The Daring Storm Chaser - Page 10

Chapter 7

Oz

I wake up with Marjorie draped across my body. My heart soars with happiness at the sight of her curly hair splashed across my chest. I’ve got it bad.

I know this was probably just a one-night stand for her. She’ll go back to being Colby’s manager in a couple of days, and I’ll just be a bad decision she made on the road. But I’ll treasure the memory of her forever. Her skin, her lips, her hair, her scent, her taste. I won’t forget anything about her. Not ever. She’s permanently etched into the folds of my brain.

I slide out from under her, careful not to wake her. Fishing around in my suitcase, I find my toothbrush and deodorant. I quickly get dressed. Then I open my laptop to check the weather forecast.

I spot a major storm system on the radar. My blood runs cold when I realize that it’s headed straight for Mercury Ridge. I quickly do some research and see that the storm system has already produced deadly tornadoes in Texas, Kentucky, and Tennessee. And it’s just building strength. This is going to be bad.

After my time here with Marjorie, I’ve developed an affection for this little town and its people. The last thing I want is to see them in trouble.

I tug on my clothes and gently brush Marjorie’s hair out of her face. “Sweetheart, I need you to wake up.”

She yawns, stretching her arms above her head. “Can’t we sleep in?”

I shake my head. “We can’t. This town is going to be slammed with storms in a couple of hours, and we need to help them prepare.”

“How bad will it be?” Marjorie asks.

“The National Weather Service has already issued a tornado watch for the area,” I inform her. “And judging by the damage this line of storms has already caused, I’d be shocked if it doesn’t produce at least one tornado over North Carolina. Hopefully, that won’t be here, but people need to be prepared.”

While Marjorie gets dressed, I contact the local law enforcement and ask about shelters in the area. They tell me the firehouse is constructed of reinforced steel and concrete and is the safest place in town. They also have a working tornado siren.

Marjorie and I spend the next hour visiting the local businesses on Main Street to give them a heads-up that the weather could get nasty. For those that don’t have a basement, cellar, or a centrally located room where they can take shelter, we encourage them to go to the firehouse.

“Better safe than sorry,” I tell the ladies working at Sweet Mercury.

The bakery’s owner, Holly, nods. “We’ll close the shop and head over in a few minutes,” she promises as she fills a bag with a variety of donuts. She thrusts the bag at me. “On the house.”

I accept the bag gratefully and Marjorie and I munch on the most delicious donuts I’ve ever tasted as we walk to the building next door.

“These Mercury Ridge residents sure are good in the kitchen, aren’t they?” Marjorie says as she licks the glaze from her fingers.

“Mm-hmm,” I agree. “This town is even better than Dante’s Peak if you ask me.”

She grins at me. “I could live here.”

“Mercury Ridge Mayor Marjorie Raynes does have a nice ring to it.” Mayor Marjorie Metzer sounds even better.

By the time we visit the last business on Main Street, the sky has transitioned from bright blue to slate gray. The first smattering of raindrops starts to fall. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

“That’s our cue,” I tell Marjorie, grabbing her hand. “Let’s get to the firehouse.”

We’re fifty feet or so away from the huge garage doors when a powerful gust of wind blasts us, knocking Marjorie down. She drops the bag of donuts and the wind carries them away. I grab hold of her shirt and yank her back to her feet, pulling her toward the firehouse.

“Is it a tornado?” she shrieks.

“No. Just a warning from Mother Nature that the storm is here.” Leaves and twigs pelt into us moments before the sky opens up, releasing a torrent of rain. The water quickly builds on the surface of the pavement, sending little rivulets in through the doors as we dash inside.

We’re both soaked, and when I glance at Marjorie, I see there are bits of leaves in her hair, her shirt’s ripped, and there’s a trickle of blood on her forehead.

I gasp. “Is your head okay?”

“My head?” she asks, confused. She reaches up to touch the cut. “I must have been hit by a twig or something.”

I cover the small wound with the sleeve of my shirt as a fireman heads in our direction. He barks orders to someone to close the garage doors. When he reaches me, he extends his hand for me to shake. “I’m the fire chief, Phoenix Griffin, but everyone calls me Griff. I hear you’re the folks responsible for sending all these citizens our way?”