No Place Like Home

He refused to feel guilty over turning down yet another risk to his daughter’s well-being. As Mariah focused her attention on Jess and his bowls of sugar, Rafe peered closer at the Doppler image that appeared on the screen.

These past three days, they’d chased storms over western Texas and into Oklahoma, making their way to Jeremy’s home base, a rundown farmhouse near the cafе. Now chances looked ripe for late-afternoon storms. They needed to check the data, try to narrow their target area.

But the forecast failed to hold his attention when Jess giggled and Mariah laughed; an unaffected laugh that told him she’d momentarily forgotten her mission—namely him. He watched a packet of sugar being exchanged from Jess’s small hand to Mariah’s pretty crimson-polished fingers.

“The National Weather Service just issued a storm watch extending from central Oklahoma up into south central Nebraska. North central Kansas is ranked a high-risk zone.” Jeremy grinned as he drawled out the report, his dark eyes lit with excitement, as if he was sitting in paradise instead of Tornado Alley’s hot zone.

Rafe knew that for Jeremy, chase fever, which struck before the primary chase season of mid-April to mid-June, was a permanent condition. He was as close to being an outlaw chaser as Rafe was far from it since the birth of his child. Having a daughter had changed Rafe’s approach to his work for the better. Until lately…

Rafe knew his photos had made a difference in the study of storms that spawned killer tornadoes. That had been the purpose of his career. But the chase had taken on a different meaning since Ann’s death. He was taking risks he didn’t normally take, aware that each storm he “captured” on film gave Sunny a better understanding of the tornado that had claimed her mother’s life, helping Sunny to cope with her loss and her resulting fear of storms.

Mariah shot a furtive glance over her shoulder, no doubt sensing a story in the air. He kept his voice low. “We’re within striking distance if we leave now.”

Their fellow chasers, two impatient young college men aiming for careers in meteorology, and Gus, an old farmer who’d served as a weather spotter for years, had already scooted back their chairs. The college boys left in a whirlwind of khaki, not about to miss any action. Gus planned to go home and warn his wife of fifty years; she liked to tag along when he chased.

Jeremy moved into action, deftly disassembling his equipment. At the counter, Mariah dug bills out of her purse, tucking a twenty under a corner of the untouched plate Trixie had brought her. She slipped a dollar to Jess, and Rafe smiled reluctantly. But when Mariah’s gaze met his, he pursed his lips, straightening from the table. “The dryline looks to merge right on top of Highway 281.”

Jeremy’s eyes gleamed as he rose. “We should drive right into the son of a gun.”

“Let’s go.” Rafe was grimly aware of Mariah hitching her purse over her shoulder, scooting her small butt off the stool, ready to chase him down as surely as he’d chase a tornado.

Jeremy called out to Trixie, “We’ve got weather coming this afternoon. You and Jess be ready to take shelter.”

“I know what to do,” Trixie shot back at him.

With no doubt that Trixie would look after Mariah if need be, Rafe nudged Jeremy out of a stare-down with the stubborn cafе owner. Jeremy would have better luck facing down a tornado. As for himself, he wasn’t going to get caught face-to-face with pretty Mariah again.

He reached the door first, pulling it open. Jeremy pushed through with his equipment, the competitive edge still there, no matter that they were partners, gathering photos for a stock photography agency. Rafe followed him out, digging keys from his pocket, exchanging a round of “keep in touch” and “watch your backside.” They’d each find their own route, seeking storms based on their own forecasting quirks, converging later in the vicinity of the largest storm.

Jeremy climbed in a battered black pickup that often served as a second home. Rafe curled his hand around the chrome handle of his truck’s door, adrenaline kicking in. A strong jet stream moved this storm. He wasn’t going home tonight without “capturing” a tornado on film for his daughter.

“Wait!”

Impatient, he glanced back all the same when Mariah called out from the cafе door. She jogged toward him, gravel scarring her leather heels, her purse dangling by its strap from her hand. He grimaced. Anything for the story.

In a sense, he understood; he’d reached the point where he would do almost anything for a picture. Since she’d failed to win his cooperation, he suspected Mariah would resort to the ultimate threat, the way they all did, warning him that she would write her own version of his personal past if he didn’t reveal the facts.

