the candles. But stay away from the windows.”

The wind whipped the door from his grip, slamming it against the wall. He managed to push it closed. It was too late to venture outside now. He had secured the shutters as soon as tropical storm AnnaLell had been upgraded to a hurricane. Considering the strength of the wind, it wasn’t worth going into the storm for a second look.

Satisfied he’d done all he could, David peeled off the dripping slicker. As he hung it on his grandmother’s old coat tree, he thought about his guest in the breakfast room.

She was a scrawny little thing, and promised to be pretty in a few years. She’d have been embarrassed if she’d known how her breasts stood out against the wet T-shirt. Of course, he had no business looking at her soft curves or her doe eyes. When had he started thinking like a dirty old man? He’d been celibate for too long.

Halting in the doorway of the breakfast room, he stared in astonishment. Dozens of candles flickered eerie shadows across the ceiling and walls of the bright room. What did she think this was--a seance? He marched through the breakfast room, blowing impatient breaths at each candle to extinguish it.

“What are you doing?”

Leaving only two candles lit, he spun to face her. “These are the only candles I have. We’re not going to burn them all in one night.”

“What do you mean? How long is the electricity usually off?”

He scrubbed his face and sighed. “How many hurricanes have you been through, girl?”

“None. And my name’s Stephanie.” She squared her shoulders and extended her hand to shake his.

He didn’t want to shake hands with her or touch her, though he couldn’t explain why. He recovered his manners, nonetheless, and grasped her hand. “Nice to meet you, Stephanie.”

“And you are?” Her eyebrows lifted, waiting.

“Folks around here call me ‘Red.’”

“All right, Red. Tell me what I can do to help.”

“Just sit tight. There’s nothing else to do but wait it out.”

“Very well.” She glanced around the room. “I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced. I’ll do what I can to minimize the imposition.”

Say what? She didn’t talk like any teenager he’d been around. He schooled his features. If she wanted to impress him, she’d be disappointed. “You’ll get the opportunity to pull your weight.”

When she grasped the edges of the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a glint of light flashed, drawing his attention to her delicate hands. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the thin gold band encircling the third finger on her left hand.

A wedding band?

The idea that the half-drowned waif shivering in his breakfast room was a married woman unsettled him more than he realized. Innocent and naive? Ripe and sensual? Or a disturbing combination of both? Whatever her appeal, it staggered him. Against his will, he was drawn to her.

Whoa! Married woman.

Since when did he trespass on another man’s territory? Stephanie was clearly off-limits. Forget it, buster. Focus on the storm.

“Stay here. I have to change into dry clothes.” Picking up one of the candles, he spun on his heel and fled to his bedroom, in his haste nearly extinguishing his light.

Forcing his thoughts to the crisis at hand, he ran through his mental check-list of hurricane readiness. He’d cleared the area around the house, and nailed the shutters over the windows. Old Gabe had picked up extra batteries and canned goods for him during a quick trip into Bronson that morning. He hoped Gabe was safe in his home across the creek.

Until the hurricane passed through, there was nothing left to do, nothing except deal with his uninvited guest. He’d moved to this forgotten piece of swamp for its isolation. Except for infrequent visits from his elderly neighbor, David enjoyed a solitary life. The last person he’d expect to wander into Heart Swamp was this married teenager. He didn’t need her underfoot.

The wind picked up, pulling and beating at the wooden shutters, bombarding the roof with limbs and acorns. The house creaked and grunted in protest much like the sticking drawers in his antique bureau as he shoved them closed. Everything about the house, though old and worn, had withstood hurricanes in the past. He hoped his luck held.

The dry sweats and socks improved his mood. Picking up the sodden mass of clothing he’d abandoned on the floor, he felt a twinge of guilt. The image of Stephanie, standing soaked and trembling in the breakfast room, pulled him back to his bureau in search of another set of dry clothes.

It took him several minutes to find anything remotely small enough to fit her. He settled on a pair of drawstring shorts, his smallest T-shirt, and a pair of old tube socks. He couldn’t help her with underwear.

Returning to the breakfast room, he found her kneeling on the parquet floor, rubbing Spike’s belly. The dog barely acknowledged his master’s presence, which sent David’s mood plummeting again. The dog had howled nervously in unison with the wind before Stephanie had appeared on the scene. Now he lay in peaceful bliss.

