Книга - Marry Me, Marine

Marry Me, Marine
Rogenna Brewer


Like any good mother, Angela Adams wants a better future for her little boy. And the one way she can provide that is to enlist with the Marines.Unfortunately, there needs to be a husband on the scene for that to happen. Fortunately, her recruiter connects her with "Hatch" Henry Miner–a wounded former Navy SEAL willing to help out a fellow soldier. Problem solved.But marriage, even to a stranger, is complicated. Especially when beneath the gruff exterior, there's a man with a heart of gold. It doesn't take long for Hatch to prove he's a good dad…and has the potential to be an even better husband. Suddenly Angela has a hard time convincing her heart this is a temporary operation!







Operation marriage has to be a go….

Like any good mother, Angela Adams wants a better future for her little boy. And the one way she can provide that is to enlist with the Marines. Unfortunately, there needs to be a husband on the scene for that to happen. Fortunately, her recruiter connects her with “Hatch” Henry-Miner—a wounded former Navy SEAL willing to help out a fellow soldier. Problem solved.

But marriage, even to a stranger, is complicated. Especially when beneath the gruff exterior, there’s a man with a heart of gold. It doesn’t take long for Hatch to prove he’s a good dad…and has the potential to be an even better husband. Suddenly Angela has a hard time convincing her heart this is a temporary operation!


“Don’t shoot!”

Angela added under her breath, “Please, please don’t shoot.” Closing her eyes, she stepped out from behind the relative safety of the car with her hands held high.

This was by far her dumbest decision to date. And the longer she stood in the middle of the road, the longer she proved that.

“You can put your hands down.”

Angela whirled around.

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

Angela drew courage from the fact that he wasn’t pointing his weapon at her. “You should put that away before someone gets hurt. Namely me.”

“Missed you by a mile.” He propped himself against the vehicle and drilled her with his single-eyed stare. “Then again, my aim isn’t what it used to be.”


Dear Reader,

According to Department of Defense statistics from 2008, there are 73,000 single parents serving in the United States military. Those widowed, divorced or who have given birth after enlistment account for some 5.3% of the overall military.

Single applicants with custody of a child under the age of eighteen are ineligible for enlistment. There are single parents who fight their way around these regulations by giving up custody or marrying for convenience in order to join the military.

This story falls into that gray area.

From the moment single mom Angela Adams walked into the recruiting office in Mitzi’s Marine and marine recruiter gunnery sergeant Bruce Calhoun sent her to Wyoming, I knew I had to write her story.

She was young. And pretty. And desperate.

“I might know a guy.” He scribbled directions on the back of his business card. “Lives in Wyoming. Doesn’t have a phone. He’s angry at the world right now. But he might marry you on paper. If just to get back at Uncle Sam.” He handed her the card. “What’s your name?”

“Angela,” she said.

I hope you enjoy Angela and Hatch’s story.

Rogenna Brewer


Marry Me, Marine

Rogenna Brewer




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When an aptitude test labeled her suited for being a librarian or working in the clergy, Rogenna tried to shake that good girl image by joining the United States Navy. Ever the rebel, she landed in the chaplain’s office, where duties included operating the base library. The irony of that did not escape her. A romantic adventurer at heart, Rogenna served navy, coast guard and marine corps personnel as a chaplain’s yeoman in such exotic locales as Midway Island and the Pentagon. She is an excellent marksman with an unusual handicap that came in handy when writing this story. She shoots right-handed, sighting with her left eye because of poor eyesight in her right eye. A habit she has yet to change even though she’s seeing the world in a whole new light after corrective surgery.

Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the

following address for information on our newest releases.

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3


This one is for my editor, Victoria Curran.

It’s an honor and a privilege working with you.

And to the 73,000 single parents serving in the United States military.

Special thanks to Shanna for letting me use her twins’ candy heart story.

To Omni Eye Specialists, Spivack Vision Center and Madison Street Surgery Center, especially

Dr. Amiel and his surgical staff for taking such good care of me.

And to my eye doctor, Dr. Gosling of Optical Matters. I haven’t taken out any more right side mirrors while backing out of the garage.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#uff73baef-ea0a-59a9-adfc-2c53c2363c05)

CHAPTER TWO (#uda2d378b-dff3-5ca9-9257-63d0f7fc3a35)

CHAPTER THREE (#ua4b433a0-4da2-5f95-8d4e-727f4a1b50fa)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)


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.”


CHAPTER TWO

“I’M SORRY.” ANGELA apologized again from the passenger seat of his pickup. The man beside her gripped the steering wheel as if maintaining control of his anger depended on it.

What did he have to be angry about?

They were on their way into town—to the auto parts store—for a tire she hadn’t known she needed and a water pump she knew she couldn’t afford. He turned right onto the highway at the mailbox.

Had to be some irony in there somewhere.

Angela stared out the window, wondering if her grandmother would be able to wire enough money to cover the cost of repairs. And just how was Angela supposed to explain being in Wyoming? Not to mention her reason for being here.

