Carolina Man (A Dare Island Novel)

by Virginia Kantra

  Maybe an unmarried staff sergeant wasn’t the best person in the world to raise a ten-year-old girl. The Simpsons—Dawn’s parents—certainly hadn’t thought so. He doesn’t know her, Jolene Simpson had wept. He can’t love her like we do.

  And maybe he didn’t, yet. Kate hadn’t observed any evidence of an instant father-daughter bond during their brief meeting in her office. The little girl had been sullen and mistrustful, the man awkward and clearly frustrated.

  But at least he was trying.

  Kate booted up her computer.

  Anyway, a judge had awarded the Fletchers temporary custody while Staff Sergeant Fletcher was in Afghanistan. Taylor was their responsibility now.

  Kate scrolled through her in-box. Time to concentrate on the mothers she could help, the children she could save.

  The subject line leaped out at her. Taylor Simpson.

  Frowning, she clicked the e-mail to open it.

  Her stomach dropped as she read. She should have seen this coming.

  It’s not fair, Jolene Simpson had cried in the courtroom. Taylor’s all we have left of our little girl.

  Your little girl didn’t want you to raise her kid, thought Kate, staring at her computer.

  Her thoughts beat like moths against the back-door screen.

  Dawn had never explained why she would entrust her only daughter to a man she hadn’t seen in ten years rather than her own mother and father. But Kate’s imagination—and experience—could supply plenty of reasons, all of them bad. Maybe Dawn and her parents were simply estranged. Maybe Dawn had been motivated by guilt at keeping Taylor’s existence a secret from Luke all these years. And maybe . . .

  Kate read the e-mail again, resolve balling in her stomach. She was not reacting emotionally, she told herself. Taylor had told the judge at the temporary hearing that she wanted to stay with the Fletchers.

  Kate reached for the phone to call them.

  • • •

  HOMEMADE BANNERS FLUTTERED for miles on the chain link fence along Highway 24, dazzling against the bright green grass and tall dark pines.

  Through the windows of the charter bus carrying Luke’s squad to Camp Lejeune, he could read the hand-painted signs.

  WELCOME HOME.

  MY HUSBAND. MY HERO.

  WE DADDY. I MISSED YOU.

  Ortega gripped the seat in front of him. “Man, I can’t wait to see Kendra.” His girlfriend.

  “I want to see my daughter,” Danny Hill said. “Stephanie was still pregnant when I left. I mean, I’ve seen the baby on Skype, but it’s not the same as being there, watching her grow up, you know?”

  Luke nodded tightly. At least Hill only had eight months to make up for. Luke had missed ten years of his daughter’s life.

  “Better hope you don’t drop her,” Ortega said.

  Hill turned pale.

  “You’ll do fine.” Luke intervened before Ortega’s teasing created a situation. After a ten-month tour and over thirty hours of nonstop travel, they were all on edge. “Babies aren’t so hard to figure out.”

  At least babies cried when they needed something, when they were tired or wet or hungry. They didn’t scowl at you with big, wounded eyes, leaving you to wonder what the hell you were supposed to do differently.

  Luke’s gut clenched.

  “So you’re some baby expert now?” Ortega asked.

  “I have a nephew.” Luke stared out the window. And a daughter he’d met exactly once.

  Luke was twelve years old when his brother, Matt, dropped out of college and showed up on their parents’ doorstep holding a three-month-old son and a world of hurt inside. The Fletchers had rallied, as they always did, to care for their own. Back to back to back.

  Luke admired his brother for stepping up, his parents for stepping in, but he’d never figured on following in Matt’s footsteps. He’d never planned on dumping another grandchild on them to take care of. Mom and Dad weren’t getting any younger. They had their own business to run, a bed-and-breakfast on North Carolina’s Dare Island. Luke didn’t like adding to their responsibilities.

  But he didn’t have a choice.

  He was a Marine, first and foremost. Who was going to take care of Taylor while he was away?

  And now that he was back, what the hell was he supposed to do? He didn’t know the first thing about raising a kid on his own. Especially not a daughter.

