Marine in the Wind (1Night Stand Series)

by Long, Heather

  “You think I’m overprotective, too.” Letting go of the steering wheel, she leaned her head against the seat. “Maybe I am, but he’s all I have left, y’know?”

  “Yeah, I do. But you have friends and a life. He wants to live his and maybe if you live yours some…it will help you both. I’ll keep an eye on him, too. Everyone does—you have to know that. Everyone wants to help. You just have to let them, Cricket.”

  “Ugh, could you please forget that nickname?” She groaned and scrubbed a hand over her face. In two syllables, he stripped away the last fifteen years and she was a pimply-faced teen again, eager for his approval.

  “Nah, I like it. It suited you, or it did. Don’t you remember being a happy little thing? Cheerful and chatty? What happened to that Georgia?” Real concern reflected in his eyes.

  “She grew up, found out life is a bitch, and spends most of her time fighting with an old man to keep him around. It’s hard to be cheerful and chatty when you’re doing that.” Wow, bitter much? She hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but it came out that way. “And why the hell am I telling you all this?”

  “’Cause you think I’m cute.” He tapped a finger to her chin. “Buck up. Go have some fun. Anytime you need us to pick him up or make sure he gets home, we’ll do it.”

  “You know, my sister is stupid.” Georgia never understood why Risa dumped A.J. right after high school, but she’d planned to head to a big school back East and said A.J. was a small-town guy with small-town dreams.

  “She wanted different things, Cricket. We had no illusions about each other. Besides, I have Sheri now.” He patted her car. “Now git gone, and have some fun. Go buy yourself something. I hear all the ladies like to do that.” He strolled away and she whistled to get his attention.

  “A.J.? It’s good to have you home.” And she meant it.

  “Good to be home.” He touched the brim of his hat and went on about his business.

  Starting the car, Georgia reversed onto the two-lane road and turned toward Freewill. Maybe she would go find something to do.

  Her conscience twinged, worry for her grandfather so second nature she didn’t know how to not be concerned. Double-checking her cell phone, she made sure the ringer was on. She didn’t want to miss the call to pick him up. Still, with the empty time in front of her, what fun could she have? Maybe the library has a book or three on how to have fun.

  ***

  “She worries about you.” Greg watched her car pull away with regret. She’d talked to A.J. and then left. He’d wanted another glimpse of the fire in her scornful eyes.

  “She needs to live.” Crane turned and started walking again. “Neither of us died and she needs to stop acting like we did.”

  Together, they walked for an hour until Crane found another spot to look at the uninterrupted view of the valley and the mountains beyond. Even in summer, white dusted the distant peaks. Settling against a sun-warmed rock, Greg closed his eyes and breathed in the air, as far from the sun-baked deserts and brutal, war torn landscape as a man could get.

  “You didn’t die over there, either.” Crane spoke so softly Greg thought he misheard. But he opened his eyes to find the old man studying him. “It’s time you started living again, too.”

  ***

  Every night began and ended the same. He collapsed into bed too exhausted to think or feel anything. He always woke, his legs cramping and the sound of his bones shattering in his ears. Jerking upright, he stared at the wall and tried to get his breathing under control. The cramp in his right thigh felt like someone turned a screw into his leg—and he knew exactly how that felt. Pounding the rebellious muscle with his fist, he embraced the bruising sensation.

  Like Crane said, he didn’t die over there.

  Death didn’t hurt.

  Chapter Three

  “Seriously?” Greg eyed A.J. and Sheri across the table. They’d dragged him into Freewill for dinner. He’d tried to beg off, but neither would hear of it. Apparently the evening conversation consisted of take-Greg-out-and-tell-him-horror-stories. “You two met via a sex date?”

  Sheri’s face colored deep pink and she laughed. “It wasn’t a sex date, exactly.”

  “No, it was a sex date.” A.J. rubbed the back of her neck, amusement curving the corners of his mouth. “It just helped that we became a lot more than the sum of that date.”