He’d hauled her out of the house and into the cab of his pickup so fast her head was still spinning. She was surprised he hadn’t dumped her by the side of the road. Instead, he’d cursed the lug nuts and her lack of a spare, took one look under the hood and ordered her back in his truck.

How could a man with one eye even have a driver’s license?

She met his hard stare in the extra-wide side-view mirror and sank farther into the bucket seat. “I was just looking for a bathroom.”

“They haven’t been usable in years.”

“Then where—”

“Not there.” He’d cut her off, but hadn’t answered her question. So where was she supposed to go? And where did he go?

And where did he live if “not there”?

She found it hard to imagine anyone living in that house with or without plumbing. But someone had lived there and died there. He didn’t elaborate, and several miles passed before Angela got the nerve to ask about his mother. “How long ago did she die?”

“There are no dead bodies in the house, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

It wasn’t.

But if he wasn’t going to accept her attempt to make peace, then why should she tiptoe around? “Good to know you’re not a cross-dressing psychopath.”

Other than muttering something about a cold day in hell, he let the Norman Bates Psycho reference slide.

A trace of wood smoke lingered in the cab, together with the pine-scented air freshener. Or was that Irish Spring? He’d shed the outer layer of dirt along with his outerwear.

Shedding her perceptions would take a lot longer.

He glanced at her in the side-view mirror again. “You know the opening scene of every teen horror movie—young woman, healthy lungs, goes looking for trouble and finds it? You’re that girl.”

Angela rolled her eyes. “You’re not as scary as you think you are.”

“And you’re not as tough.”

“I’m a lot tougher than you know.” She went back to staring out the window. A lot tougher.

The abruptness with which he returned his attention to the road signaled an end to their conversation. They continued in silence for several more miles, and she took full advantage of his blind side.

What did he look like under all that scraggly hair? With a little imagination, kinda like a roughed-up version of Alex O’Loughlin.

First impressions weren’t always right.

A jean jacket had replaced the heavy down coat and coveralls. Underneath that camouflage outerwear, he’d had on a clean chambray shirt and a plain white T-shirt. His Wranglers were also clean despite being worn through to indecency.

The last time she had a pair of strategically ripped jeans she’d paid over a hundred dollars for them. But it had been a long time since she’d been able to afford clothes costing that much.

He wore work boots. No cowboy boots or cowboy hat in sight despite him living in the Cowboy State. A couple U.S. Navy ball caps hung from the gun rack across the back window, where he kept his guns under lock and key.

But she’d already glimpsed his not-so-tough side. He was helping her, wasn’t he?

Well, helping to fix her car, at least.

“Do you miss her?” she persisted.

His hesitation made her think he was going to ignore the question. “I’m only sticking around long enough to clean up her mess.”

His answer wasn’t really a yes or a no, but the kind of response she’d come to expect from him. “Then what?”

As if trying to see the life ahead of him, he kept his eye on the road. “Hope someone buys me out.”

“You’re not keeping the place?”

“Why would I?”

“Sentimental reasons, I guess.” She was under the impression the property had been in the family for a long time, given the comments that had been bandied about in the diner. Something about his granddaddy rolling over in his grave if the grandson sold it.

“Trust me—” he slowed to a crawl, glancing around her before bumping over train tracks “—I don’t have a sentimental bone in my body.”

That she could believe.

He pulled into the parking lot of an auto parts store in the center of town. “Hard to keep a secret in a place like Henry’s Fork, but not a lot of people know about the condition of my mother’s house. And I’d appreciate it if they didn’t find out.”

“Who would I tell?”

He seemed satisfied with her answer. They got out of the truck and he held open the shop’s heavy glass door for her. Heads turned as they stepped inside. He pointed her toward the ladies’ room and walked up to the counter as if he didn’t care that everyone was staring at him.

When she came out a few minutes later a clerk—Jason, according to his name tag—was ringing up the sale. “Thirty-five dollars for the pump,” he said. “And five to patch the tire. Just bring it around back.”

“That’s it?” Angela asked. The amount was half of what she had on her, but less than she’d expected. And a lot less than a new radiator, which was the one thing Hatch had said she didn’t need.

While she was still digging around in her purse, he extracted his wallet and paid, ignoring her feeble protest.

“Thank you,” she said as the parts technician handed her the boxed pump and receipt. “I’ll reimburse you with my next paycheck,” she said to Hatch. “Which might be a while.”

Since she was out of work at the moment.

He shrugged off her promise. “Do you know how to put that in?”

“If either of you can recommend a good mechanic…?” She glanced from one man to the other. “And where I might find the nearest Western Union office.”

Just as soon as she was able, she’d be taking one of those powder puff car maintenance courses like the one she’d seen on the pink flyer in the ladies’ room. She never wanted to be this dependent on a man or a mechanic again. She didn’t want to be that B movie character in a broken-down car by the side of the road, just waiting for the serial killer to come along.