  The bus rumbled through the main gate, following the trucks that carried the gear.

  Cody Burrows grinned. “My mom’s going to flip. She and Dad drove all the way from Texas to meet the bus.”

  Luke had told his family not to come. It wasn’t like he was returning from his first deployment. Anyway, his father, Tom, would be out on the boat with Matt. His mom was still recovering from a car accident a couple of months ago. The last thing they needed was to battle the traffic around base and then stand around for hours waiting for Luke to show up.

  As for the kid, his daughter, Taylor . . . She barely knew him. She might not even recognize him. She definitely didn’t need to take a day off from school to see him get off some damn bus.

  So, yeah, better for everybody if Luke collected his Jeep from the Privately Owned Vehicle storage lot and drove his own ass to Dare Island.

  He exhaled. And maybe sometime during the hour and a half it would take him to get home, he’d figure out what the hell he would say when he saw her again.

  Small signs driven into the ground directed traffic to the unit’s homecoming area. All around Luke, Marines shuffled their feet, shifting their weight, leaning forward in anticipation. The few who had been sleeping were nudged or kicked awake. Luke’s heart sped up, just as if he had somebody waiting for him. Or was going into combat.

  The brakes squealed. The bus gusted to a halt.

  After the dust haze of Afghanistan, everything out the windows looked sharp and clear. Blue-and-white event tents and Porta Potties bordered the arrival area, full of balloons and handmade signs. And people. Families. Lots and lots of families eagerly awaiting the one hundred and seventy five men and women finally coming home.

  Luke took his time getting off the bus. His men came first. Anyway, nobody was waiting for him.

  There would be no formations or welcoming speeches today. The tents, the music, the balloon vendors, were there to entertain those waiting. For the Marines, this was Standard Operating Procedure. The brass recognized that those lucky enough to return from combat just wanted to find their families and go home.

  Luke shouldered his bag and climbed down from the bus into the milling, calling, crying, kissing crowd.

  “Do you see him?”

  “Dad-deee . . .”

  “Steven! Steve!”

  He was bumped, jostled, and thanked by complete strangers. He stopped to shake hands with Cody Burrows’s parents, saw Ortega stagger as his tiny girlfriend launched from four feet away into his arms.

  “Welcome home, honey.”

  “There he is!”

  Danny Hill’s wife cried into his neck, their infant daughter crushed between them. Hill bowed his head against his wife’s hair, his face raw with emotion.

  Luke blinked and looked away from their private moment.

  He had served seven deployments in ten years. He’d never sought—or missed—the distraction of a family. But watching the joyful reunions all around him, he felt . . . Not sorry.

  Alone.

  A familiar whistle pierced the hubbub.

  Luke stiffened like a dog on point. “Dad?”

  And heard it again, the same shrill note that always announced his father’s return, whether it was from Beirut or the grocery store.

  Luke pivoted, scanning the sea of people waving signs and flags and cell phones, searching for his father’s face.

  There. The red Vietnam vet ball cap, the shock of gray hair, the tanned face, and faded blue eyes. Dad.

  And big brother Matt, tall and broad with big hands and weathered jeans, his normally serious face split in
a wide smile.

  Luke started forward, an answering grin working its way from deep inside. His gaze dropped. His throat constricted. Was that . . . Between them . . .

  Tess Fletcher had always been short. Now, since the accident, she seemed to have shrunk even further. But her eyes were brilliant, her smile as warm as ever as she waved one hand above her head. The other rested on a cane. “Luke! Over here!”

  He reached her in three strides. “Mom.”

  He put his arms around her slender shoulders, careful not to hug too hard. Small as she was, Tess had always been the family’s rock. Their anchor. But now she felt so frail.

  She squeezed back hard, her arms, her love, as strong as ever.

  “Hey.” Luke swallowed and drew back to smile into her face. A little paler than before, he thought. A little more lined. “You look great.”

  Tess ran her fingers through her short cap of dark red hair. “Do you like it?”