  Tipping his beer bottle, Greg took a long drink rather than respond. He didn’t have words to answer that.

  “Huh, speechless. That’s a sight I didn’t think I’d ever see.” A.J.’s easy grin didn’t falter.

  Fine. They brought it up. “Where did you find a sex dating service?” Sure, he’d seen the porn ads on late night television and had been caught in one or two pornados on line, but what dating service promised sex …legally?

  “I didn’t, Luke did. He and a bunch of the guys signed up for one set up by a Madame Evangeline. Or Madame Eve.”

  Greg’s right eyelid twitched. “So it’s an escort service?” What else would it be with a name like that running it?

  “No.” Sheri leaned forward. Her voice dropped despite their corner table in a nearly empty restaurant. Apparently, they’d arrived at an off hour for dinner, or in the lull between, according to A.J. “Madame Eve allows you to meet the perfect person for you—matches two people looking for the same things. It’s called a one-night stand because both parties want sex, sure. But sometimes they want different things or they want a connection they can’t find in their everyday life. It takes a lot of the pressure off and you can have a good time. If you’re lucky….” She glanced at A.J., and he met her look with the smile of a genuinely happy guy.

  Uh huh. Considering she was a lady, he managed to stifle his snort of derision. “That’s great, glad it worked out for you. But I’m good.” He stretched his legs, sore from the long hike. Each day, he and Crane went farther. Between hiking and the labor on the ranch, Greg grew stronger. Regular labor proved far more satisfying than physical therapy, too.

  “It did work out for us, but it’s more than just coupling up.” A.J. paused while the waitress cleared away their appetizers and delivered their dinners—thick steaks and baked potatoes for the men, and a grilled chicken salad for Sheri. “It’s about living again.”

  For the second time in as many weeks, someone advised him to live again. “Do I look like I think I’m not alive?” Irritation scraped his nerves. Old Man Crane, he understood. The man had shamanistic leanings, counseled others, and the time together helped Crane as much as it did Greg.

  “I think you’ve spent months in hell recovering from some seriously fucked up injuries.” A.J. studied him. “You grabbed onto my invitation like a drowning man and I’m here for you. Recovery comes in steps….”

  “Last time I checked, Westwood was the shrink.” He clamped down on the urge to get up and walk out. A.J. meant well. Sheri stayed focused on her salad, tension reflected in her tight grip on the fork. They couldn’t understand what went through his head or his soul. Hell, he didn’t understand it.

  Georgia flashed across his mind’s eye, but he shut the train of thought down. She might be gorgeous, but she didn’t like him. Better to not borrow trouble.

  “He is. But I’m your friend. I want you to have options to explore. To help you make a life outside and to heal.” A.J. tapped the steak with his knife. “Options that include more than helping me rebuild the ranch. If you want a life here, a clean slate, a fresh start—this is one way to kick start that. But it’s just one idea.”

  “One idea.” Greg grimaced. “I appreciate it.”

  “No, you don’t, but you might if you ever decide to investigate it.”

  “Maybe—can we drop it now?” He didn’t need to book a sex date.

  Sheri put a hand on A.J.’s arm. “Sure we can. Because we’re having dinner.”

  He slid a glance at his girl and his expression softened. “Okay, we’re having dinner. Miller and Jones are going to be another month or so before th
ey join us….”

  Glad for the change of subject, Greg cut into the steak. He had plans after dinner.

  ***

  Georgia stared unseeingly at the words in the book. Her grandfather watched a baseball game from his favorite armchair and played cards on his television tray. “I’m not disappearing sitting right here, Georgia. Why don’t you go out and have some fun tonight?”

  “Because I don’t ever know what you’re going to do.”

  “Tonight, I’m going to play my solitaire for an hour and probably fall asleep watching the game.” He eyed her before laying out another three and moving a black jack to cover a red queen. “I don’t go walking after midnight.”

  “Oh, you’re cute.” She snapped her book shut and ignored the twinkle in his eyes.

