Czytaj książkę: «Marry Me, Marine»

CHAPTER ONE

EXCEPT FOR THAT TRIP to Yellowstone with her parents the summer she turned nine, Angela Adams had never ventured north of the Colorado state line into Wyoming. Had never taken I-80 west into unfamiliar territory. Certainly not to propose marriage to a man she’d never met.

Fumbling with the map, hastily scribbled on a napkin, she tried to decipher her own handwriting. “Water pump mailbox?”

The answer appeared on her left, a weathered mailbox mounted on an old wrought-iron pump. The missing letters made the name impossible to read. Ignoring the clamor in her head telling her to keep driving straight through the Cowboy State, she slowed to take the unmarked dirt road.

Life so far had been a series of bad choices. Whether she was on the right track now or taking another wrong turn was hard to know. Several bumpy miles later the tires of Grandma Shirley’s pink 1980 Cadillac Seville rumbled over a cattle guard, jolting Angela back to reality.

With enough steam rising from beneath the hood to rival Old Faithful, Angela pulled to the side of the road before the engine could vapor-lock on her again. Her grandmother may have been a top-selling Mary Kay rep to win this car, but that was more than thirty years ago.

Long before Angela was born.

The sloped trunk gave the Caddy the look of a classic Rolls Royce, but there was vintage and then there was old. With a sigh of resignation Angela shut down the engine.

She’d seriously underestimated the amount of coolant needed to get her this far. Resisting the urge to drop her head to the steering wheel, she popped the catch for the hood and stepped into the crisp air of a mid-November afternoon.

Once she’d rounded the car she raised the hood—and choked on the smell of burned crayon. With the red rag from her jeans pocket she tested the too-hot-to-handle radiator cap and—

The first ping got her attention. The second, definitely a gunshot, had her ducking for cover behind the Caddy’s shiny grill.

Heart pounding, Angela glanced over her shoulder at the bullet-ridden no trespassing sign swinging from a rusted-off-its-hinges cattle gate, half-hidden in the scrub. Granted, the sign was several yards to her right, but she’d never been downrange of gunfire before.

Her recruiter wouldn’t have sent her here were she in any real danger. Would he? He’d merely said, “I might know a guy.”

On the off chance that this “guy” with no cell phone and no computer would say yes to her proposal, she’d driven four hundred miles with a leaky radiator and next to no gas money in her pocket. She’d need more than a couple well-intentioned warning shots to scare her off.

She’d left Denver with little more than the guy’s name and whereabouts written on the back of her recruiter’s business card. But in the town of Henry’s Fork, where she’d stopped for further directions, folks had warned her he’d likely shoot first and ask questions later.

Angela raised the dirty red rag. She didn’t have a white one to signal surrender.

When he didn’t shoot the rag out of her hand she took it as a good sign. In case it wasn’t, she got out her cell phone and searched for a signal so she could call for help. She didn’t know how long she crouched by the car—but several hundred heartbeats passed. Was she supposed to just wait him out?

She glanced at her smartphone. Not so smart. Still no signal.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep enough breath to give herself the courage to stand, and moved from the relative safety of the Cadillac, her hands held high. “I’m coming out! Please, please don’t shoot.”

Surrounded by barren trees, she scanned the bluffs. No sign of life anywhere. Even the dry creek bed appeared dead. A lone brown leaf blew from one rock to the next. Dressed in her Ugg boots and matching suede and lamb’s wool vest, Angela stood in the middle of the dirt road, unsure of her next move.

This was by far her dumbest idea to date. And the longer she stood there, rag and phone in the air, the more she proved that.

What was he waiting for? Was he watching her now?

The wind kicked up and she shivered.

“You can put your hands down, darlin’”

Angela whirled.

The one-eyed grizzly bear of a man wore mud-colored camouflage and cradled a military-grade rifle with a high-powered scope in hands sporting fingerless rawhide gloves. As big as he was, he’d somehow sneaked up along the passenger side of the car.

Well, at least he wasn’t pointing his weapon at her. “You should put that away before someone gets hurt,” she said.

“Missed you by a mile.” He propped himself against Shirley’s prized possession and drilled Angela with his single-eyed stare. “Then again, my aim ain’t what it used to be.”

She shifted her gaze from his piercing-blue left eye to the black patch over his right. With his overlong hair hanging in his face and his overgrown beard shading the rest of it, she couldn’t read his expression. But he had to be kidding, right?

Civilized people didn’t go around shooting each other.

Oh, wait—yes, they did. And he fit the stereotype. Ex-military. Loner. “But he was always so quiet,” the neighbors would say when the media interviewed them. What had the townspeople called him? The Hermit of Henry’s Fork?

The guffaws of the old men sitting at the counter in the diner, drinking their coffee black and eating their pie à la mode, mocked her now. “We tried to tell her.”

