Flannel and Frost
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 11
Rain hammered the town like it had a personal vendetta—straight, unrelenting sheets that blurred every porchlight into smeared gold. Willow Creek wasn’t built for storms like this. Normally, the real creek murmured through its rocky bed with polite restraint, a background sound you barely noticed unless you were walking the footbridge.
Tonight, it roared.
Ryan stood on the back loading ramp of the hardware store, jacket soaked through within seconds, listening to the water’s furious churn. The creek, just a hundred yards downhill, had ballooned past its banks. Brown, swirling water crashed against the undersides of the small pedestrian bridge, spraying upward like it wanted to rip the whole thing free.
Across Alder Street, lights flicked on one by one as the town woke up to the same realization at the same time: Something’s wrong. More than wrong—dangerous.
Caleb jogged toward him out of the darkness, hood plastered to his head, boots slapping through puddles. “Town hall’s calling volunteers!” he shouted over the rain. “They’re setting up a sandbag line by the bridge!”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. “I’ll grab the shovels.”
Within minutes, the two of them ran through the downpour to the corner lot, where the fire department and a handful of early-arriving townsfolk were already piling sand from a hastily delivered truck. Flashing orange lights illuminated a sea of mud and moving bodies.
Moesha was there too, tying her hair back in a sloppy bun as she filled a bag with fierce determination. “Thought tonight was going to be hot cocoa and editing photos,” she said breathlessly. “Guess not.”
“You and everyone else,” Caleb replied, pulling gloves from his coat pocket and handing Ryan a pair.
A cluster of residents hurried over—Mrs. Calloway from the flower shop, wearing rain boots decorated with cartoon daisies; Pete Delgado lugging a pallet board like it weighed nothing; even the twins from the bakery, their aprons soaked but their expressions set.
There was no panic, not yet. Just urgency. Community. A shared understanding that Willow Creek didn’t wait for help—Willow Creek was its own help.
Shovels scraped. Sand thudded into bags. The rain kept pounding, turning the ground to muck that swallowed every step with a wet, sucking sound.
“Creek’s up almost three feet,” Pete called as he jogged toward the bridge with a stack of filled bags. “If it hits four, we’ll have flooding on the north side.”
Ryan exchanged a look with Caleb. They both moved faster.
A car pulled up near the lot, headlights cutting through the rain, and a few more people spilled out, running to join the effort. The storm blurred all their outlines, turning them into shapes of motion—digging, lifting, hauling, bracing.
Above the roar of water and rainfall, the creek let out a deep, rattling boom—something large hitting the bridge or the embankment. A few people froze. Then everyone moved again, quicker than before.
Ryan hefted another bag, back already aching, breath steaming in the cold air. “How bad does it look?” he asked Caleb.
Caleb threw a grim glance toward the water. “Bad enough that we’re gonna remember tonight.”
Across the street, thunder rumbled like a warning shot.
And Willow Creek, drenched and determined, braced itself.
The storm didn’t ease—it only shifted into a steadier, colder torrent, the kind of rain that worked its way into your bones. By the time the first wave of sandbagging slowed, the town needed something else: dry tools, lanterns, tarps, rope, anything that could keep water out of homes and businesses.
Ryan wiped rain from his eyes, heart pounding from exertion and adrenaline. He looked up the street toward the dark outline of his hardware store. The windows still lacked proper signage, and the shelves were only half installed, but it was four walls, a roof, and—most importantly—stock.
“Caleb!” he called, jog-shuffling across the muddy lot. “We can use the store. I’ve got tarps and basic supplies in the back.”
Caleb blinked through the rain, then nodded with immediate approval. “Good. Real good. Let’s do it.”
They notified the volunteers, and within minutes Ryan was unlocking the store. The door whined—no electricity yet except a couple of temporary work lights, but Moesha hurried in behind him with a portable battery lantern.
“I’ll start setting stuff on the counter,” she said, already shrugging off her drenched hoodie. The lantern cast a warm, steady glow over the dusty interior, making the half-finished place feel suddenly purposeful.
Caleb stepped in next, and with him came June—a slim, quiet fourteen-year-old in an oversized raincoat and braided hair plastered to her shoulders. She hovered behind her dad, taking everything in with wide, serious eyes.
