Page 27 of Dirty Cowboys
She was upset when I saw her, crying and talking about messing things up. In that state of mind, would she think to take shelter from the storm?
I grab the two-way radio from the kitchen counter and tune it to the frequency we use for the Patterson property. “Indie, this is Duke. If you can hear this, stay inside. A severe storm is coming through. Respond if you’re safe.”
Static.
I try again, adjusting the frequency. “Indie, please respond. This storm is dangerous.”
More static.
Nash suddenly bolts across the room to the far corner, the only spot in the house that gets decent cell reception. He pulls out his phone, frantically tapping at the screen.
“What are you doing?” Walker demands.
“Checking her Instagram,” Nash replies. “If she’s okay, she might have posted something.”
I watch as he stares at the screen. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He holds up the phone so we can see. “She posted this just before the storm hit.”
The image shows the darkening sky over the field, below the expanse of angry storm clouds. The caption reads: Sometimes you need to face the storm to find clarity.
“That’s our spot,” Walker murmurs. “She’s at our fucking spot.”
“We have to go after her.” Nash is already reaching for his jacket.
“In this weather?” Walker protests. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t get struck by lightning or taken out by flying debris.”
“I don’t care,” Nash snaps. “I’m not leaving her out there.”
A tense silence stretches around us—the only sound is the storm howling outside.
“The old equipment shed,” Walker says suddenly. “If she took shelter, it would be there.”
We move, grabbing flashlights and rain gear, knowing we’re probably making a mistake going outside when it’s this bad, but we won’t be able to live with ourselves if we don’t try.
The storm hits us hard the moment we step outside. The wind is strong enough to knock us sideways, and the rain stings as it slams into my face.
“I’ll drive,” Walker shouts over the storm. “I know these roads better than anyone.”
The drive to the property line feels like an eternity, the truck sliding on the muddy roads and rocking from the wind. The headlights barely give us visibility, and we stop twice to move fallen branches blocking our path.
When we finally reach our spot, Walker parks as close as he can, and we pile out into the storm. Our flashlights reveal the mess the storm is causing, and the only place we can think of within running distance is the old shed. Indie would have walked past it daily to get here—I just hope she was smart enough to run there and not toward the house.
“Fuck!” I yell when I see an old tree has fallen on the shed, crushing it like cardboard.
“Indie!” Nash runs toward it, Walker and I closebehind him. We pull away the debris and wood, searching for her.
“Here!” Walker shouts. “I found her.”
Nash and I race to where Walker is kneeling beside an unconscious Indie, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead.
“Is she...” Nash starts but can’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
“Alive,” Walker confirms, checking her for injuries. “Her pulse is strong, but she’s got a gash on her head. We need to get her out of there.”
Working together, we carefully pull her out. She doesn’t stir, even when we lift her. It worries me more than I want to admit. The trip back to the truck is a nightmare of wind and rain, with all of us struggling to keep our footing while protecting Indie.
“She’s going to be okay,” Nash mutters, more to himself than to us as he cradles her in the back seat. “She has to be.”
I catch Walker’s eye in the rearview mirror, and I can see the same fear that’s eating at me. We found her, but it might be too late. If something happens to her, if we lose her because we weren’t careful enough, none of us will forgive ourselves.