The sun-heated chrome burned hot against his palm, the need to protect his daughter churning through him. Jeremy gunned his pickup, fishtailing by with a grin and raising a cloud of gravel dust. Rafe muttered a curse and yanked open the truck door. He wasn’t waiting around—

He drew up short, Mariah suddenly wedged between his hip and the truck seat, blocking his slide in. She squinted up at him, the sky still a deceptive baby blue—kind of like her innocent eyes.

He braced himself for the threat, or maybe even a bribe.

But her gaze turned dark and desperate, her voice low and gritty as she told him, “If I don’t get this story, I’ll be fired.”

Chapter Two

Time hung suspended on the hot, dusty air between them, Rafe weighing the consequences of physically moving Mariah from his path so he could climb into his truck to chase a storm he instinctively knew would be less threatening.

A light, sweet scent lifted from her skin, wafting through the heat and the grit. With his next breath, he knew the consequences would be high. He kept his hands to himself, determined to turn down her request for his time—and his story.

But the refusal wouldn’t come. He kept picturing her inside the cafе, giving Jess a dollar, tipping Trixie a twenty for her trouble, all the while aware she’d just lost the interview that would save her job. Even knowing the threat posed by the desperation in her eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to turn her away.

“All right, get in. But I’m not promising anything.”

She turned in the small space between them, tossing her purse on the truck seat. Rafe sucked in a breath, leaning back in a halfhearted effort to give her more room. Then she was pressing her hand to his chest, her bright crimson nails seeming to burn through his drab field shirt.

“I’ll be right back—I have to get my things.”

She edged by with a brush of curls and silk and curves. Rafe exhaled, bracing his free hand atop the truck.

A chase required precision forecasting and an eye to the elements. Only the merging of specific atmospheric elements and events at the same time could form the kind of storms that produced tornadoes. And only perfect timing on his part would put him in the right location for a photograph.

Mariah promised to thoroughly distract him.

Even now, she leaned inside her rental coupe, her flirty shorts hiked up her silk covered thighs. Rafe grimaced. Who would have thought a journalist would be the one to stir his hormones back to life?

She straightened, her arms filled with electronic gear—a laptop, a tape recorder, a cell phone. The lady meant business, he realized grimly. He hauled himself into the truck, her little black purse occupying the passenger seat. He ought to toss it out and drive off. As she started over, Mariah’s wary gaze met his, as if she suspected he might do just that.

Then it was too late. She deposited her gear atop her purse, scrambling in with a flash of leg. Rafe thrust her things in back with his equipment. Buckling her seat belt, she said breathlessly, “Ready.”

Gravel sprayed from beneath the truck’s wheels as he shot out of the parking lot.

Mariah clutched at the dash, disturbing neatly rolled maps, earning a frown from Rafe. She straightened them, sinking into the bucket seat.

At least he drove reasonably near the speed limit. Panning the endless blue sky for clouds, her focus suddenly narrowed. On the passenger side, tape had been placed in a “X” over a star cracked into the bug-splattered windshield. Dents riddled the hood. Hail? she wondered. What kind of storm produced hail large enough to cause that much damage? An image of the truck’s mud-crusted wheel wells registered in her mind. Considering Rafe’s reputation for risk taking, joining him on a chase seemed foolish in retrospect.

But she had a job at stake.

Putting herself at ease the best way she knew how, she perused the truck’s interior. Video camera mounted on the dash, radios, scanners, even a TV monitor. She peered between the seats. He’d apparently gutted the back for storage.

Awareness tingled through her, triggered by an earthy scent she recognized as Rafe’s. His shirtsleeve grazed her cheek; his body heat warmed her. A glance revealed the clench of his stubbled jaw. Unfamiliar as she was with meteorology, Mariah recognized the charged atmosphere between them. She eased back into her seat.

And she proceeded to grill him on his interesting array of equipment, right down to the cell phone she knew he carried in his pocket.

“So, you’re saying your cell phone system interfaces with your laptop for on-road reports?”

“That’s right.”

A man of few words. “What about that odd-looking instrument mounted outside? Not the antennas, but the staff with the three little cups attached?”

“The anemometer. Measures wind speed.”

She attempted a closer look out the window, pushing at the creeping hem of her shorts. “How does it work? Do the cups rotate—”

“Yes. They do. Just…sit back. I need to…listen to the radio for NWS reports.”

More curious than apprehensive now, Mariah caught her lip. Then she asked, “What’s NWS?”