her.
Gator climbed the steps to the back porch and paused, shrugging out of his rain gear before he joined Reba inside. He gave her a hug, then glanced Michelle’s way. His hair and eyes were still black as crows’ feathers, only she saw the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. His jaw was scruffy and the clothes he wore disheveled, as though he’d slept in them. He turned his gaze back to Reba. Michelle was relieved that he had not recognized her.
“I guess you heard the storm turned on us,” he said, his deep voice seasoned with an accent that was uniquely Cajun. “I have to get you out of here. We’re settin’ up shelters in town.”
“I’m not going, Gator,” Reba said, hitching her chin stubbornly. “You know they won’t let me bring my animals into those shelters, and I refuse to leave them defenseless. Besides, my granddaughter will take care of me.”
Gator glanced Michelle’s way once again, only this time he paused. Their gazes collided. For a moment, they merely stared at each other, and the silence that followed was as deafening as the wind and rain outside. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone almost accusing.
His abrupt manner surprised her. So he did remember her, Michelle told herself, giving none of her own thoughts away in her cool appraisal. The years had been good to him. He was still handsome in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way. Perhaps striking was a better word. His nose and mouth were a bit pronounced, an indication of his heritage, but while those same features might appear unsightly on another man’s face, they added character to his.
Michelle suddenly found her voice. “Hello, Gator,” she said. “I thought my grandmother might need me … what with the storm coming and all.”
“You two shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This storm is right on our tails now. I’ve got to get you to safety. Everyone else has already evacuated or sought shelter.”
“That’s what I’ve been preaching since I arrived,” Michelle said. “To no avail,” she added.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Reba said. Gator and Michelle suddenly looked her way, as though they’d forgotten she was in the room. “Besides, I ain’t scared of no storm,” Reba added, crossing her wiry arms over her bosom.
Gator sighed heavily and raked his fingers through his dark hair. Damn, but his head hurt. He probably had the worst hangover of his life. This storm was the last thing he needed. “Now, Reba, don’t put up a fuss,” he said. “When this hurricane hits it’s going to rip this place apart, and you won’t be able to help yourself, much less those animals. Come get in the boat before it fills up with water and sinks.”
“I ain’t goin’, Gator, and that’s final.” Reba marched over to her rocking chair and sat down stiffly. Her look was unyielding.
“Then I’m going to pick you up and haul you out to the boat, chair and all,” he said, his look as ominous as the approaching storm.
Reba gripped the arms of the chair. “And I’ll kick and scream this house down over our heads,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?” Gator planted his hands on his hips and glared at the woman.
She fixed him with a stubborn gaze. “Yeah.”
Michelle looked from one to the other. Watching them interact would have been amusing had the circumstances not been so dire. Her grandmother was a tiny figure compared to Gator’s six-foot-plus frame. The khaki-colored shirt he wore strained against his wide chest, upon which a gold sheriff’s badge had been pinned. His faded jeans molded to his thighs and calves like a leather glove. She saw no sign of a gun, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t armed. He was certainly different from the men she worked with, who wore neat slacks and crisp white lab coats.
Reba gave a harrumph. “You wouldn’t shoot an old lady.”
“Don’t count on it,” he said.
“Let her be,” Michelle said.
One pair of black eyes snapped up in surprise as Michelle closed
Gator climbed the steps to the back porch and paused, shrugging out of his rain gear before he joined Reba inside. He gave her a hug, then glanced Michelle’s way. His hair and eyes were still black as crows’ feathers, only she saw the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. His jaw was scruffy and the clothes he wore disheveled, as though he’d slept in them. He turned his gaze back to Reba. Michelle was relieved that he had not recognized her.
“I guess you heard the storm turned on us,” he said, his deep voice seasoned with an accent that was uniquely Cajun. “I have to get you out of here. We’re settin’ up shelters in town.”
“I’m not going, Gator,” Reba said, hitching her chin stubbornly. “You know they won’t let me bring my animals into those shelters, and I refuse to leave them defenseless. Besides, my granddaughter will take care of me.”
Gator glanced Michelle’s way once again, only this time he paused. Their gazes collided. For a moment, they merely stared at each other, and the silence that followed was as deafening as the wind and rain outside. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone almost accusing.
His abrupt manner surprised her. So he did remember her, Michelle told herself, giving none of her own thoughts away in her cool appraisal. The years had been good to him. He was still handsome in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way. Perhaps striking was a better word. His nose and mouth were a bit pronounced, an indication of his heritage, but while those same features might appear unsightly on another man’s face, they added character to his.
Michelle suddenly found her voice. “Hello, Gator,” she said. “I thought my grandmother might need me … what with the storm coming and all.”
“You two shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This storm is right on our tails now. I’ve got to get you to safety. Everyone else has already evacuated or sought shelter.”
“That’s what I’ve been preaching since I arrived,” Michelle said. “To no avail,” she added.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Reba said. Gator and Michelle suddenly looked her way, as though they’d forgotten she was in the room. “Besides, I ain’t scared of no storm,” Reba added, crossing her wiry arms over her bosom.
Gator sighed heavily and raked his fingers through his dark hair. Damn, but his head hurt. He probably had the worst hangover of his life. This storm was the last thing he needed. “Now, Reba, don’t put up a fuss,” he said. “When this hurricane hits it’s going to rip this place apart, and you won’t be able to help yourself, much less those animals. Come get in the boat before it fills up with water and sinks.”
“I ain’t goin’, Gator, and that’s final.” Reba marched over to her rocking chair and sat down stiffly. Her look was unyielding.
“Then I’m going to pick you up and haul you out to the boat, chair and all,” he said, his look as ominous as the approaching storm.
Reba gripped the arms of the chair. “And I’ll kick and scream this house down over our heads,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?” Gator planted his hands on his hips and glared at the woman.
She fixed him with a stubborn gaze. “Yeah.”
Michelle looked from one to the other. Watching them interact would have been amusing had the circumstances not been so dire. Her grandmother was a tiny figure compared to Gator’s six-foot-plus frame. The khaki-colored shirt he wore strained against his wide chest, upon which a gold sheriff’s badge had been pinned. His faded jeans molded to his thighs and calves like a leather glove. She saw no sign of a gun, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t armed. He was certainly different from the men she worked with, who wore neat slacks and crisp white lab coats.
Reba gave a harrumph. “You wouldn’t shoot an old lady.”
“Don’t count on it,” he said.
“Let her be,” Michelle said.
One pair of black eyes snapped up in surprise as Michelle closed
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