  “Ahh, Georgia. You’re a young woman, you need to go out and find yourself a good young man and make me some gorgeous little great-grandbabies. All this fussing over me isn’t doing you any good.”

  “I’m not fussing.” She put her book on the table and walked into their kitchen. Separated from the living area by an open half wall and bar, she could still see the television and talk. “I worry about you. You don’t take your medication, you go for long walks when you’re not supposed to, always flouting what Doctor Jensen told you to do.” She fished around in the freezer and pulled out a pint of ice cream.

  Her go-to frustration food.

  “You’re fussing. Doctor Jensen told me to reduce my stress, exercise, and come in for regular checkups.”

  “You’re walking miles and miles every day….” She spread her arms wide. “That’s too much.”

  “A man has to walk until he finds himself.” Pausing his card game, he studied her. “I’m at the end of my life, Georgia. All the worry in the world will not make me young again. But it is making you old.”

  A knock at the door surprised her and she set her ice cream down to answer it. Greg Rainwater stood on the other side of the screen door looking deliciously sexy in a pair of jeans and a button-down, with his beautiful black hair falling down to his shoulders.

  “What are you doing here?” At my house. At night. Looking like sin.

  “Good evening, Miss Crane. I’m here to see your—”

  “Is that Greg? Let him in and don’t be rude!” Her grandfather rose and waved him inside. “Come in, come in.”

  Her sour mood didn’t improve with Greg’s apologetic smile or the way her grandfather shook his hand.

  “I didn’t know we were expecting company.” She had no idea what she would have done if she’d known—perhaps changed her clothes and not worn her ragged sweats, torn T-shirt and a pair of socks that let her big toes peek through the top. She might have even taken her hair out of a ponytail…. I don’t know? Put on make-up?

  “You didn’t ask.” Her grandfather sounded positively gleeful.

  For his part, Greg actually looked ill at ease. “I’m sorry,” he murmured earning serious points for the genuine apology. “Your grandfather invited me to come by and watch some of the game with him tonight.”

  “Come in, get a beer—we have some in the fridge behind the milk.” Her grandfather avoided her eyes when he issued the invitation, because he wasn’t supposed to have alcohol. And it shouldn’t even be in the house.

  “Help yourself.” She motioned. “I’ll just take my book and….”

  “You could join us,” Greg offered.

  “No, Grandpa wants guy time.” That couldn’t have been clearer. “So enjoy. I’m going to change and take myself out for the evening. I think there’s a new band at the Watering Hole.”

  Scooping up her book, she fled into her bedroom. The last thing she wanted to do was go out. Her grandfather didn’t want her there. It didn’t matter that she’d turned down two fantastic job opportunities to stay on in Freewill and look after him. He’d found his new friend.

  Dampness splashed against her hands, and she wiped away the tears she hadn’t realized she shed. Frustration welling, she grabbed a black dress off the rack and ran a brush through her hair. Light cosmetics would have to do and in ten minutes she had her keys and purse in hand, ready to go.

  Greg rose to his feet when she returned. She refused to look at him. Being turned on by her replacement was not how she planned to spend the rest of her evening. “I’ll be late.” She announced. “Grandpa, you have two pills to take at nine. Don’t forget them. Maybe Mr. Rainwater can remind you.”

  “Of course….”

  She pivoted and headed out without looking back. Her stomach sank. She had no desire to go to the Watering Hole and even less desire to listen to whatever band headlined, but she’d pushed herself out the door, so off she went. A hand caught her car door and opened it for her, and she let out a small shriek of surprise.

  “Easy,” Greg murmured. “I just wanted to tell you again, I’m sorry for barging in tonight. I honestly thought he would have told you I was coming.”

  Dammit, now I have to look at him. Glancing up, she summoned a small smile. Did he really have to be so pretty to look at? “Really, it’s okay. Sorry to be such a bitch. It’s been a long year and he really likes you. So go inside, enjoy the game and just—please make sure he takes his meds when he’s supposed to.”

