“I know I need help,” Eli said, frustration in every syllable. “I have been on the phone since five this morning. There is no help, Kate, there is no one. I have called every guy I know, and the only guys not already working are the guys I wouldn’t trust. Peter’s booked with the sheriff’s office and Connor’s at Lakeside because I need him there.” He blew out a long breath. “We’ll be fine. We’ll get it done.”
Again, no one spoke for a moment, and even Atlas seemed to stop fussing through the monitor, maybe falling back asleep.
“What’s that noise?” Jonah asked, looking around.
“I don’t…” Eli’s voice faded as a rumble grew louder in the distance, low like thunder, but somehow more like machinery.
“Is that a…”
“Maggie!” Jo Ellen darted through the sliders from the kitchen. “It’s Brick! And Randy and Angel! And a truck full of plywood! With men!”
Maggie stared at her, trying to take this in.
“Brick!” Jo Ellen repeated. “He’s here! Just blew in on his Harley like something out of the movies.”
“Who’s Brick?” Eli demanded.
Maggie squared her shoulders and looked at him. “My friend. And I suppose he and his motorcycle gang have come to help.”
“They’re not a gang!” Jo Ellen exclaimed. “They’re friends who ride motorcycles together.”
“I don’t care what they are,” Eli muttered, already headed into the house. “They’re a gift from God.”
Fighting a little smile and a surprising sting in her eyes, Maggie followed her son inside, through the kitchen and the door to the garage. With each step, the rumble of the mighty engines intensified.
Eli froze at the open garage door as Maggie caught up with him. Side by side, all they could do was stare and listen to the deafening roar as three beefy motorcycles and a muscular truck high on thick treaded wheels lined up in the driveway.
Brick was front and center, in his American flag helmet, his silver beard catching the September sun. Angel was on his right, his graying ringlets escaping the dirty red bandana he wore like a badge of honor, his big body easy on the bike. Randy on the left, leaner, with his focused expression, dark eyes searching for the next person who needed help.
“What ishappening?” Eli whispered.
“I believe your help has arrived,” she whispered, her heart fluttering as she looked at the seventy-five-year-old widower in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, climbing off his bike.
“Mags!” Brick called. “Brought my posse. Put us to work!”
Eli threw her a look. “You know this guy?”
“Yes.” She scoffed. “I told you, he’s my friend.”
“He’s an angel from heaven!”
“Angel is the guy in the bandana,” Jo Ellen, reaching them, announced. “And Randy is on the other side.”
Maggie peered at the young men climbing out of the truck. “I guess those are his grandsons?—”
Eli didn’t wait for an explanation, but marched forward, his hand extended as he picked up speed. By the time he reached Brick, it was both arms and the men hugged like brothers when they met.
“Can you believe this?” Jo Ellen squealed, a little too over-excited.
Jonah, holding Atlas, came out, too, with Kate, Emma, and Vivien.
“So this is the famous Brick,” Kate muttered.
Maggie ignored the flurry of questions and Jo Ellen’s breathless explanation, sounding like a teenage girl backstage at a boy band concert. Instead, she went out to make the formal introductions because, hurricane or not, manners shouldn’t be forgotten.
“I’m Brick Collins,” he said. “Friend of your mother’s. Heard you needed hands. We brought hands.” Then he threw a grin at Maggie. “There’s my girl.”
Her cheeks burned, but mostly because of the way Eli turned with a look of sheer disbelief.