She glanced at the sign. “You dotted the i in no trespassing from what, a good two hundred yards out?” She had no idea what she was talking about. Except her dad had taken her to a rifle range once.

“Nice to know you can read. The private property signs start a mile back. Once your car cools down I expect you to turn around and get yourself headed the right way.”

So much for small talk.

Angela twisted the rag in her hands. “I’m not lost.”

“What are you, then?” He eyed her curiously.

“Looking for you.”

“I’m not a novelty act, darlin’. You need to get the hell off my property.” He pushed away from the Caddy and continued in the direction Angela had been driving. As he passed the sign, he tapped it with the butt end of his rifle. “I wasn’t aiming to dot the i. Next time I won’t miss.”

Under different circumstances she might have let him scare her off. His calmness seemed even more dangerous than his weapon. But she’d come to know the worst kind of fear: desperation. And she’d driven too far to give up now. “Please, Hatch!”

He ground to a halt. “Do we know each other?”

Even if he hadn’t emphasized the word know, Angela would have felt his meaning in the way he looked at her. As if every inch of her was his for the taking. Heat crept into her cheeks as she shook her head.

“Who sent you?” His question and the way he scanned their surroundings showed an edge of paranoia.

He moved in so close she had to scrunch her nose. He smelled…earthy. And that was being kind.

Was this really the man she wanted to marry?

Building hysteria bubbled at the back of her throat. Did what she want matter anymore? A short laugh escaped. “Nobody.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Liar.”

Startled by the clarity of his gaze, she found herself searching his face. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then his was dark and stormy. But not out of touch with reality.

His pupil appeared normal. Black like onyx and in sharp contrast to the cobalt-blue iris, somehow softened by spiky black lashes.

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

An unexpected jolt of electricity shot through her at the intensity of his stare. “My recruiter thought maybe you’d help me.”

“Your recruiter?”

“Bruce Calhoun.”

“Ah.” He took a step back and studied her with renewed interest. “Help you how?”

“I need a husband.”

“And I’m supposed to find one for you?”

The rag in her hand became a tangled knot. “You’re the one.” Her words sounded more like a question than a statement.

He let out a snort, but at least he’d found some humor in her announcement. “Tell my buddy Bruce Calhoun that’s the best laugh I’ve had in a long time. Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need a wife.”

“It’s not like I want an actual husband.” She recoiled at the thought. “Just a piece of paper that says I have one. To enlist.”

So much for appealing to, what, his sense of duty?

Patriotism? Pride?

Loyalty to the gunnery sergeant who’d sent her here? Why would the man standing here, or any man for that matter, marry her so she could join the Marine Corps? He’d have to be loony.

And while this might be debatable she hoped he wasn’t that crazy. Just crazy enough to say yes.

He continued to scrutinize her. “The only reason you’d need a husband to enlist would be that you’re a single mom.”

Was that common knowledge to everyone except her? She hadn’t realized it, walking into the recruiting office with her high ideal of providing a better life for her son.

Just thinking of Ryder bolstered her determination.

“He’s two. Almost two and a half. His birthday is in May.” She flashed a cell phone picture of her son in his Halloween costume. Dressed like Yoda from Star Wars. He had her red hair and green eyes. “His name is Ryder.”

Seeing the man’s lack of interest in her digitized family album, she tucked her phone away with a sinking feeling. If pictures of Ryder didn’t tug at his heartstrings, he had no strings to tug.

“How old are you?” His focus narrowed. He was about to judge her the way most people did—too young and too irresponsible to be a good parent. Well, she was a good parent.

“None of your business.”

“You just made it my business.”

Crossing her arms, she tilted her chin. “Twenty.”

He cursed under his breath. “How old do you think I am?”

Hard to say. Beneath all that hair he could be in his late twenties or early forties, or any age in between. “Old enough,” she ventured.

“I need a kid even less than I need a wife.”

Angela got the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about her son. The man pivoted and started walking away again. She tossed the knotted rag in the general direction of the car and ran to keep up.

“You’ll never have to see me again, I promise. Except for the divorce. And that could be anytime after boot camp. Say a year from now—”

“Not going to happen.”

She really needed for this to happen. “Hatch, please. Please.” How pathetic was she, begging the man to marry her? But right now, saving her pride was secondary to gaining his help. While the military didn’t allow single parents to enlist, they did allow parents to serve if they became single after enlisting. “I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment.”

All she wanted was a piece of paper.

“What part of no don’t you understand?”

Even with her long legs she had a hard time keeping up with him in his determination to get away from her. “You haven’t said no yet.”

He stopped so abruptly she stumbled into him, a solid wall of stubbornness. The look he conveyed over his shoulder told her she was pressing more than just his firm backside.

“I was aiming for the O in No. Do I have to spell it out? Consider that my answer for everything.”