“Clay should be able to handle a water pump,” Jason said. “I’d do it myself just to work on an ’80 Seville. Cadillac took a lot of heat that year for using Oldsmobile parts and engines. If it’s really pink—” he cast a doubtful eye at Hatch “—I’d be willing to make you an offer.”

“Sorry,” Angela said. “Shirley signed a contract with Mary Kay. In order to buy the car she had to agree not to sell it to anyone other than a certified GM dealer.”

“And GM’s required to paint it.” Jason shrugged, having known her answer all along. “It was worth a try.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me where I might find Clay.”

After a moment’s hesitation Jason pointed to Hatch.

“Clayton Henry-Miner at your service.” Hatch offered a two-finger salute above his eye patch. “Most everyone around here calls me Clay, to my face, at least. A few of my friends, and I do mean few, call me Hatch.”

“Guess that makes us friends.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, darlin’,” he said in answer to her cheeky assumption.

She tried not to let his response sting. They’d known each other only a couple of hours or so. A couple of hours in which she’d proposed—and he’d rejected her. That had to count for something.

“Clayton. Is that a family name?” It was kind of old-fashioned. “Is it okay if I still call you Hatch?”

“I’ll make an exception.”

Her request appeared to amuse him. Good, because she wasn’t ready to give up on the whole friendship thing. As in friends helping friends. Convincing him to marry her might be easier if he actually liked her and wanted to help her.

“I’m Angela, by the way. Angela Adams.” She finally got around to introducing herself, after having spent some time in the company of a man whose real name she didn’t know. And who didn’t care enough to ask hers when she’d neglected to mention it. “Now that we’ve been properly introduced can you please quit calling me darlin’?” She tried imitating his drawl.

“Hardly seems fair. I’m letting you use my tag.”

“What does Hatch stand for, anyway?” All this time she’d been thinking Hatch was his last name.

“My friends don’t have to ask.”

She’d stepped right into that one.

Feeling rather foolish, Angela left the store with the only mechanic in town, aside from Jason, likely to fix her car for free. The guy she knew as Hatch.

Clayton Henry-Miner. The Hermit of Henry’s Fork.

Henry, Henry’s Fork…

Was there some connection?

Bet he wouldn’t tell her that, either.

She held the pump in her lap while they drove around back for the tire. Hatch got out and exchanged a few words with a guy in greasy coveralls. She exited the truck, too, but stayed put while the two men disappeared into the open bay. A short while later Hatch emerged and put her patched tire in back.

“A souvenir.” He dropped a coiled horseshoe nail into her palm. Looking at it, she wondered how the curved object had managed to puncture her tire. He nodded toward the courthouse in the town square across the street. “You sure this is what you want?”

It struck her then that he’d bent the nail.

She bit down on her bottom lip. He’d said yes. Yes, with an open-ended symbol that fit perfectly on her ring finger.

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Marine’s don’t cry,” he pointed out with far too much sympathy. “At least not any of the Marines I’ve ever known.”

“You’re really going to marry me?”

“Either that or take out a restraining order.” His lips compressed into a serious line. “I haven’t decided yet.”



“HUNTING LICENSE?” the middle-aged clerk asked without looking up. “Big game, small game, fur bearing, fowl or waterfowl?”

“The biggest game,” Hatch said. “Marriage.”

He still hadn’t decided against a restraining order. In the short time he’d known her, Peaches had gotten under his skin—and he didn’t like anybody crawling around in there. Plus, wouldn’t she just love it if she knew he’d tagged her that? Right now the quickest way to end their association appeared to be marriage. She’d be on her way and out of his hair.

And he’d never have to see her again.

The clerk eyeballed him above her reading glasses. “Take a number, please.”

Hatch glanced around the empty office. “Carla, you and I are the only ones here.”

“Number.” She indicated the stand in the middle of the room. Arguing would get him nowhere, so Hatch stepped back and yanked off the next tab.

Carla hit the buzzer beneath her desk and urged the lighted sign. “Forty-two.”

“Only three more to go.” He waited until she called forty-five before stepping forward. “Forty-five for the month or the year?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Clay. What brings you to town? Haven’t seen you in a while.” He’d heard the rumors going around. That he wasn’t right in the head since his return from Iraq. That the shrapnel had taken out more than just his eye. That he should have returned sooner, with his mama so sick and all.

That it was too late now for them ever to make amends.

“I’m here for a marriage license,” he reminded her.

“I heard you the first time,” she said. “And I still don’t believe you. Where’s your bride?”

“Throwing up in the ladies’ room, I suspect.”

The woman raised an eyebrow above the rim of her glasses. “Bridal jitters?”

He hoped that was all it was. Outside, Peaches had flung herself at him in a hug so fierce he was still reeling from it. But inside, she’d pressed a hand to her stomach and excused herself to go to the restroom.

“I’d like to get started on the paperwork.”

“We’ll wait.” Carla thrummed her fingernails against the desktop. They didn’t have to wait long.

“Sorry,” came the familiar refrain.

