The wind picked up. The air thickened, electric. Ayah's voice rose stronger, calling to something Rhett couldn't see but could feel building in his chest, in the ground beneath his feet. Thunder cracked, low and rolling.
Then the rain came. Not a drizzle, not a shower. A downpour, heavy and sudden, drumming against the roof, soaking into the thirsty ground. Ayah stood in it, head tilted back, laughing, actually laughing, as water streamed down her face and plastered her hair to her skull.
Rhett stepped off the porch into the rain, letting it soak him, wash away the dust and sweat and accumulated weight of the day. He walked to where Ayah stood, and she turned to him, still laughing, eyes bright. "You called it," he said, shouting over the rain. "I told you."
"How?" "Does it matter?" No, it didn't. They stood together in the rain until it slowed to a steady fall, then moved to the porch, dripping and grinning like idiots.
"Your grandmother would be proud," Rhett said. Ayah's smile faltered just a little. "I hope so." They watched the rain feed the garden, puddles forming in the low spots, the dry earth drinking deep.
"This land wasn't dead," Ayah said softly. "Just waiting for someone to care." Rhett looked at her, rain-soaked, alive, entirely herself, and felt something shift in him. Something old and rusted, cracking open.
"Thank you," he said. "For what?" "For staying. For this."
He gestured at the garden, the rain, everything. "For not letting me disappear." Ayah met his eyes. "You did the same for me."
The rain fell, the canyon breathed, and for the first time in four years, Rhett Callaway thought maybe, just maybe, he could build something instead of running from the ashes. But that night, as the storm intensified into something fiercer, darker, meaner than either of them expected, the real test would come. And survival, Rhett would learn, required more than just deciding to stay. It required trusting someone else to stand with you when everything tried to wash you away.
The rain that had started as a blessing turned vicious by midnight. What began as steady drumming on the cabin roof became a roar, wind screaming through the canyon like something wounded and angry. Rhett woke to the sound of wood creaking, the whole structure shuddering under the force of the storm. He rolled out of his bedroll in the barn and pushed open the door.
Rain slammed into him sideways, cold and sharp as glass. Lightning cracked across the sky, turning everything white for half a second. And in that flash, he saw the creek swollen to three times its normal size, turning brown and fast, already lapping at the eastern fence posts. "Hell," he muttered, pulling his hat down tight.
He grabbed his coat and ran toward the cabin, boots splashing through water that was ankle-deep in places where the ground had nowhere left to drain. Ayah met him at the door, already dressed, hair tied back. Her face was tight with worry. "The garden," she said.
"Forget the garden. We need to get to higher ground." "I'm not leaving it." "Ayah—"
"I spent four days planting those seeds. They're the last ones I have from my people's land. I'm not letting them wash away." Rhett grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to look at him. "If that creek jumps its banks, this whole area floods. I've seen it before. We need to move now."
She jerked away from his grip. "Then help me save what we can." Before he could argue, she was out the door and running toward the garden plot. Rhett swore loud and creative and followed.
The wind tried to knock them both over. Rain turned the world into a gray blur, visibility down to maybe 10 feet. Ayah dropped to her knees at the edge of the garden and started digging with her bare hands. Scooping up mud and seeds.