A Marriage for the Marine: A Fuller Family Novel (Brush Creek Brides Book 7)

by Liz Isaacson

  He’d learned his faith from Jeremiah, and he wasn’t going to question it now. So he looked around at the tall trees bordering the back line of his property, basking in their magnificence, and thanked the Lord for bringing him to the middle of nowhere so he could start his life over.

  The next morning, Tate woke with the first rays of light. Something hissed, rustled, and his first instinct was to get Sully away from whatever snake had found its way into the house. He sat up in bed, the pounding of his heart almost drowning out the soft symphony of sound.

  As it continued, and as Sully simply looked at him like he’d lost his mind, Tate realized the noise came from outside. He stood and padded over to the window at the back of the house. A window that needed to be replaced and then needed a set of blinds to keep private things private.

  It wasn’t hard to tell what the noise was now that he could see the trees along the river. They were dozens of feet tall, and the tops of them swished and swayed as the morning wind pushed them this way and that.

  Tate stood there and marveled at the beautiful sound leaves and branches could make. At the serenity of this new place. At the wonder of God’s creations, from the simplest patch of dirt to those towering trees along the river.

  He pulled a shirt over his head and put on the pair of cowboy boots Jeremiah’s mother had insisted he take after the funeral. She’d said he’d need them in Brush Creek, with Octagon, and while Tate hadn’t been planning to come to this town or keep the horse at the time, he’d taken the boots.

  With coffee brewing, he stretched his arms high above his head. It was nothing short of a miracle that all the pieces had fallen into place to bring him here, horse and cowboy boots and all. He had a load of lumber coming this morning so he could rebuild the porch, front steps, and the back deck, but he figured he had time for a walk.

  With a thermos in his hand, he went into the backyard—which was little more than dirt and tumbleweeds at the moment—and on down to the river. The rushing sound of water combined with those rustling leaves that had woken him, and he stood and just breathed for a few minutes.

  Footsteps approached, and surprise trickled through Tate when he saw a pair of joggers pass by. One lifted his hand in a wave, and Tate acknowledged him with a nod. Once they’d gone, he pushed through the chain link fence and stepped out of his yard.

  “Look at that, Sully,” he said to the dog. “There’s a walking path here.” He put himself on it and turned away from the town and toward the house that sat a bit down the road from his. It was a much smaller place than his, but it was obviously lived in and cared for. The exterior looked like it had been painted its bright white in the very recent past, and emerald green grass surrounded the house, along with well-kept flower gardens and a back deck that spanned the entire width of the house.

  He passed it, vowing to be a good neighbor and get his place cleaned up as fast as possible. The next house down was twice as far away, and beyond that the river carved its way out of Brush Creek. The location of his grandfather’s house had been one reason Tate had thought this town might do him some good.

  The town was small, and the house sat on the edge of it. Plenty of opportunity for privacy, and reflection, and healing.

  An hour later, he wore the full cowboy ensemble of dark jeans, a blue and white checkered shirt, the boots, and a cowboy hat his father had given him. Tate could still see the desperation in his dad’s eyes and hear the tug of emotion in his voice when he’d presented him with the hat. “Go take care of yourself for once.”

  His dad had never questioned Tate’s decision to join the Marines. He’d raised Tate by himself, while he served as a career Army officer. The two men knew service. They lived it, breathed it, dedicated themselves to helping and defending others.

  As he got out of his truck up at the horse farm, Tate thought briefly of his mother who’d died when he was only six years old. He had few memories of the woman though his father kept pictures of her and spoke of her fondly. A sense of sadness crept through him, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it because four men burst through the stable doors, their laughter filling the sky.

  They seemed to spot him all at once, and their smiles stayed in place. He’d only met Landon Edmunds, and only last night. But he’d seen the row of eight cabins across the street from the other ranch buildings, and Landon had asked him about his skill with a hammer, as a ninth cabin had been started but sat unfinished.

  “You must be Tate,” one of the men said. He sported a trimmed black beard and his dark-as-night eyes crinkled when he smiled and extended his hand toward Tate. “I’m Ted.”