Carla removed her glasses and glared at him disapprovingly as Angela Adams sidled up beside him. “I’ll need to see the bride’s ID,” Carla said. “She has to be at least eighteen to get married without her parents’ permission.”

His bride was being carded before she could even fill out the paperwork.

Peaches extended her Colorado driver’s license to Carla. “I have my birth certificate and passport if you need them.” If he had any doubt that she was serious, the birth certificate and passport squelched it.

With a click of her tongue, the older woman handed him two pens and two clipboards, plus the separated pages of their application, highlighted in pink for her and blue for him.

He passed the pink pages to Angela.

“You okay?” he asked as they sat down in the row of empty chairs to fill out the brief forms. Wyoming had no waiting period for a marriage license. When a cowboy wanted to get hitched, he got hitched.

Without a blood test.

“Yeah.”

He looked up to gauge that one-syllable response. She didn’t sound okay. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

She smiled, laughed even. Better.

Except for that nervous edge to her laughter.

“Are you?” She gazed at him anxiously. “Okay with this, I mean?”

He answered with an equal amount of uncertainty. “Yeah.”

He’d been saving his first marriage for that first big mistake, and right now he couldn’t imagine a bigger one.

She completed her form in record time and handed it to him. He finished his and took both back to the counter, glancing at Angela’s vital statistics before turning the forms over to Carla, together with the twenty-five dollar fee and five dollars for the certified copy Angela had said she’d need to give the recruiter once this was all over with. Calhoun owed him big-time.

Hatch glanced at the wall clock and frowned. A quarter to four on a Friday was cutting it close.

“The judge in?” he asked, trying to hurry Carla along.

The sooner they got this over with the better.

She held up an index finger as she talked into the phone, presumably to the judge. “Half his age,” she was saying. “And throwing up in the ladies’ room.”

“I’m standing right here, Carla.”

She lowered her voice and craned her neck for a better view of his bride-to-be. “Can’t tell if she is or isn’t.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Is she pregnant?”

“None of your damn business.”

With a smug smile, Carla handed over the phone. “Your aunt wants to speak to you.”

“She’s not half my age,” Hatch said in a preemptive strike. “Twenty,” he responded to the question that followed. “No, she’s not pregnant.” Not with his baby, anyway. “I’m doing a friend a favor. She’s a single mom who wants to join the Marine Corps. And that’s all there is to it.”

Somebody had to sign for her.

He’d finally figured out what Calhoun had known all along. That he was the guy most likely to remember having been dependent on somebody else to join the service.

Parental consent. Spousal support.

Not spousal support in the traditional sense, but he really didn’t know what else to call it. Felony? Fraud?

It wasn’t as if they were doing this for monetary gain, or even military benefits. He had his own military pension with benefits. And therein lay Calhoun’s genius.

Hatch gained nothing by marrying Angela Adams.

Which meant neither of them had anything to lose. As far as he knew, only Immigration Services had a problem with people marrying for the sake of convenience.

Just a signature on a piece of paper.

And here he was, stone-cold sober and ready to sign.

“There’s no point in your coming down here,” he said to his aunt, when he could get a word in edgewise. The last thing he wanted was his only living relative caught up in this fiasco. “All right.” He agreed to stop by later. “See you then.”

He handed the phone back to Carla. “You were going to check on the judge,” he reminded her.

She took their freshly minted marriage certificate from the printer with her and came back a few minutes later and asked them to wait.

At four o’clock on the dot Carla ushered them into the wood-paneled chambers of Judge Booker T. Shaw. The judge stood before his massive desk with a Bible and Colt Peacemaker clasped in his hands.

The antique revolver was for show. The cabinet full of rifles behind the desk was not. Every inch of wall space was covered with pictures and plaques of the judge’s award-winning bird dogs.

A sign behind his desk read I’d Rather Be Hunting. Judging by the waders beneath his robe and the two Brittany spaniels at his feet, Peaches and Hatch were keeping the man from his preferred pastime.

Hatch could relate. He’d rather be anywhere than here.

Angela stooped to scratch the dogs behind their ears. The judge glanced at her and then at him.

“What’s all this nonsense, Clay?” Judge Shaw reviewed the application and license Carla had presented to him, along with whatever commentary the clerk had deemed necessary. So Hatch knew the man had gotten an earful. “Why isn’t your aunt here?”

“My aunt couldn’t make it,” he said. “Just strip it down to the legalese. We don’t plan on staying married all that long.”

Angela rose to her feet as if expecting the judge to throw them out. The spaniels wandered off to the rug in front of the unlit fireplace.

“Well, at least you’re honest about it. That’s more than I can say for most folks.” Shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to do, the judge asked his clerk and bailiff to act as witnesses. Carla and Ned stood off to the side nearest the door.

Angela was to Hatch’s left, his good-eye side. Where he could see her resolve, which strengthened his. She wanted this paper marriage. And aside from being inconvenienced, he had nothing to lose by giving her what she wanted. Judge Shaw opened the Bible to his cheat sheets and flipped through several before finding the right script. Then he cleared his throat. “We have come together today to witness the marriage of Clay and Angela. The legal requirements of this state having been fulfilled, and the license for their marriage being present, we’ll begin.”

