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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.
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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.