  “The bronc rider,” Tate said, hoping he’d gotten his details right.

  Ted laughed, a booming sound that made Tate want to be happy enough to produce such a sound. He swiped his black cowboy hat off his head to reveal his equally dark hair. “Oh, that was a former life.” He glanced at the other men with him. “This here’s Walker. He’s the foreman here at the farm.”

  Tate shook hands with the bear of a man, remembering that Landon had mentioned something about him. The memory danced away from Tate, so he said nothing.

  “And Emmett.” Ted indicated a stockier cowboy with just as much dark hair. So much it curled along the bottom.

  His light gray eyes danced with joy as he pumped Tate’s hand. “Your horse would make an excellent barrel racing champion,” he said.

  “Oh, he’s not my horse,” Tate said quickly. Emmett’s eyebrows went up, but he simply looked at the remaining man.

  “Blake,” he said, extending his hand. “Landon said you’re handy with tools?”

  “A little,” Tate said. “I’m rebuilding the Hammond house on the east side of town.”

  “Oh, then that’s more than a little handy,” Blake said, exchanging a glance with Walker. “I’m trying to squeeze in construction on Cabin Row with all the farming.”

  “Hmm,” Tate said, wondering why this was his problem. But he didn’t need to be military with these cowboys. “I have a job,” he said as kindly as he could, which meant his words still clipped the slightest bit. “I’m starting at the police department next week.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” Walker said. “You’ll like Chief Rasband.”

  “Yes,” Tate said, because he didn’t know what else to say. Of course he’d already met his new boss, and yes, he did like Jerry Rasband, but he wasn’t sure if that was because the man was bald like his father or if it was because the man had given him a job when Tate desperately needed one.

  “Well, I’m just gonna….” He started to step around the cowboys, feeling very much like a fraud in his imposter clothing and boots.

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” Ted said. “Have a good one.” The cowboys moved away, their voices filtering back to Tate. He went to the door they’d just come through, paused, and turned back to watch them for a moment.

  Strong envy pulled through him at their friendship, their obvious closeness. They had things in their lives he couldn’t even imagine. Families, children, wives, love, joy. Tate had experienced some of those things before, he just hadn’t realized how fleeting they could be.

  He hadn’t realized that sometimes wives left their husbands, and sometimes families fell apart, and sometimes heartache could steal happiness like a thief in the night. He hadn’t realized that all of that could happen while a man did the right thing, serving his country in a foreign land.

  Tate turned away from the cowboys and pushed into the stables. Maybe Octagon could bring a small measure of peace to Tate’s tattered soul before he had to return to a house everyone had forgotten about and try to reclaim it.

  Chapter 3

  Wren had been assigned to bring rolls to the midweek dinner at the Fuller household. She knew she couldn’t just get grocery store rolls, so she stopped by the bakery after work for the order she’d put in the previous day.

  Erin Gibbons, who’d taken over the bakery and pie shop for her aunt a few years ago, grinned at her and had the
three dozen rolls on the counter before Wren could cross the bakery to the cash register. “Nice shirt.” Erin tapped a couple of times on a screen and added, “Eighteen dollars and twelve cents.”

  Wren passed over her debit card and said, “Thanks,” as she glanced down at her lime green T-shirt with a bright rainbow on it. Her mother strongly disliked her shirts, claiming them unprofessional attire for the office. But her momma rarely came into the office. Heck, hardly anyone came into the office where Wren managed the entire Fuller empire. Why did it matter if she wore bright T-shirts with cartoon characters on them? They made her happy—gave her a way to stand out in the crowd that was her own family—and she fiddled with the hem of the rainbow shirt.

  “How’s the new neighbor?” Erin asked. In a town the size of Brush Creek, new blood was practically a scent on the air.

  “He’s…quiet,” Wren said. She hadn’t expected Tate Benson to be noisy, and there was enough physical distance between their houses to mute him even if he was. “Don’t know much about him. We haven’t officially met.”