He raised his eyes from the page to look at them individually. “Clay and Angela, you stand before me having requested that I marry you. Do you both do this of your own free will?”

Angela glanced sideways at Hatch before joining her voice to his. “We do,” they answered in unison.

She probably wasn’t even aware that in its simplest form marriage was a civil contract between two people. As long as he didn’t have to stand here and lie his ass off with promises to love, honor and cherish, he was okay with that.

“Do the witnesses know of any reason we may not legally continue?”

“We do not,” Ned replied.

“Your Honor—”

“I said legally. Any other reason and I do not want to hear it, Carla. While marriage is never to be entered into lightly, it’s up to this young couple to determine what constitutes their marriage. And up to the rest of us to butt out.”

The woman shut her mouth.

“Clay, repeat after me,” the judge said.

“I do solemnly declare,” he repeated, “that I do not know of any lawful impediment why I, Clayton Henry-Miner, may not be joined in matrimony to Angela Anne Adams.”

“Angela,” the judge prompted.

“I—I do solemnly declare,” she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar words, “that I do not know of any lawful impediment why I, Angela Anne Adams, may not be joined in matrimony to Clayton Henry-Miner.”

“I take it we’re not exchanging rings,” the judge said.

Angela twisted the silver knot on her finger—an inspired gesture on Hatch’s part. Still a horseshoe nail could not be misconstrued as anything other than what it was. A token meant to wish her luck and send her on her way.

They both responded, “No.”

“By the power vested in me by the state of Wyoming—” the judge snapped his Bible shut “—I pronounce you husband and wife.” After a few bold strokes of the mighty pen, they entered into that legally binding marriage contract.

“Just so we’re clear…” She put the pen down after signing in her pretty penmanship. “I’m keeping my own name.”

He’d read her preference on the application. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, darlin’.” She gave him her I-asked-you-nicely-not-to-call-me-that look. Next time, she’d probably not be so nice about it. Fine by him. He’d filled his quota of playing nice for the day.

They left the judge’s chambers with her clinging to the marriage certificate she’d driven four hundred miles to obtain. “You hungry?” he asked. “I promised my aunt we’d stop by for dinner.”

“The aunt who thinks I’m pregnant?”

“One and the same.”

“I’m not pregnant,” Angela said to clarify, sparing him a glance as he held the courthouse door for her.

“That’s good to know.”


CHAPTER THREE

HATCH HAD A QUICK STOP to make before heading over to his aunt’s house. He pulled up to a log cabin on the outskirts of town. On the porch a black bear poised to strike wore a rough-hewn wooden sign around its neck with the word Taxidermy burned into it.

After driving around to the garage marked Deliveries, Hatch put the truck into Park. “Wait here. I’ll just be a minute,” he told her.

“Okay.” Her stomach growled a reminder for him not to get sidetracked. He wasn’t sure taking her over to aunt’s for dinner was such a good idea, but he needed to feed Angela before sending her off on her own again. He shut the door with more force than necessary and went in through the garage.

The air inside was heavy with tanning acids and pickling baths. Big and small game mounting forms and kits covered the walls.

Hatch used the connecting door into the workshop.

Will Stewart looked up from painting the finishing touches on a squirrel. “Was wondering if we’d see you tonight.”

“Said I’d try and stop by.” Granted, he didn’t get to town that often and had been vague about the time when he’d spoken with Stew yesterday, but it wasn’t even five o’clock.

“I told Mia she shouldn’t believe everything she hears.” Stew shoved aside the lighted magnifying glass he used for detail work. Wiping his hands on his apron, he got up from the stool. “There’s a rumor going around town that you got married.”

“Is that Hatch?”

Before he could even digest that bit of information about the rumor mill, Mia, with little Alex on her hip, was dragging him into a hug as close as the boy and the baby bump would allow. It was good to see her happy again.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Stepping back, she looked him over as if to confirm it.

“She’s in the truck,” he admitted.

“Dammit!” Stew got out his wallet and handed his wife a dollar bill. “You couldn’t pick up a phone and call your best friend since second grade?” he muttered as he headed for the door. “I’m going to get the trophy head and introduce myself to your trophy wife.”

Stew stopped in the doorway, shaking his head. “Twenty? Seriously, Hatch. Is that even legal? But it’s better than hearing you married a Marine.”

“She’s not a Marine yet,” he qualified. “But we did get married just so she could join.”

“Yeah, right.” Stew was laughing as he left.

“I’d better go run interference,” Hatch said to Mia.

She adjusted little Alex on her hip. “Your wife is in the store.”



THE SHOWROOM WAS PACKED floor to ceiling with wall-mounted and freestanding displays. Slowly, Angela turned to absorb it all. She did a double take when Hatch appeared beneath a moose head mounted above an archway.