“Oh.” But that shouldn’t count. He’d shot at the sign before he knew her question.

They’d reached the end of a tree-lined drive. Before her sat a two-story farmhouse. White or gray—she couldn’t be sure, glancing at the peeling paint. Darker gray shutters hung crookedly beside cracked and broken windows.

Did anyone actually live here?

Out buildings, including stables and a barn, divided the sizable clearing into a working ranch compound. But “run to the ground” didn’t begin to describe it. It was as desolate as the late-autumn landscape. “How big is your ranch?”

“Six hundred and fifty acres. What’s left of it, anyway.”

That sounded big. It looked big enough to her. But something was missing. “Where is everybody?”

“I’m it.” He headed toward an extended-cab Ford F-150 parked beneath an ancient cottonwood tree. The shiny black pickup appeared out of place in the empty yard.

“What about cows?”

“Cattle,” he corrected. “What about ’em?”

“Where are they? And horses?”

“All gone. Any more questions?” he asked, lowering the Ford’s tailgate and setting his rifle inside.

“Just one.” Angela nodded toward the skinned carcass, headless and hanging upside down from the tree, hidden from earlier view by the truck. “What’s that?”

“Know anything about field dressing a deer?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Too bad.” He unfolded a leather pouch, uncovering a hacksaw and a row of very sharp, very lethal looking knives. “Had my heart set on a gal who could field dress a fresh kill.”

The knives, the discarded hooves, the bucket of bloody entrails, the stained rubber gloves—they weren’t making her queasy. Or even the severed head of a buck staring at her from the truck bed with glassy eyes.

Really, they weren’t.

She’d known going into this that she had only one thing a man might want in exchange for a marriage certificate. And just the thought made her want to hurl all over his work boots.

HATCH CAUGHT HER before she hit the ground.

After laying her out across the tailgate, he used his jacket to pillow her head, shaking his. City girl.

Girl being the operative word here. She was little more than a kid out of high school.

Seeing the world though a high-powered scope tended to put things in perspective. He’d felt her apprehension even at a distance. Had assumed a couple warning shots would scare her off. But she was either a whole lot dumber or a whole lot more determined than he’d first given her credit for.

Leaning into the truck bed, he pulled the tarp over his other doe-eyed trophy and waited for the living, breathing one to come around. Long lashes fluttered against the kind of dark smudges that resulted from too many sleepless nights.

She opened her green eyes wide. “Am I still in one piece?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m trying not to think.” She glanced toward the tarp-covered buck and sat up.

“Hold on.” He tossed off his shooting glove and rolled up his shirtsleeve to fish the icy waters of his beer cooler for a can of cola. He switched hands and passed it to her, shaking the feeling back into his cold, wet one.

“Thank you.” Her bangs fell forward onto one flushed cheek and she tucked them behind her ear. At least her color was returning.

Peaches and cream.

An honest to goodness redhead, not the drugstore kind.

Even without the ponytail and smattering of freckles she’d look like jailbait. She wasn’t old enough to have a drink with him, yet she’d driven the interstate to marry him.

As a teen mom she’d had all the responsibilities and none of the privileges of adulthood. Twenty still wasn’t old enough to know what she wanted in life, let alone marriage.

The Marine Corps? Marriage without commitment?

To a guy she didn’t even know? And wouldn’t care to know under normal circumstances.

What the hell was she thinking?

What the hell was Calhoun thinking? For the life of him, Hatch couldn’t figure out why the gunnery sergeant would send her here. He and Calhoun had bled together on a joint Navy-Marine task force. That made them brothers of sorts.

But brothers had your back.

They didn’t send a barely legal young woman to rattle your cage when all you wanted was to be left alone.

“Since we’ve established I don’t maim for sport and you faint at the drop of a hat—” he nodded toward the carcass “—guess I’d better bag this bad boy.” He rolled up his other sleeve and slipped a breathable sack over the meat. “You might want to set your sights on a career path other than the Marine Corps.”

After tying off the sack, he raised the hoist.

The meat needed a good six hours to cool. It could wait. She couldn’t. Someone had to give this chick a reality check. “Maybe the Navy’s more your style, a nice cushy job aboard an aircraft carrier. Like explosive ordnance handler?”

Those bombs could weigh her down so a strong wind wouldn’t blow her overboard. Despite her height, which he put around five foot ten, she was a featherweight.

Still, she’d have to have a husband just to join.

“I tried there first,” she said in all seriousness. “They didn’t want me.” She looked down at the can of ginger ale in her hands. “The Marine recruiter…” She shrugged. “He suggested I come see you.”

She lifted hopeful eyes to Hatch. If he was her only hope, she was shit out of luck. He didn’t want any more needy women in his life. He’d returned home to put all that behind him.

“What about the boy’s father?”

“What about him?”