  Well, they had, but in a different context. She lifted her bag of rolls and thanked Erin again. The other woman followed her to the door and slid the lock into place after Wren exited. A blip of guilt tugged through her that Erin had stayed open for her. She probably got up at two o’clock in the morning to have the bakery stocked by six AM, and Wren wished she’d have come for the rolls during her lunch hour.

  She couldn’t change it now, and Erin hadn’t said anything. Wren used her key fob to unlock her car as a truck pulled into the bakery lot. Her feet grew roots when her eyes met those dark, dangerous depths of Tate Benson’s.

  He rolled his window down like they were old chums and needed to chat. “Hey,” he said with a smile that almost looked easy.

  “I think they’re closed,” she said, indicating the bakery.

  A frown crossed his handsome features as he looked toward the building. “Looks like it.”

  She smiled—why was she smiling?—and nodded before urging her feet to move! Take me to my car!

  They listened, thankfully, and she made it behind the wheel without having to say anything else to the man. She didn’t hold anything against him. She understood the stress of moving, and it was clear from his personality and the fact that he was starting on the town’s police force that he was a no-nonsense type of man. Her oldest brother, Milton, was a lot like that. Milt could say something that sounded like he was angry when he really wasn’t.

  She pushed her glasses up and put the car in drive, pulling onto the street while Tate still sat in his unmoving truck, watching her. The tug she felt toward him was ridiculous.

  “Neighborly,” she said. She should’ve taken dinner to him on Monday. She’d known he had no food in his place, and yet she’d put a frozen pizza in the oven and relaxed on her back deck until the sun went down. The running water and breeze in the trees calmed her after a busy day at work, organizing, talking, relaying messages, balancing books, managing money—and ten other people.

  She wondered what he was doing for dinner tonight, and the thought of inviting him to the Fuller shindig crossed her mind.

  “Utter chaos,” she muttered. Her two oldest brothers were married, which brought their total to thirteen. And Daddy would stop by and pick up his parents, which meant two extra people and two extra dogs. Thankfully, they were small ones. Wren could handle small dogs, as they seemed more afraid of themselves than anything else.

  But that hulking shepherd Tate owned? That dog held intelligence in his eyes, and he knew he could take Wren down if he wanted to. Wren knew it too and suppressed a shudder because the dog wasn’t anywhere closeby.

  She pulled up to her childhood home and saw she was one of the last ones to arrive. A red Buick sat on the side of the road, indicating her mother’s parents would be in attendance tonight too. Which also meant Daddy had stopped by and picked up his grandfather as well as his parents.

  Which meant yelling for the next two hours, as everyone in the family tried to make sure great-grandpa Alton could hear them. Exhaustion pressed behind Wren’s eyes, but she stuck a smile on her face she hoped was as bright as her rainbow T-shirt and went inside the house.

  A wall of noise hit her, almost causing her to stumble backward. The real miracle was that there was so much noise and not a person in sight.

  “There you are.” An old, rickety voice cut through the hubbub coming from the kitchen. Wren scanned the living room she’d entered to find her great-grandfather seated in a chair facing the house. She hadn’t seen him because he was practically at her side.

  At the sight of her favorite family member, a real smile replaced the wooden one she’d put on her face. “Hey, granddaddy.” She bent down and gave him a quick hug before taking the other wingback chair beside him. “You ready for this?”

  His weathered face split into a grin. “Your momma made ribs tonight. I’m ready.”

  Wren giggled, hoping she could love life—and eating—as much as her great-grandfather did when she was his age. The tangy scent of barbeque sauce hit her, and she heard her mom say, “Where is Wren? We’re almost ready to eat and she’s bringing the rolls.” She wasn’t sure what her mom was more upset about—that Wren hadn’t arrived or that they might not have bread with their dinner.

  She lifted the more important item and said, “I better take these to Momma. I’ll be right back to take you for your ribs.” She patted his veined hand and steeled herself to step into the fray.