“June,” Caleb said, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze, “this is Ryan. He’s the guy fixing this place up. We’re helping him help the town tonight.”
June nodded, shy but determined. “What should I do?”
Ryan felt something warm inside—the familiar longing for connection, for being useful to someone. “If you don’t mind,” he said gently, “you and Moesha could organize the tarps and plastic sheeting? Put ‘em where people can grab quickly.”
June nodded, already moving to follow Moesha, who gave her an encouraging smile.
Within minutes, the place transformed from a dusty renovation project into a bustling emergency checkpoint. Ryan popped open boxes, stacking flashlights on one shelf, rope and duct tape on another. Caleb sorted buckets and gloves, creating makeshift stations as if he’d done this a hundred times.
The bell above the door jingled—Ryan hadn’t realized it even worked—and the first person stepped in. Mrs. Calloway, drenched and shivering, clutching her daisy-covered rain boots with both hands.
“Sorry to barge in, dear,” she said breathlessly, “but the storm’s knocked a hole in the greenhouse roof.”
“Take what you need,” Ryan said, handing her a tarp before she could ask.
Another wave of townsfolk arrived behind her—Mr. Reilly from the post office looking frazzled, a pair of teenagers carrying a broken flashlight, Pete Delgado needing rope to reinforce the sandbag line. People entered with worry etched into their faces, and left—still worried, yes—but steadier, armed with tools that made them feel just a tad less helpless.
Moesha worked the counter with cheerful efficiency, cracking jokes to lighten the tension. “One tarp per person unless you bribe me with hot cocoa later,” she quipped, making a frantic mother smile despite herself.
June stood beside her, handing out batteries and shrink-wrapped ponchos. At first timid, she grew more confident with every person who thanked her. Caleb watched her with quiet pride.
Ryan found himself swept up in the rhythm of it—fetch, sort, reassure, hand off. The store vibrated with purpose, the hum of community woven into the pounding rain outside. And somewhere in the middle of all the chaos, he felt something loosen inside him. A knot he didn’t know he’d been carrying.
He wasn’t just an outsider anymore. Tonight, he was part of something.
Before he could dwell on that for too long, the store door banged open hard enough to rattle the unfinished frame, a gust of wind carrying a spray of cold rain across the floor. Ryan looked up from tying a bundle of rope for Mr. Reilly—and froze.
Evelyn stepped inside, hair plastered to her cheeks, jacket dripping, mud up the back of her jeans like she’d splashed through every puddle on her way over. She pushed her wet braid over one shoulder, exhaling sharply.
“Where do you need me?” she asked, no preamble, no hesitation. Just steady-eyed resolve.
Moesha blinked in surprise, then grinned. “Girl, you’re gonna catch pneumonia.”
“I’ll file that under ‘deal with later.’” Evelyn pulled off her soaked gloves and tossed them into a bucket. Her gaze fell on Ryan at last—brief contact, steady, unguarded.
He cleared his throat. “We’re low on sorted flashlight batteries. And people keep asking about water-proof tape—”
“I’m on it.” She crossed the room with purposeful strides, her boots squelching softly against the dusty floor.
Within seconds, she was reorganizing the chaotic pile of battery packs Moesha and June had been scrambling to keep straight. Evelyn’s hands moved fast—checking labels, arranging by size, pulling open boxes with a practiced efficiency that surprised Ryan.
A man rushed in, calling out for duct tape and gloves. Ryan started toward the supplies, but Evelyn was already reaching the shelf, tossing him a pair of gloves and snagging two rolls of tape before he could finish explaining his problem.
“Thank you!” he said breathlessly, hurrying out.
“Welcome!” she called back, already turning toward the next frantic customer.
Ryan found himself watching her for a heartbeat too long—how naturally she stepped into the rhythm of the room, how she didn’t waste a single motion, how her presence made everything feel less frantic despite the storm hammering at the walls.
She caught him staring, paused, then offered a small, wry lift of her brow.
“What? You look like you’ve never seen someone sort batteries before.”
He huffed a quiet, almost-laugh. “Not at lightning speed.”
“It’s a talent,” she said dryly, grabbing a handful of AA packs and handing them to June. “Inherited from generations of McAllisters with too many junk drawers.”
