“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.
“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.”
Marry Me, Marine Page 2