He turned toward the stairs, and there she was, standing at the top, a basket perched in her arms—and, sweet mercy, was that her cat inside it?
Rembrandt’s orange fur was plastered against the sides, eyes narrowed with full feline judgment, as if this flood were somehow Finn’s fault.
Typical cat behavior.
His attention moved back to Granny D, who seemed perfectly fine. In fact, was she smiling?
“I knew you were a hero from the first time I saw you, sugar,” she said, starting down the stairs with the poise of someone hosting a dinner party rather than surviving a natural disaster. “You had the hair for it.”
He nearly laughed, despite the water now reaching the base of the banister. “That theory might be tested today, Granny D. We’re in quite a fix.”
Her expression sobered. “I didn’t mean to put you in such a bind, handsome. Harry Coleman called not an hour ago and told me to come up to the inn for the night. Just to be safe. But by the time I packed a bag and wrangled Rembrandt, the porch was nearly underwater and the car was covered up to the windows.” She shook her head, the weight of the situation finally showing. “It came on fast. Faster than anything I’ve ever seen.”
He offered her a grin to try and douse the worry lines around her eyes. “At least you saved the most important thing, of course.” He gently nudged the basket free from her arms.
“Ain’t that the truth. They say if you leave a faithful cat behind, they come back to haunt you. And I reckon nothing haunts quite like an angry cat.”
He volunteered his free arm to her, and she took a strong hold as he helped her the rest of the way down the stairs. The water inside reached his calves—her thighs. And it was rising.
Fast indeed.
“Oh gracious.” Her voice pitched higher, probably from the chill. A set of bowls floated by. “My second husband got those for me. Never did like ’em all that much.”
Finn shook his head. Humor in disaster. He could respect it. It was his leaning too.
He tugged her through the narrow entry and shoved open the front screen door with his shoulder, bracing against the weight of water. This was mad! All of it.
It didn’t make sense, the speed of it all. His gaze rose to the mountains surrounding them. Unless... the water pooled, didn’t it? Rushing down from those heights to the lower levels. Causing it all to converge in the lower streams and rivers that were already swollen from days of rain.
He focused back on the task. Getting Granny D to the truck.
But how on earth was he going to get her through even deeper water in the front yard to make it back to the truck?
“Well, handsome, I thought my swimming days was over a few decades ago, but looks like I’ll be giving it another try, don’t it?”
Heaven help him. He had no idea how to make it through the hip-deep water with a hobbit-sized woman and an irritable cat.
Then something caught his eye.
Across the flooded yard, tethered to a post at the edge of what used to be the creek but now looked more like a canal, was a boat.
From Granny D’s third husband, wasn’t it? The fisherman.
A small skiff. Rusted. Paint peeling.
But an option.
“Granny, wait here with Rembrandt.” He pressed the basket back into her arms. “I think we’ve got a way out, and you won’t even have to take a swim.”
She followed his gaze. “Old Rusty?” Her face lit up. “It’s a good thing you’re as smart as you are handsome.”
He almost smiled, eyes flicking toward the hill where the truck waited. If he could get her in the boat and navigate the calmer stretch of yard, they could reach the truck. Then drive out.
Within a few minutes, he’d sloshed through the water, dragged the boat to the porch, and tied it to the railing to keep it steady.
And that’s when he heard it.
Felt it.
