Rules of Protection (Tangled in Texas #1)(76)

“Do you like flowers?” Floss asked.

“Oh, I love them!” I said. Then my face contorted.

Floss noticed. “You sure you like flowers? Your lip is curling up like you sniffed a skunk.”

I laughed. “I just realized something, that’s all. I’ve never actually been given flowers by anyone before, not even a man. I guess none of them ever thought I was special enough.”

“Well, I get flowers every year.”

“Aww. It’s sweet Hank would go through the trouble—”

“He doesn’t,” she admitted. “The flowers I get are the ones God sends my way every spring. All the flowers I’ll ever need. He cares enough to send them, so I care enough to enjoy them.”

“Honestly, I hardly ever noticed them before coming here,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe that’s why God’s punishing me by putting me in this situation.”

Floss shook her head. “Who said God is punishing you, dear? Maybe he wanted to surprise you. I see how he looks at you.”

I gave her a smile. “God?”

“No, dear, I’m talking about Jake. Keep up with me.” Floss rose to her feet. “I’m going to show you something.” She walked over to the buckets on the ground, pulled out a berry and returned to where I sat. Gently breaking the berry open with her fingernail, she rubbed the stain over her lips, instantly brightening them. “See,” she said, smacking her lips together. “God gives you everything you need. You just have to figure out how to use it to your advantage.”

“Jake is a little more complicated. He has rules. I’m surprised he let me come out here with you. I’m not even sure why he did. Probably his way of buttering me up after handcuffing me last night.”

“Complaining doesn’t create solutions,” Floss said, pulling the dandelion from my hair. She held it lightly under my chin. “Besides, you like butter.” She winked with wise, knowing eyes. Then she went back to picking berries.

I joined her and we finished filling our buckets as dark gray clouds thickened in the distance, blocking out the sun’s rays.

“Hey, Floss,” I yelled. “These blackberry bushes over here have been trampled. Nothing left to pick.”

“The deer have probably been through here a time or two,” she said, looking off at the dark black clouds forming in the distance. “Can’t stay much longer, but there are some more brambles near the creek. They produce better because they get more moisture, but we don’t usually pick from them. Walking the hill hurts Hank’s knee. Why don’t you take this empty bucket down there and start picking while I take these to the truck?”

“Which way is the creek?”

“Over there, north of the large red oak. The creek’s small, but feeds into the Trinity River. Walk straight that way and you’ll find it,” Floss said. “Be back in a minute.”

Floss shrank into the trees as I walked down the hill looking for the blackberry bushes.

The air cooled as the wind picked up, gusting through the trees and warning creatures of the approaching storm.

Who knows how far I walked, but I hadn’t come across the blackberry bushes. Had I strayed off course? All the trees looked the same, and it’s not like my brain had a built-in compass. When I heard the sound of running water, I changed course slightly and strolled in that direction. The sound grew louder. I was getting closer, but still saw nothing.

I positioned myself on a tall dirt mound, trying to catch a glimpse of the creek. Ten seconds later, I realized the mistake I’d made. A biting, stinging pain overwhelmed me. Hundreds of angry, rust-colored fire ants swarmed my feet and ankles, attacking in great numbers. I disturbed their nest, and in return, they had proficiently declared war.

Jumping around in circles, I knocked them away. Every time I thought I got them all, more crawled out from between my toes or the backs of my heels. My feet were on fire, and the burning needed to be doused out. I made a run for the creek.

As I ran, I caught a glimpse of the water. But in a flash, I realized I hadn’t found the small creek, but rather the larger Trinity River. I tried to stop abruptly, but the steep bank was slippery and the forward momentum wouldn’t allow it.

My knees buckled, forcing me to slide down the bank ten feet before dropping into the river.

The runoff from last night’s rainstorm had swelled the dirty river, creating a fast-moving monster, littered with debris. The swift current jostled me around underwater, lashing at me and depriving me of oxygen. It released its grip and I forced my way to the surface, but was only able to take a short breath before the monster dragged me under for the second time.

Again, I fought my way to the surface, smacking my skull on a large branch. Though dazed, I clung to the floating driftwood, using it as a life preserver. I’m not sure how many miles the river shoved me downstream, but somehow, I slowly maneuvered myself closer to the bank and climbed out.

Collapsing with fatigue on the sandy shore, my stomach rolled with nausea. I coughed and sputtered muddy river water from my burning lungs. My mouth felt gritty. I wanted to puke, but couldn’t. Though the next wave of nausea cramped my stomach tightly, I pushed my tangled wet strands out of my face and peered around, trying to get my bearings.

“Hellooo?” I yelled out, though the fire in my feet had transferred to my throat. My voice echoed in the solitude. Swept away by the rushing water, my sandals were no longer on my feet. Catastrophic, since hiking barefoot through the woods would be a slow, tedious process. But it wasn’t the first time I’d been alone in a bad situation and had to rely on myself.