Rogenna Brewer - Marry Me, Marine

But she’d already glimpsed his not-so-tough side. He was helping her, wasn’t he?

Well, helping to fix her car, at least.

“Do you miss her?” she persisted.

His hesitation made her think he was going to ignore the question. “I’m only sticking around long enough to clean up her mess.”

His answer wasn’t really a yes or a no, but the kind of response she’d come to expect from him. “Then what?”

As if trying to see the life ahead of him, he kept his eye on the road. “Hope someone buys me out.”

“You’re not keeping the place?”

“Why would I?”

“Sentimental reasons, I guess.” She was under the impression the property had been in the family for a long time, given the comments that had been bandied about in the diner. Something about his granddaddy rolling over in his grave if the grandson sold it.

“Trust me—” he slowed to a crawl, glancing around her before bumping over train tracks “—I don’t have a sentimental bone in my body.”

That she could believe.

He pulled into the parking lot of an auto parts store in the center of town. “Hard to keep a secret in a place like Henry’s Fork, but not a lot of people know about the condition of my mother’s house. And I’d appreciate it if they didn’t find out.”

“Who would I tell?”

He seemed satisfied with her answer. They got out of the truck and he held open the shop’s heavy glass door for her. Heads turned as they stepped inside. He pointed her toward the ladies’ room and walked up to the counter as if he didn’t care that everyone was staring at him.

When she came out a few minutes later a clerk—Jason, according to his name tag—was ringing up the sale. “Thirty-five dollars for the pump,” he said. “And five to patch the tire. Just bring it around back.”

“That’s it?” Angela asked. The amount was half of what she had on her, but less than she’d expected. And a lot less than a new radiator, which was the one thing Hatch had said she didn’t need.

While she was still digging around in her purse, he extracted his wallet and paid, ignoring her feeble protest.

“Thank you,” she said as the parts technician handed her the boxed pump and receipt. “I’ll reimburse you with my next paycheck,” she said to Hatch. “Which might be a while.”

Since she was out of work at the moment.

He shrugged off her promise. “Do you know how to put that in?”

“If either of you can recommend a good mechanic…?” She glanced from one man to the other. “And where I might find the nearest Western Union office.”

Just as soon as she was able, she’d be taking one of those powder puff car maintenance courses like the one she’d seen on the pink flyer in the ladies’ room. She never wanted to be this dependent on a man or a mechanic again. She didn’t want to be that B movie character in a broken-down car by the side of the road, just waiting for the serial killer to come along.

“Clay should be able to handle a water pump,” Jason said. “I’d do it myself just to work on an ’80 Seville. Cadillac took a lot of heat that year for using Oldsmobile parts and engines. If it’s really pink—” he cast a doubtful eye at Hatch “—I’d be willing to make you an offer.”

“Sorry,” Angela said. “Shirley signed a contract with Mary Kay. In order to buy the car she had to agree not to sell it to anyone other than a certified GM dealer.”

“And GM’s required to paint it.” Jason shrugged, having known her answer all along. “It was worth a try.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me where I might find Clay.”

After a moment’s hesitation Jason pointed to Hatch.

“Clayton Henry-Miner at your service.” Hatch offered a two-finger salute above his eye patch. “Most everyone around here calls me Clay, to my face, at least. A few of my friends, and I do mean few, call me Hatch.”

“Guess that makes us friends.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, darlin’,” he said in answer to her cheeky assumption.

She tried not to let his response sting. They’d known each other only a couple of hours or so. A couple of hours in which she’d proposed—and he’d rejected her. That had to count for something.

“Clayton. Is that a family name?” It was kind of old-fashioned. “Is it okay if I still call you Hatch?”

“I’ll make an exception.”

Her request appeared to amuse him. Good, because she wasn’t ready to give up on the whole friendship thing. As in friends helping friends. Convincing him to marry her might be easier if he actually liked her and wanted to help her.

“I’m Angela, by the way. Angela Adams.” She finally got around to introducing herself, after having spent some time in the company of a man whose real name she didn’t know. And who didn’t care enough to ask hers when she’d neglected to mention it. “Now that we’ve been properly introduced can you please quit calling me darlin’?” She tried imitating his drawl.

“Hardly seems fair. I’m letting you use my tag.”

“What does Hatch stand for, anyway?” All this time she’d been thinking Hatch was his last name.

“My friends don’t have to ask.”

She’d stepped right into that one.

Feeling rather foolish, Angela left the store with the only mechanic in town, aside from Jason, likely to fix her car for free. The guy she knew as Hatch.

Clayton Henry-Miner. The Hermit of Henry’s Fork.

Henry, Henry’s Fork…

Was there some connection?

Bet he wouldn’t tell her that, either.

She held the pump in her lap while they drove around back for the tire. Hatch got out and exchanged a few words with a guy in greasy coveralls. She exited the truck, too, but stayed put while the two men disappeared into the open bay. A short while later Hatch emerged and put her patched tire in back.

“A souvenir.” He dropped a coiled horseshoe nail into her palm. Looking at it, she wondered how the curved object had managed to puncture her tire. He nodded toward the courthouse in the town square across the street. “You sure this is what you want?”

It struck her then that he’d bent the nail.

She bit down on her bottom lip. He’d said yes. Yes, with an open-ended symbol that fit perfectly on her ring finger.

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

“Marine’s don’t cry,” he pointed out with far too much sympathy. “At least not any of the Marines I’ve ever known.”

“You’re really going to marry me?”

“Either that or take out a restraining order.” His lips compressed into a serious line. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“HUNTING LICENSE?” the middle-aged clerk asked without looking up. “Big game, small game, fur bearing, fowl or waterfowl?”

“The biggest game,” Hatch said. “Marriage.”

He still hadn’t decided against a restraining order. In the short time he’d known her, Peaches had gotten under his skin—and he didn’t like anybody crawling around in there. Plus, wouldn’t she just love it if she knew he’d tagged her that? Right now the quickest way to end their association appeared to be marriage. She’d be on her way and out of his hair.

And he’d never have to see her again.

The clerk eyeballed him above her reading glasses. “Take a number, please.”

Hatch glanced around the empty office. “Carla, you and I are the only ones here.”

“Number.” She indicated the stand in the middle of the room. Arguing would get him nowhere, so Hatch stepped back and yanked off the next tab.

Carla hit the buzzer beneath her desk and urged the lighted sign. “Forty-two.”

“Only three more to go.” He waited until she called forty-five before stepping forward. “Forty-five for the month or the year?”