I look around.
There’s at least three inches of standing water on the bathroom floor, and the hallway looks like a creek as it moves into the living space.
“Very bad.”
“Shit. We’ll be there in five,” he says.
The call ends.
I immediately head back outside.
The cool Wyoming night air hits me as I stomp through the flooded doorway. I shake my boots as I feel the water seeping through the leather and soaking my socks.
Wonderful.
Just wonderful.
I cut between my cabin and Royce’s and head toward the utility box mounted on the exterior wall.
Thank God Dad drilled some basic maintenance knowledge into us, growing up.
I yank open the breaker panel.
Then locate the controls for the well pump and hot water heater.
A few switches later, everything powers down.
The sound of rushing water inside finally begins to fade.
At least the problem isn’t actively getting worse now.
I lean against the side of the cabin and wait.
Five minutes later, Bryce rounds the gravel path and comes pounding down the walkway with Charli on his heels.
“What happened?”
“Pipe burst in the bathroom.”
He winces. “Bad?”
I point toward the front door. “You tell me.”
His eyes clock the water spilling from the open front door and pooling on the porch.
“Fuck,” he bites out.
“Yep.”
Charli comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist.
“Damn,” she mutters.
We head inside together.
Bryce starts assessing the damage straightaway.
The guy spent years helping his father run their tiny ranch in Oklahoma before taking off to join the PBR, and he’s annoyingly competent at everything, including stuff like this.
