“Thank you,” I say, committing it to memory.
She peers toward the window, her expression tightening just a touch. “I’d wait until morning to go, though. It’s been raining, and there’s no telling how high that creek is.” Her gaze narrows. “And it looks like snow.”
I follow her eyes. Sure enough, tiny flakes are drifting down, just enough to dust the porch. Great. Foiled by weatherandrural infrastructure.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” I say, already making a beeline for the door just as the dramatic music of her soap opera swells again.
She doesn’t even respond. She's back in her recliner, consumed in her show.
Outside, I hop into the Prius, crank the heat, and head west toward Stonewater Ranch. The roads are narrow and damp, the sky bleeding gray, and fat flakes of snow drifting lazily down like they have all the time in the world.
Stonewater is one of the biggest and oldest ranches in the state. That’s supposed to mean something to people. History. Legacy. All that. Me? I want to know why Sam left. And more importantly why he’s back. Because I know he’s here. I don’t care if there’s been no public statement, no social media sightings, no new music.
What I care about is why he left, and my gut hasn’t failedme yet. Something brought Sam Stone back to Broken Heart Creek. And whatever it is, it’s the kind of story people don’t want told. Which means the public will eat it up.
The road gets bumpier the farther I go, and just when I think I’ve gone too far, I nearly miss the turn just like the lady at the inn warned I would.
A carved stone sign appears through the drizzle, half-covered in moss but still proud.Stonewater Ranching Co.
I smile, a flicker of satisfaction warming my chest. Found it.
That moment of joy is short-lived. The Prius lurches violently as I hit a pothole the size of an inflatable kiddie pool. Maybe bigger. The bottom of the car scrapes loudly, making me wince.
“Dang,” I mutter, gripping the wheel tighter and focusing on what could generously be called a road.
Exceptroadis a stretch. It’s more like a suggestion. A dirt path that’s basically mud at this point and is slick and unforgiving. To my right, the creek runs alongside the road. It’s full to the brim and moving fast, like it’s racing me to wherever we’re both headed.
I eye the water warily. It’s too close and way too loud. One bad turn and I’m going swimming, which is really bad since I can’t actually swim. I never learned after a near-drowning incident when I was five. But I keep going. Because I didn’t come all this way to chicken out now.
Up ahead, the creek crosses under what looks like an old wooden bridge. Or it’s supposed to. Right now, the water’s so high it’s rushingoverthe bridge, turning the crossing into a gamble I’m not entirely sure I want to take.
I should turn around. That’s the logical, adult,alivething to do.
But there’s no room to pull over and no safe place toreverse. Just narrow road, fast water, and my stubborn streak driving the car. So I keep going.
The Prius hits the edge of the bridge, and instantly I feel the force of the current pushing against the tires, like the water itself is trying to decide if I deserve to pass.
“Come on,” I mutter, hands white knuckling the wheel. “You can do this. You can make it.”
The car rocks slightly, the floor vibrating beneath my feet. Every instinct in me screams to stop, but I press on, chanting under my breath like it might actually help.
Then, finally—thunk. The tires catch on something solid.
Well, solid-ish.
I lurch forward off the bridge and let out a breath, shaky and shallow. That was kind of intense.
But as I look ahead, I realize that might’ve been the easiest part of this whole trip. Because the road? It’s gone.
Flooded. Badly. A wide sheet of water stretches across what used to be dirt and gravel, churning fast enough to make me question every decision I’ve made since booking that plane ticket.
“Shit,” I whisper. “Shit, shit, shit.”
There’s no turning around. No shoulder. No real options. Just this. So I close my eyes for half a second, mutter something that’s not quite a prayer, and press the gas pedal.
Just keep going. Just get through it.
At first, I think I’m fine. The Prius pushes through the water like a champ. Bless its little eco-friendly heart.