David cleared his throat. “You need to change into dry clothes. Here.” He handed her the bundle. “It’s all I could find.”

“Oh, thank you. Anything dry is preferable to this.” She nodded toward her clinging damp top and muddied slacks. “Where may I dress?”

“The bedroom,” he said, pointing the way. “I left the candle for you.”

Her face brightened into a quick smile before she hurried from the room. Oh, what a smile! It turned her pale features into a beautiful face. David gripped the Formica table, feeling as if his world had suddenly tilted.

Stress. Definitely stress.

~ * ~

The next hour passed without conversation. Sitting in a chair at the Formica dinette, Stephanie distracted herself by studying the layout of the house. The breakfast room had no windows of its own, although a pass-through to another room and the doorway to the kitchen probably offered sufficient light when shutters weren’t blocking the windows.

She jumped, startled by loud snaps against the roof. “What’s that?”

Even in the dimness of candlelight, she saw the worry in Red’s eyes. “Roof shingles. No match for hundred and twenty mile-an-hour winds.”

“That’s a category three, isn’t it?”

“Thought you didn’t know anything about hurricanes.”

“I said I’d never experienced one.” She shrugged. “I studied tropical depressions and storms in meteorology.”

The shingles fought their noisy battle with the winds, snapping like artillery fire. Red slid to the floor against an interior wall and motioned for her to join him. Spike obediently followed, settling between them on the cool parquet floor.

“They teach meteorology in high school now?”

High school? How young did he think she was, anyway? After years of being ahead of students her age, she’d learned to ignore insults and remarks. Why, then, had she allowed Red’s dig to irritate her?

“College.” Careful not to sound condescending, she gave him what she hoped was a friendly smile. She guessed the poor fisherman had a high school diploma at best. “I took meteorology for one of my science requirements.”

The hurricane intensified its attack on the house, drowning out further conversation. Her pulse accelerating, Stephanie retreated behind tightly shut eyes. But she couldn’t keep the terrifying noises at bay. The intermittent snapping of shingles overhead progressed to a continuous pummeling. The fear that she would die raised its ugly head, pulling her back to the horror of her plunge into the canal. Even that memory paled in comparison to earlier in the day, when she’d faced the dangerous truth about Perry.

She refused to dwell on the pain of Perry Conner’s betrayal. Hadn’t she suspected more than once that he was too good to be true? He’d avoided touching her. His kisses had seemed respectful, almost chaste. But he’d been the one to push marriage. It couldn’t happen soon enough, he’d said. Blaming her doubts on low self-esteem and pre-wedding jitters, she’d ignored the signs of trouble.

The wind whistled and roared like engines on a jumbo jet, jerking her back to the present. Unclenching her hands, she discovered her nails had punctured the tender flesh. The stinging pain reassured her she was alive, still in one piece, huddled against the interior wall in Red’s breakfast room.

The coil of tension inside her had been tightening all afternoon, starting with her fleeing the motel in Cedar Key. The powerful hurricane had been a double-edged sword. She hadn’t been able to travel far in the storm, but neither could Perry. She hoped.

The fury of the hurricane slowed, then abruptly stopped. Weak with relief, she jumped to her feet. Spike’s head rose from the parquet, his gaze following her movement.

Massaging her bleeding palms, she smiled. “It’s over. We made it.”

“Sit down, girl.” Red pointed to the floor. “The backside of the storm is always worse.”

Her spirits nosedived. “The eye. I had forgotten.” She slumped to the floor. “And the name is Stephanie.”

“Right.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

He flashed her a half-smile, at least that’s what she thought it must be. She had yet to see a full version on the man’s serious face. Crossing her arms over her bent knees, she buried her face.

“I don’t know if I’ll survive the second half.” Raising her head and glancing at the ceiling, she sighed. “I don’t know if your roof will, either.”

Red nodded. “At least the wind will be from the other direction.” He stroked the fur along the beagle’s back. “You doing okay, Spike?”

Spike gave Red’s hand a sloppy lick. What about me? she wanted to ask. Stephanie was anything but okay. Determined not to slide into self-pity, she concentrated on the crisis.