  Luke blinked. “Sure.” He wasn’t sure. His mother’s hair had been salt-and-pepper as far back as he could remember. “What does Dad think?”

  “It’s all good.” Tom Fletcher winked. “I get to sleep with a redhead for the first time in forty years.” He grabbed Luke in a one-armed hug. “Good to have you back, son.”

  Matt was next, dragging Luke into the family circle, gripping his hand, pounding his back. “You look like shit.”

  “You smell like fish.”

  They beamed at one another, reassured.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Luke said.

  “Brought somebody else to see you, too.” Matt reached down with one hand, nudging the somebody forward, producing her from behind his back like a magician with a reluctant rabbit. Hey, presto, it’s your daughter.

  Suspicious blue eyes regarded Luke from under the brim of a United States Marine Corps fatigue cap. His eyes, looking back at him from his daughter’s thin, unsmiling face.

  Emotion seized him by the throat. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t grab her. From her point of view, they were practically strangers. She didn’t, he remembered painfully, like to be touched.

  But she was wearing his hat, the eight-pointed utility cover he’d given her before he went back to Afghanistan.

  Maybe that meant something.

  He observed the way she hung back, her skinny arms crossed behind her.

  Yeah, and maybe not.

  • • •

  TAYLOR HELD HER breath, waiting to see what he would do. Luke, her . . . Well, her dad, even though she never called him that except sometimes in her head. Mostly, when she talked to him by Skype, she didn’t call him anything at all. She didn’t think he noticed.

  All around them people were crying and kissing and stuff, babies bawling, fathers hugging their kids.

  Taylor stuck out her chin. She wasn’t going to cry. But she guessed it would be okay if he wanted to hug her.

  He didn’t.

  Her stomach dropped in relief and disappointment.

  He crouched down and looked her right in the eyes. His face was all serious. Taylor twisted her fingers together behind her back. When he first showed up on Grandma Jo’s porch, tall and strong in his uniform, she’d felt a rush of relief so intense she’d almost cried. Dad to the rescue. And he had rescued her.

  But then he’d gone away again.

  Maybe he wasn’t glad to see her. She wished, too late, that she had listened to Aunt Meg this morning and put on her new clothes, the ones they bought for her to wear to court.

  Right. Like some dumb purple sweater would make him like her.

  She scowled harder, swallowing the lump in her throat.

  “Hey, kid,” he said like he couldn’t remember her name.

  “Hi.” Dad.

  He tapped the brim of her hat with one finger, the way Uncle Matt did sometimes. The familiar gesture made her feel better. “Thanks for taking care of my cover.”

  Taylor’s cheeks got hot. She hadn’t let the hat out of her sight since he gave it to her. She even slept in it sometimes. But that would be a loser thing to say. She didn’t want him to think she was a baby. She jerked a shoulder instead. No problem. “Do you . . . do you want it back now?”

  “Nah. You keep it.” The corners of his mouth curled up, just a little. His big hand dropped on top of her head. He gave her a quick and careless rub, like she gave the dog at home sometimes, knocking the hat sideways, messing up her hair. The knot in her stomach eased. “It looks good on you.”

  Cautiously, she allowed herself to smile back.

  Three

  ALL THE VOICES in Kate’s head were squawking as she sped across the bridge to Dare Island in her little red Mini Cooper.

  Jesus, Kate, stop overreacting. That was her father.

  I don’t think it’s wise for you to get too close. That was her mother.

  It’s important for you to accept that not everything is your responsibility. That was her therapist.

  Kate turned up the volume on the radio to drown them out. Christmas music. She sighed. If you were a family lawyer, Christmas was not the easiest time of year. If you were also the adult child of an alcoholic . . . Well. You already knew that many families cracked under the expectations and disappointments of the holidays. Too much drinking. Too much stress.

  Too many bad memories. She gulped in the fresh air rushing through her window. At least it was a nice day for a drive. Living above her office, walking to the courthouse, she didn’t have many opportunities to get away. The waves on the Intercostal Waterway sparkled. The December sun shone. The jumble of shops along the Dare Island waterfront looked quite pretty with their lighted wreaths and garlands. The squat brick police-and-fire station sported a big red bow.

