Rogenna Brewer - Marry Me, Marine

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.

“Who sent you?” His question and the way he scanned their surroundings showed an edge of paranoia.

He moved in so close she had to scrunch her nose. He smelled…earthy. And that was being kind.

Was this really the man she wanted to marry?

Building hysteria bubbled at the back of her throat. Did what she want matter anymore? A short laugh escaped. “Nobody.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Liar.”

Startled by the clarity of his gaze, she found herself searching his face. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then his was dark and stormy. But not out of touch with reality.

His pupil appeared normal. Black like onyx and in sharp contrast to the cobalt-blue iris, somehow softened by spiky black lashes.

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

An unexpected jolt of electricity shot through her at the intensity of his stare. “My recruiter thought maybe you’d help me.”

“Your recruiter?”

“Bruce Calhoun.”

“Ah.” He took a step back and studied her with renewed interest. “Help you how?”

“I need a husband.”

“And I’m supposed to find one for you?”

The rag in her hand became a tangled knot. “You’re the one.” Her words sounded more like a question than a statement.

He let out a snort, but at least he’d found some humor in her announcement. “Tell my buddy Bruce Calhoun that’s the best laugh I’ve had in a long time. Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need a wife.”

“It’s not like I want an actual husband.” She recoiled at the thought. “Just a piece of paper that says I have one. To enlist.”

So much for appealing to, what, his sense of duty?

Patriotism? Pride?

Loyalty to the gunnery sergeant who’d sent her here? Why would the man standing here, or any man for that matter, marry her so she could join the Marine Corps? He’d have to be loony.

And while this might be debatable she hoped he wasn’t that crazy. Just crazy enough to say yes.

He continued to scrutinize her. “The only reason you’d need a husband to enlist would be that you’re a single mom.”

Was that common knowledge to everyone except her? She hadn’t realized it, walking into the recruiting office with her high ideal of providing a better life for her son.

Just thinking of Ryder bolstered her determination.

“He’s two. Almost two and a half. His birthday is in May.” She flashed a cell phone picture of her son in his Halloween costume. Dressed like Yoda from Star Wars. He had her red hair and green eyes. “His name is Ryder.”

Seeing the man’s lack of interest in her digitized family album, she tucked her phone away with a sinking feeling. If pictures of Ryder didn’t tug at his heartstrings, he had no strings to tug.

“How old are you?” His focus narrowed. He was about to judge her the way most people did—too young and too irresponsible to be a good parent. Well, she was a good parent.

“None of your business.”

“You just made it my business.”

Crossing her arms, she tilted her chin. “Twenty.”

He cursed under his breath. “How old do you think I am?”

Hard to say. Beneath all that hair he could be in his late twenties or early forties, or any age in between. “Old enough,” she ventured.

“I need a kid even less than I need a wife.”

Angela got the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about her son. The man pivoted and started walking away again. She tossed the knotted rag in the general direction of the car and ran to keep up.

“You’ll never have to see me again, I promise. Except for the divorce. And that could be anytime after boot camp. Say a year from now—”

“Not going to happen.”

She really needed for this to happen. “Hatch, please. Please.” How pathetic was she, begging the man to marry her? But right now, saving her pride was secondary to gaining his help. While the military didn’t allow single parents to enlist, they did allow parents to serve if they became single after enlisting. “I’m not asking for a lifetime commitment.”