Texas Standoff. Ruth Smith Alana

she was prone to do. Because of such foolishness she now faced the unsavory possibility of not making it back to the ranch before the bridge over Whistling Creek became impassable. The thought of how the hands would ride her about the frivolous reason for courting a swim on her way back from San Antonio-namely, the off-theshoulder lavender sundress with a two-hundred-dollarplus price tag-caused her to give the pickup more gas. Not smart, either, but then, it was fast becoming a choice between the lesser of two evils-risk hydroplaning out of control or being swept away by rampaging waters.

      “The sheriff’s department has asked me to pass along some high-water trouble spots,” the DJ’s voice sputtered from the radio speaker. “The following counties are gettin’ the worst of it-Bexar, Bandera and Kerr. In particular, they want y’all to shy away from the areas around Parsons Pass, Two Forks Crossing and Whistling Creek. The first two are already closed ‘cause of high water, and the deputies tell me someone phoned in to say that the water’s risin’ faster than feed prices over at Whistling Creek. They figure the bridge will be out of commission within the hour. There’s already been a report of a car being washed away near Parsons Pass, one person rescued, another drowned. ‘Course, that’s unconfirmed as yet, but it does happen, folks. That’s why we want y’all to heed the sheriff’s warnings and stay off the roads if possible. For those foolhardy enough to brave this mess, for goodness’ sake, use good sense. If you can’t gauge it, don’t risk it. The water’s probably deeper than you think and it’d be a mistake to wade in. Just park and climb a tree, if need be. A vehicle can be replaced. People can’t.”

      As the oversize tires of Elise’s pickup plowed through the standing water, the backwash spray against the bottom of the metal bed produced a gushy roar within the cab. The pickup’s forward momentum waned and it was difficult to hold the truck steady on the slick road.

      Though it was only four in the afternoon, the sky was pitch-black. The high beams didn’t penetrate but a few yards directly in front. Elise concentrated on the intermittent patch of road she could now and then make out. Her mind was singularly focused. Just another mile or so and she’d reach the bridge and the meandering creek that fringed her property. Think positive, she told herself. The idea of having to dog-paddle the creek with a party dress clenched between her teeth in order to justify the three-hour trip and mucho dinero she’d spent really irked her.

      “The bridge won’t be down,” she muttered to herself. Hombre cocked a floppy ear, then exhaled a sigh. Since he was a pup, the dog had loathed water. He hid whenever it was time for his twice-monthly bath. It was almost as if he understood his present predicament. Elise just wasn’t sure if his sigh represented relief or resignation. Hombre’s senses were more reliable than hers. He was simply reacting to the thundering drumroll and the anxious scent emitting from her.

      It wasn’t only the rough weather that gnawed at her nerves, or even the unsavory prospect of swimming the cold, spring-fed creek. No, it was something else, something akin to a feeling of expectancy-a strange premonition that a crossing of a different sort than the one she anticipated awaited her at the edge of Whistling Creek.

      She shrugged off the queer sensation, chalking it up to the strain of the treacherous drive. “Silliness,” she told herself, concentrating, instead, on keeping the truck in the middle of the road and far from the steep side ditches, which had become invisible under the surging storm waters.

      “I SAID I’M UP to my Mercedes emblem in water, lady.

      As we speak, I’m stranded on the side of some godforsaken back road with water creeping up to my-” he almost said, “crotch,” but checked himself “-knees.

      This is an SOS,” he yelled into the receiver of the portable phone.

      The voice of the mobile operator on the other end was mostly garbled static, with only an occasional intelligible word filtering through.

      “What.” Hiss, crackle, then silence punctuated by a faint human sound. “Location, please,” he managed to snatch from thin air.

      What is your location? he guessed, filling in the gaps. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for the sticky note on which he’d scribbled the directions. He couldn’t remember exactly what turnoff he’d taken. No sooner had he removed the slip of paper than he realized he’d left his reading glasses on the console inside the car. The deluge of rain blurred the ink, making deciphering the directions next to impossible. Rivulets of water rolled down his face and dripped off his nose. Where the hell was he? He couldn’t clearly recall any of the road signs he’d passed.

      “I think I’m on Calvary Road. No, that’s not it. Maybe it’s Canterbury,” he guessed. “Hell, I can’t remember. It could be Calcutta, for all I know.”

      There was no response except for intermittent blips of a female voice. “. landmark…near.” He could barely hear over the percussion of the rain.

      He looked about. “There’s a bridge about twenty yards ahead, but I can’t make out the sign,” he hollered, trying to compete with the rolling thunder. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated the sky. Seconds later the cellular phone went dead. The signal was lost. No mobile operator, not even static.

      “Crap!” Frustration overtook him. He reared back and threw the useless object as far as his anger would carry it. It was a stupid thing to do, but then so was his decision to continue driving in this foul weather, especially in an area totally foreign to him. It rained in Dallas, same as it did elsewhere, but he’d never experienced a storm as sudden or as intense as this. The road had become a lake in a matter of minutes, and it was impossible to tell where the shoulder ended and the road dropped off into a steep drainage ditch. Hence, the reason for his sleek Mercedes plunging into the ditch and taking on water like a sinking ship while he could do nothing but bail out with portable phone in hand to signal an SOS. Great idea that was!

      “Monsoon season in the boonies,” he grumbled to himself, his heart sinking as he noted the ever-rising benchmark of brown water on his cream-colored car. The Mercedes was now half-submerged. Ruined. A total loss. He mentally pictured his insurance agent’s reaction when he filed a claim. Then he pictured how ridiculous he must look at the moment-perched on the hood of his car, sitting cross-legged, barefoot, his perfectly tailored trousers rolled up to his knees, starched shirt soaked to the skin and expertly cut hair plastered to his head. He looked like a human downspout. What a sight! And what fun his associates in Dallas would have at his expense if they could see the always unflappable, impeccable Colin Majors at this ego-deflating instant.

      There were many lawyers who’d secretly relish the idea of Colin Majors finding himself in a situation where he was in over his head, where his smooth orations and snappy comebacks wouldn’t sway the balance, where he was no longer in his element but rather at the mercy of the elements. He could object to high heaven, but Mother Nature would overrule him. Oh, yeah, there were more than a few who’d sat at opposing tables throughout many a trial, wishing, probably even praying, he’d be struck by lightning. His present humiliating circumstances would give them immense satisfaction, if only symbolically.

      Another crack of lightning fractured the heavens, streaking to earth with serpentinelike fury and slithering along the ground until finding its mark-a nearby tree. The solid oak split upon impact, groaning and sizzling in its sudden demise. Colin flinched so violently he nearly fell off the hood of the car. The smell of charred wood hung in the wet air for only a moment, then it too died under the onslaught of unrelenting rain. Half in awe, half afraid, Colin sat stupefied, unable to detach himself from the havoc of the storm’s unchecked power. Crazily, the freak lightning strike brought to mind an especially harsh remark made to him at the conclusion of another highly charged incident. The exchange took place a few years back, at the end of a sensational murder trial, but he still remembered the stinging rebuke as though it were yesterday. After his client was acquitted, a family member of the victim ambushed him on his way out of the courtroom.

      “You’re as sorry as that monster you’ve turned loose to walk the streets again. If there’s any justice in this world, God’ll strike you dead for what you’ve done.” The sobbing accuser had spit in his face. He’d never forget the pain in the woman’s eyes or the bitterness