Page 19 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

Chapter Eight

Mack

The drive down from Fire Mountain tested every skill I'd acquired in thirteen years of navigating treacherous terrain. Rain hammered the windshield with relentless fury, wipers struggling against the deluge. Twice the truck hydroplaned on curves, my white-knuckled grip on the wheel and muscle memory preventing disaster. Beside me, Brynn maintained silence, tension radiating from her slender frame as the valley below came into view.

Nothing could have prepared us for the scene at Lindstrom's Orchard.

Water surged across the lower fields, a churning brown mass consuming everything in its path. The main barn stood as an island in the expanding lake, surrounded by a hastily constructed barricade of sandbags that appeared perilously inadequate against nature's assault. Figures moved urgentlyalong the perimeter, passing sandbags in human chains, shouting instructions that were lost beneath the storm's roar.

I parked on higher ground beside a collection of mud-splattered vehicles, recognizing Ian's police SUV among them. Scout whined from the back seat, sensing the urgency in the air.

"Stay close," I instructed Brynn as we stepped into the downpour. "Ground's unstable, current's unpredictable. If anyone tells you to move to higher ground, you do it immediately, no questions."

She nodded, solemn eyes wide beneath the hood of her borrowed raincoat. I wanted to say more—to remind her she didn't need to be here, that she could wait in the truck—but something in her determined expression stopped me. This woman, despite her city background and complete inexperience with natural disasters, possessed a core of steel I couldn't help but respect.

We slogged through ankle-deep mud toward the command center—a pop-up canopy where my brother stood surrounded by volunteers, pointing at a topographical map spread across a folding table. Ian's uniform clung to his frame, water dripping from the brim of his department-issued cap as he issued directives.

His eyes met mine over the heads of those assembled, surprise briefly interrupting his professional composure. For a heartbeat, I considered retreating—what the hell was I thinking, inserting myself into an organized operation after three years on my own? But Brynn's presence at my shoulder anchored me, her belief that I could help momentarily overwhelming my self-doubt.

"Mack." Ian broke away, crossing to us with purposeful strides. "Didn't expect to see you down here."

"Heard the call," I replied, keeping it simple. "Truck's good in deep water. Where do you need us?"

If he noticed my use of ‘us’ rather than ‘me,’ he didn't comment, simply jerked his chin toward the eastern edge of the property. "Harriet's irrigation channel is backing up, threatening to undercut the main levee. Ross is trying to divert it, but they're short-handed."

"On it," I said, turning to Brynn. "You familiar with sandbags?"

She shook her head, wet strands of hair plastered against her cheeks. "Quick learner, though."

"She can join the secondary line," Ian interjected. "They need people filling bags near the equipment shed. It's stable ground, relatively dry."

Something protective flared in my chest, but I quashed it. This wasn't the time for misplaced chivalry. Brynn was an adult, capable of contributing without me hovering.

"Go with the sheriff's deputy over there," I instructed, pointing toward a woman in a raincoat emblazoned with the county emblem. "I'll find you after we secure the channel."

"Be careful," she said, fingers briefly touching my forearm. The contact, simple as it was, burned through layers of wet fabric straight to skin.

I watched her navigate toward the deputy before turning toward the chaos of the eastern perimeter, Scout at my heels. The irrigation channel, normally a manageable waterway feeding the Lindstrom apple trees, had transformed into a raging torrent threatening the structural integrity of the main levee protecting the orchard buildings.

Ross Dawson, Ashwood's fire chief, directed a team of exhausted volunteers attempting to reinforce the compromisedsection with sandbags and plywood. His face lit with recognition as I approached.

"Thornton! Jesus, am I glad to see you. We need someone with your build on the front line."

Without further preamble, I waded into the fray, accepting a waterlogged sandbag from a volunteer whose arms trembled with fatigue. The weight, easily seventy pounds with the absorbed water, felt negligible as I swung it into position along the eroding edge.

"Need a system," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. The current setup—random placement wherever someone spotted a weakness—wasted energy and resources. Three years away from command hadn't erased the instincts drilled into me through multiple deployments.

"Line formation," I called out, voice automatically finding the pitch that carried over chaos. "Three-tier stagger pattern. Heaviest base layer, offset seams."

Heads turned, startled expressions giving way to relief as people recognized someone who knew what to do taking charge with confidence. Ross shot me a grateful look before echoing my instructions, reallocating personnel into the more efficient configuration I'd suggested.

The transformation was immediate. What had been frantic individual efforts coalesced into coordinated action. My body settled into the familiar rhythm of crisis response—assess, decide, execute—the methodology that had kept me and my unit alive in situations far deadlier than this.

For thirty minutes, I existed purely in the physical realm of lifting, positioning, and securing. My muscles burned pleasantly with exertion, mind focused entirely on the tacticalchallenge. The rain continued unabated, but it registered as merely another variable to factor into structural calculations.

Then the whistle came.

High-pitched, two short blasts followed by one long—emergency evacuation signal. Across the property, volunteers raised their heads like prairie dogs, confusion rippling through the ranks. The sound triggered something primal in my brain, a flashback so intense the present momentarily dissolved around me.

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