  He didn’t let go of her door. “You weren’t a bitch. You’re worried. I just wanted you to know I get it.”

  “Cool.” Okay, she needed a way to eject from the situation before she made an utter fool out of herself. “Have a good night. I meant what I said about being late.”

  “I’ll stay until you get home. If you run into trouble or need a ride, call me.” He held out a small slip of paper. “And you can call me when we’re walking, too. I’ll have my phone on, so you can reach him or I can call if I need help with him.”

  A peace offering in the form of ten digits written on a sticky note impressed her. “Thank you. I’ll text you from the car so you have my number.”

  Greg smiled. “I’d like that.”

  Oh, eject. Time to go. Not hitting on him in my grandfather’s driveway. She slid into the car and waved goodbye. He closed the door behind her and stood there until she sent him the text message. A lame little, hey, this is me. She felt the weight of his gaze all the way to the street. Whether she really wanted to go or not, she had to.

  Glancing over one more time, she waved again and accelerated down the street. She liked him. She didn’t want to like him.

  But she did.

  ***

  He had the bunkhouse conversion nearly complete. The little house would have three bedrooms, two full baths and a kitchen area attached to a sitting room. More cottage-like than a bunkhouse—but they still called it a bunkhouse.

  He’d been in Freewill a month. Four weeks and, bit by bit, he was discovering himself again. Sleep didn’t prove as elusive, hard labor restored his physical strength, and the almost daily walks with Crane restored his spiritual health. Even the old man looked better. They pushed each other, talked at length—Crane even managed to get Greg to talk about his injuries, no small feat.

  But Greg couldn’t figure Georgia out. He saw her nearly every day. One day she blew hot, the next she gave him frostbite. And try as he might, he couldn’t get the image of her in that black dress out of his mind.

  She plagued him. He didn’t want to overstep and risk insulting Crane, but thoughts about the woman crawled through his system like a fever and left him hot and uncomfortable and still he couldn’t get enough of her. He made excuses to swing by Crane’s place on the off chance he might see her.

  She’d stopped coming after him every day, trusting Greg or A.J. to drive her grandfather home. He skipped going to Crane’s for dinner and the game, because A.J. and Sheri were off for the weekend, and he’d promised to keep an eye on the ranch. A feeble excuse, but it worked. He wasn’t up to keeping his hands to himself where Georgia was concerned.

  Maybe I just need to get laid. He thought about the dinner a few weeks before and the service A.J
and Sheri had mentioned. Rising, he went to find his laptop, packed away in his duffel. He hadn’t had much use for it since he arrived.

  What the hell—Crane’s right. It’s time to start living again. Relying on the phone line and a local modem to get on the Internet, Greg managed to finish most of a beer before he loaded the website up and scanned the rules and terms. What could signing up for one night of unfettered pleasure hurt? Maybe it might scrub the difficult woman from his brain.

  ***

  He outran the dreams, waking before it got so bad his legs seized up. Or maybe his brutalized muscles had finally grown strong enough that he didn’t find himself writhing in agony or crying like a little girl. But he was still awake. Rising, he paced over to the window. The ranch was silent at night—well, silent save for the scurrying of smaller forest animals, the occasional snort and stomp of the horses in their paddocks, and the whistling whisper of the wind.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t hear a damn thing it had to say.

  Chapter Four

  Four weeks later….

  The Marines they’d been expecting, Miller and Jones, had arrived the week before. They were paler than the last time Greg’d seen them, and Miller didn’t interact much—less than ten words total since his arrival, and most of those the day the bus delivered them. Jones—the far more gregarious of the two—never shut up.

  Greg enjoyed their company in small doses, but A.J. seemed to take all of it in stride. Nothing ruffled him. Not even when Greg let him know he’d need at least twenty-four hours off. It took a month, but A.J.’s Madame Eve came through with a date for him. All he needed was to make the arrangements and confirm the details. Avoiding any friendly advice—or friendlier ribbing—Greg skipped mentioning why he needed the downtime.