A pregnant woman carrying a toddler entered behind him. According to their marriage license application, he’d never been married.

But Angela hadn’t asked him about a significant other.

“Quite the menagerie you have here.” She hoped that hadn’t come across quite as awkward as it sounded.

“Welcome to my world,” the woman said, a smile playing at the corner of her generous mouth as she stepped onto the showroom floor. “I’m Mia Stewart, and this is my son, Alex.”

“Hi, Alex.” Angela zeroed in on the dark-haired, blue-eyed child. “I have a little boy at home about your age.” The tot buried his face in his mother’s shoulder and then turned to peek again at Angela from beneath spiky lashes. He was a heartbreaker, all right.

“You must be the bride we’ve heard talk about.” Mia paused expectantly.

Angela glanced at Hatch. How was she supposed to respond to that? Surely he didn’t want people calling her his bride, when future ex-wife was more appropriate. How much simpler if they’d been able to keep the marriage a secret.

“Angela Adams,” she said, introducing herself to the other woman.

Or as the other woman?

She hoped she wasn’t creating a headache for him.

Chimes rang as a chubby guy in a paint-stained apron entered through the front door. They all pivoted toward him.

“Couldn’t find her—” He spotted Angela and stopped. “Hello.” He turned accusing eyes on Hatch as he approached her.

“Will Stewart,” he said in introduction. “If you’re Hatch’s bride, then why wasn’t I his best man? And how come he never mentioned you?”

Angela really didn’t know how to answer that. Because we just met?

“No, seriously. How come?”

“I’d love to hear the story,” Mia said. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner.” She grabbed the baby monitor from the counter.

Hatch checked his watch. “My aunt’s expecting us.”

“Some other time, then,” Mia offered. “Angela, it was nice meeting you. Hatch has our number. Maybe we can get the boys together for a play date. And by boys I mean the four of them, so we can have time for some girl talk. I know all his secrets, dating back to high school.”

Will pointed at himself. “Second grade,” he bragged in a stage whisper.

“Afraid Angela’s headed back to Denver tonight,” Hatch said. “We’ve got to get going. I’ll be dropping off the meat as soon as it’s cured.”

“You’re not leaving without your eye, are you?” his friend demanded.

“I’ll stop by next week sometime.”

“It’s ready now,” Will insisted. “Won’t take but a minute for me to get it.”

“You sell prosthetic eyes?” Angela studied the animals on display. In particular the glass eyes, which were incredibly realistic. “For humans?”

“For Hatch.” Will chuckled.

“Will’s a third-generation glassblower,” Mia bragged, while bouncing the fourth generation on her hip. Alex didn’t look much like his dad. But he looked more like a combination of his mom and dad than he did Hatch. That was a relief. Maybe he would grow up to be a glassblowing taxidermist. “Eyes are his specialty.”

“But I thought prosthetic eyes were made of silicone.” Angela looked to Hatch. He might not be an expert, but he had to know a little something about it.

“Silicone is more durable,” Will said. “But you can’t beat glass for appearances. Wait here?” he asked Hatch.

He nodded, but didn’t look pleased.

Folding her arms, Angela looked around, following Will and Mia with her gaze as they walked off. “Which is more comfortable?”

“You did not just ask me that,” he said.

“Sorry.” She shifted her eyes back to him. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. What are you wearing right now?”

“Why does this conversation remind me of a dirty phone call?”

Now that she knew he had a sense of humor, she could appreciate the subtlety of it. “So you wear nothing under that patch?”

“Didn’t you ever hear curiosity killed the cat?” He inclined his head toward a stuffed mountain lion. Or so she thought, until she saw the domesticated kitty curled up near the lion’s paw.

To her relief the kitty got up and stretched.

“It’s not like I asked you how you lost your eye. I mean, that would be rude, wouldn’t it? And I just assumed…” She looked down at her feet. “Because you were a Navy SEAL, it was a battlefield injury.”

“Silicone,” he said. “An empty socket isn’t all that comfortable. I caught a piece of shrapnel in the eye.”

“So why do you need the patch?”

“It’s practical.” He didn’t elaborate.

Will returned with a hinged case about the size of one for glasses, which he handed to Hatch. Angela got a peek inside when he opened it. She couldn’t believe the fine detail Will had achieved in the cobalt coloring and veining. The artisan beamed with pride as Hatch nodded in appreciation.

“What’s the suction cup thingy for?”

Hatch frowned at her. “When are you leaving?”

“As soon as you feed me and fix my car.” Her stomach growled on cue.

“Then I guess we’d better get going.”

Saying goodbye to the Stewarts, Angela plugged Mia’s number into her cell phone, though a play date for Alex and Ryder was doubtful. She wouldn’t be in these parts much longer. Still, she didn’t really have all that many friends after having dropped out of high school pregnant. It was always nice to add someone to her social network.

Hatch held the truck door for her. “What’s so funny?” he asked when she gave a nervous laugh.