“He’d be the logical choice for a husband. There’s a reason the armed services don’t allow single parents to enlist.” Resisting the urge to remove his patch and show her just how ugly war could get, Hatch continued to try to make some sense of her request. “Selling cosmetics doesn’t seem like such a bad way to make a living.”

He didn’t know jack about that biz, but he did know cars. So unless she’d carjacked an elderly Mary Kay lady for that pink prize, he couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten it. That specialty Seville was at least as old as he was, and wasn’t the kind of vehicle offered up for sale, even used.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t earn one of her own. How hard could it be for a woman to sell lipstick to other women? Although Peaches looked more all-natural pretty than put-together pretty. He’d bet she hadn’t even reached her full beauty potential. Given a few more years and the confidence to carry it off, she’d be a real knockout.

“I’m not much of a salesperson.” She dismissed the idea as if she’d heard it before. Pride kept her chin up and her eyes focused on him.

Eyes like that could get a man in trouble. Not jewel-toned. That would have overpowered her pretty complexion. But earth-toned. Soft like a bed of moss in springtime.

Which would have been a decent analogy if his thoughts hadn’t strayed to laying her down in it. He liked his women lean and leggy.

He shook his head to clear it.

What the hell was he thinking?

She was too young and too damn wholesome for him. Plenty of guys her own age would jump at the chance to marry her.

So why him? She didn’t know him. Or she’d realize he wasn’t even a good temporary solution for her particular situation. At the very least she should have taken one look at him and run.

But she hadn’t. She was sitting there eyeing him as though he had the answer to all life’s problems. Like she was his kid sister, for crying out loud. Hell, Jessie, his own sister, would have been about her age had she lived to see twenty.

He scrubbed a hand over his beard and folded his arms.

“What about family? Your parents couldn’t approve of this trip.” Although her coming here in the first place suggested a lack of parental guidance.

“There’s only my grandma Shirley and me. And Ryder.” His trespasser set those soft, mossy-green eyes on him. “I’m prepared to make whatever sacrifices I have to in order to join the military. Being a single mom isn’t any easier as a civilian.”

He didn’t doubt that.

“I think,” he said, choosing his next words carefully, “you’ve been misinformed.” He leveled his gaze on her. “If you want me to track down the boy’s father, I can do that. I’ll even waive my usual fee and throw in a shotgun wedding.”

She blinked, clearly puzzled.

Apparently shotgun humor went way over her head.

“Are you some sort of goon for hire?”

“Beats groom for hire. Either way, you couldn’t afford me.”

Those odd jobs on the fringe of his former career as a Navy SEAL had gotten him through this past year. But jobs for a peripherally challenged operative were few and far between. In fact, her broken-down Cadillac was the most excitement he’d had in a long time.

He reached into the truck bed toolbox and grabbed a gallon jug of coolant. “Now if you’ll excuse me—” he nodded toward her car “—I have goon business to attend to.”

His mistake was in turning his back on her.

Halfway down the road he heard the screen door slam. The hollow sound echoed through his memory. All those times he’d tried to leave and couldn’t, because his mother had begged him to stay, even as she’d crowded him out with all her crap.

The last time, he’d let the door slam.

At age seventeen.

The military had seemed like his only way out. But he’d needed a parent’s signature to join.

His mother had refused, as he knew she would. But he could always count on his father to be drunk enough not to know or care what he was signing. So Hatch had driven to Laramie, found the old man in one of his shit-hole bars and said his goodbyes.

He’d never blamed his father for leaving.

Only for leaving him behind.

Which was what had drawn him to the Teams. The military wasn’t just a job. It was a lifestyle. He understood the appeal of that for himself. He couldn’t see it for her.

After turning around he set the coolant jug on the tailgate, he took a deep breath and followed her inside. She’d stopped three feet from the kitchen, and was holding the crook of her arm up to her nose. The stench was enough to put anyone off, but she couldn’t have gone any farther had she wanted to.

Worse than the floor-to-ceiling trash were the treasures that reminded him he’d once called this place home—the refrigerator magnet holding his sixth-grade photo; the teapot with the broken handle, still on the windowsill and littered with dried leaves.

The house had always been what family and friends referred to as a tidy mess. Meaning that at one time his mother had at least attempted to control her compulsion, even though the house had always gotten the better of her.

His parents had fought over the messiness in their lives. The lack of money. Love. Kindness and respect.

He’d been too young to make the connection. His mother’s need to fill the void with stuff was part of a vicious cycle. Her collecting got worse after his baby sister died, and again after his dad left. Hatch had always known his mother’s hoarding would get the best of her. The only thing he’d taken with him when he left was the guilt of knowing that.

And leaving, anyway.

Because things got even worse after that.

Peaches lowered her arm and offered a weak smile. “Uh, who died in here?”

“My mother.”