“Is there anything we could do to reinforce the house during this lull?”

“What did you have in mind? Bring in hydraulic jacks to shore up the rafters? Install a metal over-roof to hold the shingles in place?” He shook his head. “You must be a city girl.”

She winced at his sarcastic tone. “There’s no need to insult me. I want to help.”

City girl? At least she wasn’t Swamp Thing, she wanted to say. She resisted the temptation and kept quiet. The sooner she got through the storm, the sooner Red would be rid of her, and the sooner she could increase her distance from Perry Conner. When she remembered her Geo Metro, sunk in the black waters of the canal, she groaned aloud.

“Don’t take offense.” He pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt above his elbows. “I’m upset because there’s nothing either of us can do at this point.” He wrapped his well-muscled arms around his knees. “It’s hard to think about everything you own being washed away.”

“Since my car is everything I own, I can empathize.” She straightened her legs in front of her and stretched.

He turned his gaze toward her, as if studying her, but said nothing. The candlelight painted ghostly shadows over his quizzical expression. She didn’t like his silence or his scrutiny. She turned her attention to Spike, who had settled his head on her lap.

“Where am I, exactly? I lost track after I crossed Highway nineteen.”

“Heart Swamp.”

“Heart Swamp. And how far is it from Gainesville?” Even as she asked, Stephanie knew she couldn’t go back to Gainesville yet. She couldn’t return to her apartment or her job at the university because Gainesville would be the first place Perry would look. “Wait. How far is it to Ocala?”

Red shrugged, then stretched, pulling his sweatshirt tight against his broad shoulders and well-developed pecs. “Make up your mind. Just where is it you’re headed?”

But something had happened to Stephanie’s mind. She couldn’t focus on what Red was saying, only on the movement of his lips between the reddish whiskers of his mustache and beard. Her fascination with his face puzzled her.

“Stephanie?”

She jerked her gaze to his smoldering eyes and swallowed, realizing she had failed to answer his question. “I-I’m sorry. I’m not usually so un-focused. What I need to know is where is the nearest police station?”

He rubbed his whiskers. “Ocala’s your best bet. Why?”

The roar of the wind returned in full force, lashing at the roof shingles, whipping the shutters. The deafening noise saved her from answering his question. It also twisted her insides into a knot of anxiety.

~ * ~

Just as he feared, the hurricane turned ugly. The back half of the storm struck, battering the old block house with relentless fury. David knew the walls would be all right, but not the roof. Built years ago by his grandfather out of cypress, the rafters formed a solid frame. The strongest of wood, seasoned by decades in the hot humidity of Heart Swamp, was still no match for hurricane-force winds.

His gaze drifted to the young woman cowering against the wall. She’d buried her face in her hands as if to block out the violent weather. No matter how young she might be, she wasn’t a whiner. He’d give her that. But her huge, haunted eyes betrayed the terror inside.

Poor kid had bloodied her hands from fisting them, although she’d tried to hide it. Not a complaint out of her. Nada. His perusal slipped to the huge knit shirt swallowing and concealing her figure. But he’d already seen those petite feminine curves that promised to mature into a sexy dish of a woman.

The delicate flesh on her arms and legs was pebbled with goose bumps, tempting him to take her in his arms and offer her his body’s warmth. That would be a smart move, pal!

He pulled his gaze away, hoping the direction of his thoughts would follow. After too many years of abstinence, his body screamed its protest. That was it. Any female who wandered into his life at this point would reignite his libido.

He once again shifted his gaze to Stephanie. Delicate fingers splayed across her face, their nails neatly trimmed and unpolished, unadorned by jewelry except the simple gold band. Wedding band. He’d do well to keep that ring in mind.

His gut told him she was scared of more than the hurricane. Why had she asked about the police? Was she running to them, or trying to avoid them? He intended to find out. He had no intention of harboring a fugitive.

This waif a fugitive? He had a difficult time with that picture. The questions bouncing around in his head were forgotten when loud thunder shook the house, jerking him back to the raging storm outside. The noise of splintering wood and ripping shingles crescendoed, climaxing into a deafening crash.

His breath froze.

Spike howled.

Stephanie screamed.

He recognized the sound of rushing water as thousands of gallons cascaded into the house.