“Nothing,” she said, tucking her phone away. Mia had just sent a text explaining the suction cup, which was used to position the glass eye and remove it.

“You do know you’re damn inconvenient for a marriage of convenience.”



A SHORT WHILE LATER THEY pulled up in front of a turn-of-the-century brick Victorian with a powder-blue roof and beige, blue and white gingerbread trim. The plaque beside the door declared the place a historical landmark, while the sign out front identified it as Maddie’s Boarding House. Est. 1829

Nowhere near as old as the establishment, Hatch’s aunt Maddie met them at the door. She wore colorful layers of loose crinkle skirts and cotton shirts. Angela wouldn’t have been surprised to find a crystal ball somewhere in the house.

Maddie held her at arm’s length, looking her over from top to bottom. “I thought you said she was pregnant.”

“I said no such thing and you know it.”

“Wishful thinking on my part, then.” Maddie returned her attention to Angela. “Welcome! Never mind me. It’s my job to give the boy a hard time. Thirty is a good age for a man to settle down and start a family.”

Thirty. That’s how old he was.

His aunt ushered them inside. Where Judge Booker T. Shaw was seated at the dining room table. He stood and nodded as they entered the room. “Clay, Angela.”

Hatch didn’t seem all that surprised to find the judge at his aunt’s. Which would explain why he hadn’t been afraid to tell the judge exactly what he’d wanted in the way of a wedding ceremony.

She, on the other hand, had prepared herself for the “to have and to hold” version, justifying this in her mind as words said every day by people who later regretted them. She felt relieved not to have entered into that lie.

Especially now that she’d come face-to-face with the judge again. “Your Honor.”

“Judge will do, Ms. Adams.”

“Angela, please.”

“I hope you’re hungry.” Maddie showed Angela where to wash up, and had her seated by the time Hatch came down the stairs a few minutes later.

He’d done more than just wash up. He’d trimmed his beard and pulled back his hair. What couldn’t be pulled back fell in damp waves around his face. He still wore his eye patch. Which meant what?

He didn’t like his new eye? Or was he just that self-conscious? He didn’t seem like the self-conscious type.

For whatever reason, he chose to present an in-your-face tough-guy image to the world. Which left her to conclude that the patch covered the vulnerability she’d glimpsed earlier and not just his prosthetic eye.

“So, Angela,” Maddie said as she sat next to the judge. “I’d say you went above and beyond the call of duty to join the Marines.”

Hatch was the one who’d gone above and beyond. “I just did what I had to.”

“Be sure to tell Calhoun I’ll be collecting,” Hatch said. “From him, not from you.”

He must have added that qualification because he’d seen the look of panic in her eyes. She didn’t like being indebted. And she knew he would come away with nothing from their arrangement except being lighter by a few dollars. Which she intended to pay back.

Before helping himself, he passed the bread basket from Maddie to her.

“Thank you.” Angela set a homemade roll on her plate.

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d sat down for a meal like this. Must have been that last Thanksgiving with her parents. And here it was not even a week away from that holiday.

“What made you choose the military?” the judge asked.

“My dad got his start in the Navy as a photographer and went on to make a career of it after he got out.” She broke the crusty roll in half as Hatch passed her the butter.

“Explains why you tried the Navy first.” She shouldn’t be surprised he remembered that from their earlier conversation. “You can choose any branch of the service.”

“Said the Navy man.” She wondered if he missed it. Her father had always spoken of his service with pride. “I didn’t choose the Marine Corps—it chose me.” The Navy recruiter had seen a single mom. The Marine recruiter saw beyond the single mom to what she wanted to be.

“What does your mother do?” Maddie asked.

“She was a volcanologist. Both my parents were killed in a plane crash four years ago.” Angela took her time spreading butter on the roll. She hadn’t been on board, but hadn’t flown in a plane since.

“I’m so sorry, dear.” Maddie touched Hatch’s forearm as if he’d pass her sincerity along, the way he did the meatball stroganoff and the green beans.

He didn’t reach out to her. But Angela shrugged off the sympathy just the same. Normally the platitudes “at least they died together” or “at least they died doing what they loved” followed such expressions of condolence. All that meant was she’d lost both parents.

“I was homeschooled until high school. A family vacation for us was a trip to Yosemite to see the supervolcanoes. That’s where my folks met. She was working on her master’s thesis and he was shooting a coffee table book.”

Angela speared several green beans with her fork. “They never did get married. But they were together almost two decades.”

They’d loved each other. And they’d loved her.

But any stability in her life had come from Shirley, because her parents didn’t always take her with them. After they’d died, her grandmother had insisted on enrolling her in a public high school. Of course, that hadn’t turned out so hot.

Angela slanted a glance toward Hatch, who appeared to be digesting more than just his dinner, even though he didn’t comment. Not that her parents were opposed to marriage, but she wondered what they would have said about her reason for marrying him.

Did it matter? She’d gotten what she wanted. “Shirley—that’s my grandmother,” she said for Maddie’s and the judge’s benefit, “says I inherited a restless heart. Which is why I can’t hold a job.”