  The buildings thinned out, the tourist shops and sidewalked streets replaced by cottages and then by oaks and pine.

  Her errand wouldn’t take more than ten minutes, Kate promised herself. Twenty, tops. The voices could hardly object to that.

  And then she’d have another pleasant forty-minute drive back to Beaufort. Maybe she’d stop for Chinese on her way home to celebrate her successful day in court. Because nothing says “victory” like eating takeout in front of The Bachelorette. Just for a moment, Kate let herself imagine what it would be like to have someone waiting for her at home, someone to rub her feet or listen or laugh with. But the truth was she had no idea what that would be like.

  She made the turn, peering for an inn sign.

  The Pirates’ Rest rose through the trees, perfect as a postcard. In Kate’s experience, very little in life lived up to its advertising. But the inn looked remarkably like the photos on its website. Deep eaves protected the wraparound porch of the two-and-a-half-story house. Leaded glass windows reflected back the sun. A big American flag hung from the porch. A smaller one decorated the mailbox. Despite the patriotic-themed decorations—more Fourth of July than Christmas—the bed-and-breakfast looked elegant, comfortable, and solid.

  Her heart tugged hard. She hadn’t taken a real vacation in years. The whole concept of a B and B, of sharing someone else’s home, of making normal conversation with complete strangers over breakfast, made her break into a sweat.

  But even she could appreciate the care that had gone into the freshly painted green-and-white trim and edged lawn. Pink camellias and planters of cold-blooming pansies brightened the winter-browned garden. If she were going away for a weekend, if she bought into that white-picket-fence fantasy of home, she might actually want to stay here.

  She parked by the front gate. Plenty of room, she noted. She imagined the Fletchers didn’t get many guests midweek in the off-season.

  Grabbing her briefcase from the passenger seat, she got out of the car, already regretting the impulse that had driven her here. She should have called. Again. Or waited until tomorrow. There was absolutely no reason to interrupt the Fletchers’ evening and risk her own careful emotional detachment with a personal visit.

  Except that for the past five years, she�
�d watched Taylor grow in the school portraits framed on Dawn’s desk.

  She’d seen Taylor walk to her temporary custody hearing like a prisoner marching to her execution.

  She’d held those bird-wing shoulders between her hands and promised Taylor that she would be fine. As long as she was honest about her feelings.

  Kind of a joke, coming from Kate. But it had worked, hadn’t it?

  Kate rang the doorbell, two deep chimes.

  A dog barked, and she stiffened. She was not a dog person. But having come this far, she certainly wasn’t going to turn back now.

  “Fezzik, stay,” a deep voice commanded from inside.

  The door cracked open, and Luke Fletcher stood on the threshold, a big black dog beside him and a bottle of beer in his hand.

  Kate’s heart bumped. She took a half step back from the dog and the man. “You’re here,” she said stupidly.

  His brows rose, but he nodded. “Got back today.”

  He still wore the desert camouflage pants of the Marine utility uniform, as if he were on base or in transit. He’d removed his outer shirt, revealing an olive green T-shirt that clung to the planes of his chest, the ridges of his belly. He looked lanky, lean, and dangerous.

  Standing in her court-appropriate navy suit and pumps, she felt overdressed and at a distinct disadvantage.

  The door swung wider to admit her.

  Kate hesitated.

  The man glanced down at the dog beside him. “It’s all right. He’s trained not to bite visitors.” He glanced up, his lips curving in a slow, devastating smile. “So am I.”

  Kate exhaled. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  He tipped back his beer, regarding her over the bottle, his eyes joltingly vivid in his hard, tanned face. “I wasn’t expecting you, either.” The smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

  She ignored the pang in her chest. Naturally he associated her with bad news. Like a casualty assistance officer coming to the door. I regret to inform you . . .

  “I came . . .” It wasn’t just the color of those eyes, piercing blue, that tangled her tongue. It was the way he looked at her, completely focused. Intense. “I tried to call your parents.”