  Pausing on the threshold between the front of the house and the huge kitchen, dining room, and great room in the back, she took in the dozen people there. Her family. And while she sometimes felt like she didn’t belong, or that she was born just to be the mediator between the four older brothers and the four younger sisters, or that she could never make her momma happy, in that moment, she was glad she had people to be with.

  “Rolls,” she announced, lifting the three dozen additions to dinner.

  Her mother clapped her hands and rushed forward, as if the rolls were the most important thing in the world. “Hello, dear.” She swept Wren’s bangs off her forehead, a silent disapproval of the cut, before taking the rolls, spinning back to the kitchen, and saying, “All right, Jazzy, call everyone in.”

  It was casual Friday when someone pulled open the door to Jack of All Trades and paused, glancing around like there should be a big banner announcing where they were.

  “Can I help you?” Wren stood from behind the desk—it did have a high counter—and immediately wanted to run for the hills. Or just into the kitchen behind her. “Tate?”

  He squinted those gorgeous eyes at her and approached, each step measured and precise. “Wren?” He glanced over his shoulder like he’d definitely come into the wrong office. When he focused back on her, his eyes slipped down her body and back. “Don’t you wear glasses?”

  Wren scrambled for the useless eyewear and slid them into place. Much slower, she took them off and pushed out a chuckle full of nerves. “I don’t actually need glasses.”

  Tate’s eyebrows disappeared under the brim of his cowboy hat. “Then why do you wear them?”

  She wrestled with the idea of telling him the truth. “Would you believe me if I said it was to make me look smarter?” Twirling the glasses by the end of one of the earpieces, she cocked her head and looked at him, hoping he’d laugh. Or do something. Any reaction would be nice.

  He stared straight at her and said, “No, I don’t believe that.”

  A sigh hissed from her throat and she collapsed back into the spine-friendly chair. “Well, it’s true.”

  “I came to apologize to the receptionist,” he said, leaning into the counter and peering down at her. “Is she here?”

  Wren pressed her eyes closed and took in a deep, deliberate breath through her nose. With boldness, she opened her eyes and looked right at him. “I was the receptionist that day.” She half-shrugged. “Every day, actually.”

  Conf
usion ran across his face, and dang it if Wren’s heart didn’t start beating a little faster. Why was it doing that? Probably because of that delicious beard Tate seemed to be able to grow in a twenty-four hour period.

  His current facial hair was a few days’ worth and made him look more like the cowboy he was so desperately trying to be. She hadn’t seen him in anything but jeans and boots, a striped or checkered shirt, and that hat. Today was no exception, and the stripes were gray, white, and black.

  “I don’t get it,” he finally said.

  “My family owns this business,” she said. “I manage it, from right here at this desk. Sometimes with the glasses and sometimes without.”

  He chin nodded toward her T-shirt. “But always with the funky tees.”

  “Oh, you like these, do you?” She looked down at the black shirt with the bright neon yellow Batman logo. It was a reverse of the usual design, and what had drawn Wren to the shirt in the first place.

  “I think they’d grow on me,” he said with half a smile. “So why’d you come clean my place on Monday?”

  “You needed someone, and we’re in the customer service industry. The customer is king.” She flashed a genuine smile in his direction. “So I forwarded any calls to my cell, and I got the job done.”

  “Well, thank you.” He spoke with a level of sincerity that wasn’t hard to hear.

  “Did you get all settled? The porch looks good.”

  A sharpness entered his eyes, and Wren realized she’d revealed another truth she hadn’t meant to. “I live right next door to you,” she admitted. “The little white cottage? That’s me. I’m Wren Fuller, of the Brush Creek Fuller Family.” He’d have no idea what the Brush Creek Fuller Family was, but he was a smart guy, and he’d be able to hear the slight distaste in the words. Wren wasn’t sure why she was feeling so overlooked in her family these days. Summer seemed to do that, as everyone’s schedules turned more and more hectic, what with the town contract to maintain all the parks. That alone kept her four brothers and father busy, and Wren had to schedule the other jobs they got into tiny slots of time.