“You’re only twenty.” Hatch frowned. “You have plenty of time to figure out what you want in a career.”

“I still have a responsibility to Ryder.” She met Maddie’s sympathetic gaze across the table. “The military is my chance to do something with my life while providing some stability for my son. It’s a start, anyway.”

“I’d love to see some pictures of your little one,” the older woman said.

“After dinner,” Hatch suggested when Angela reached for the cell phone beside her plate.

He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and she’d already said too much. But Maddie more than made up for it with engaging family anecdotes.

Maddie was his paternal aunt, his father’s sister.

She’d never married, never had any children.

Though she doted on her nephew, obviously.

Hatch had a room upstairs. But he preferred to “rough it.” Whatever that meant. And Maddie had no other tenants, because they were too much bother and got in the way of her restoration work. According to Maddie she’d inherited a money pit.

The judge was a family friend and frequent dinner guest. And Maddie hinted at romance there. He’d likewise never married.

“My great-great-great-grandfather had this house built for his mistress,” Maddie said. “Rumor has it she ran it as a brothel. The first Maddie Miner was their illegitimate daughter, who turned it into a more respectable boarding house.”

Leaning over her plate, Angela listened to Maddie carry on about the Miners’ colorful history.

“The Henrys, in contrast, were the salt of the earth,” Hatch said with a touch of familial sarcasm. “Founding fathers. Land owners. Six generations of cattlemen.”

“Don’t let him fool you.” Maddie used her fork for emphasis. “That side of the family had quite a few outlaws and bandits.”

They bantered over which family had the more infamous characters. As Angela saw it, Hatch won either way, being a member of both. But he seemed to identify more with the Henrys.

Maybe because of his namesake.

If there was one member he considered the salt of the earth, clearly, it was his grandfather.

“This house was passed to me around the time my brother, Matt, went to work for Clayton Henry,” Maddie said. “Isabella Henry was a rare beauty and Matthew could be real a charmer. Those two were on a collision course from the moment they met.”

The man between them tensed.

“It’s a shame everything fell apart after.” Maddie adjusted the napkin in her lap and patted her nephew’s arm. “Lots of good times before the bad. And I see the best of both of them in Clay.”

“You still planning on putting Two Forks up for sale?” the judge asked.

“I have more work to do around the place, but yes,” Hatch replied.

“What’s your asking price?”

“One point three.”

“In this economy? Why wouldn’t you hold on to the property? You’re not going to get that, and it’s worth twice as much. Bennett’s place is listed dirt cheap and has been on the market three years.”

“Bennett doesn’t have two forks of the river running through it, two pine groves, the peach orchard. And I could go on about the outbuildings.”

“All of which are in disrepair,” the judge argued. “He’s got just as much acreage in meadowland.”

“I’m sure Clay’s thought of all that,” Maddie said, coming to her nephew’s defense. “You can’t bully him into keeping it, Booker.”

“I’m not trying to bully anyone. It’s just a shame the land was ever parceled out. But, Clay—” the judge returned his attention to Hatch “—you could take what’s left and make something of it.”

“Sometimes a person just has to let go,” Maddie said.

“Then answer me this.” The judge used his fork to emphasize his point. “If he’s so eager to let go, why hasn’t he?”

“There’s still work to be done,” Hatch said.

Angela didn’t know what to make of their heated debate. Most of what was said went over her head. But it wasn’t as if the two men were angry with each other. Just opinionated.

“Call a cleaning company,” the judge continued. “Have the house cleared out in a couple of days, instead of spending all your damn time holed up at the ranch, chasing people off the property. Which is going to land you in my courtroom,” he warned.

“Booker, you make him sound like his mother,” Maddie said with a nervous laugh. “He didn’t make that mess.”

“No, the judge is right,” Hatch said, springing to the man’s defense. “It is my mess. It always was.”

Angela didn’t interpret this as a confession of a secret life of slovenliness. So why was he accepting responsibility?

“If you don’t want to live in your mother’s house, the foundation was laid for a new house a long time ago,” the judge said. “Build on that.”

The conversation seemed to have taken an uncomfortable turn for Hatch with the mention of his mother and the house. He focused on his plate. She bumped his knee underneath the table, causing him to look at her in question.

Accident? Or on purpose?

She bumped him again as he held her gaze. Although they’d had their awkward moments today, Angela saw this as her chance to rescue him for a change.

“These Swedish meatballs are delicious,” she said, taking another bite.

Maddie went into detail about the recipe, as Angela had been hoping she would, starting with stale bread and sour milk.

Angela stopped chewing when the woman got to venison.

Deer meat? Just like the deer carcass they’d left swinging from a tree while they’d dropped off his head to be mounted and sold.

“Are you planning on bow hunting this season?” The judge trod on neutral ground. “What are you doing about a kill plot?”

“Kill plot?” Angela looked at Hatch and swallowed. Then took a big gulp of water to wash down the meatball stuck in her throat.





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