They kept moving—passing tarps back and forth, handing off toolkits, checking inventory, navigating around each other in tight aisles without bumping once. Every time Ryan reached for something, Evelyn was already sliding the box closer. Every time she needed a stack of rope, he wordlessly set it at her elbow. It was a quiet dance—intuitive, efficient, strangely comfortable.
The store sounded like a storm unto itself: people rushing in, asking questions, Moesha directing traffic, Caleb calling out supplies, rain hammering the roof. But between all that noise, something steady formed—a small pocket of synchronized effort between two people who, until recently, could barely manage a civil conversation.
Evelyn brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. “You did good opening this place tonight,” she said, voice low as they stood momentarily side by side, restocking a table of emergency lanterns. “Real good.”
Ryan swallowed, caught off guard not just by the praise, but by the warmth in it. “I just ... had the space.”
“Doesn’t matter. You showed up.” She glanced sideways at him. “Around here, that’s everything.”
A bolt of thunder cracked outside, making June jump. Caleb put a steadying hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Ryan set down the lantern he’d been unpacking.
Evelyn’s voice softened. “People needed you tonight. And you were here.”
For a moment, the weight of that settled between them—unexpected, quiet, grounding.
Ryan nodded. “So were you.”
Their eyes met again—brief, unspoken, something shifting like a door easing open—but then another soaked resident stumbled in asking for rope, and they both snapped back into motion.
Still, the echo of that moment lingered, warm despite the storm.
And the storm didn’t let up. If anything, it grew louder—rain hammering the storefront like it wanted in, wind whistling under the old doorframe, thunder rolling low across the valley. Inside the half-finished hardware store, the air buzzed with urgency. People hurried in for supplies, left with thanks, and came back minutes later needing something else.
Ryan and Evelyn fell into a steady rhythm again, but this time the tension of the earlier adrenaline had eased. Now something more subtle—more vulnerable—hovered between them.
June clattered in from the doorway, soaked to the knees, breathless. “Dad—Mrs. Kendall’s fence is coming loose. It’s leaning toward the creek.”
Caleb swore under his breath. “If it goes, it’ll take part of her shed and maybe that old pear tree.” He looked at Ryan. “You got anything sturdy enough to brace it?”
Ryan scanned the shelves, mentally cataloging stock that wasn’t yet sorted. “We’ve got two heavy posts that might work.”
Evelyn stepped up beside him. “Do you need extra hands?” Her voice held no hesitation.
Caleb shook his head. “Stay here. More folks are on their way.” He squeezed June’s shoulder, then hurried out.
June followed, her thin frame braced against the storm.
Evelyn watched them go, anxiety flickering across her face. “That part of the creek floods fast. I hope they make it back before it gets worse.”
Ryan glanced at her—the tension in her jaw, the twist of her fingers in the hem of her damp shirt. She wasn’t just worried; she was afraid.
He lowered his voice. “Caleb knows what he’s doing. And June ... she’s tougher than she looks.”
“I know,” Evelyn said quietly. “But she’s fourteen.”
There was no sarcasm in her tone this time. No guarded edge. Just human worry.
A family burst through the door next—two toddlers crying, their mother soaked and frantic because they’d lost power on the west side. Ryan went to help her sort lanterns, but his attention kept drifting to Evelyn.
She crouched beside the kids, offering soft, steady reassurances that somehow overrode the storm. She found a pack of glow sticks, cracked one open, and handed it to the younger child, who blinked at the neon light with dawning fascination.
“There,” Evelyn murmured. “A little bit of magic, even in the rain.”
The mother’s shoulders sagged with relief.
Ryan watched from a distance, something tightening and loosening in him at the same time. He wasn’t sure if it was admiration or something more fragile.
When things calmed for a breath, Evelyn stood, rubbing her wet arms. “I hate storms like this,” she confessed quietly, not looking at him. “People pretend everything’s fine, but ... it only takes one bad hour to lose something important.”
Her voice hitched—not dramatically, but enough to reveal something she didn’t intend to.
Ryan stepped closer, uncertain but drawn forward anyway. “You’ve lost things in storms before?”
Her eyes turned to him—surprised, guarded, but open enough to let him see the truth.
“My mom,” she said softly. “Years ago. Not a storm like this, but ... I guess weather never stopped feeling dangerous after that.”
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