Jade Taylor - Wild Cat And The Marine

Bitterness he’d have no way of understanding colored Cat’s answer. Bitterness and piled-up, long-buried resentment. “You’ve been gone a long time. I don’t think of you at all.”

Apparently Jackson didn’t know how to answer her hostility.

Cat’s feelings, always inconsistent where this man was concerned, softened in sympathy. What had happened wasn’t his fault, or at the very least, it had been as much her doing as his. Now, forced by circumstances, he had to return to a lifestyle and a town he hated.

Cat couldn’t be a part of making him stay. She couldn’t tell him the truth about her daughter, now or ever. The pain of not telling replaced the fear, and a chill settled in her chest, spreading icy hurt to every part of her body.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever made the wrong decision for the right reason? Or the right decision for the wrong reason? If so, you have a lot in common with Wild Cat Darnell. She’s a hardworking single mother with a secret, and Jackson Gray is about to discover the truth.

When Jackson comes back to Engerville, North Dakota, he intends to stay just long enough to help his father get back on his feet after a farming accident. Then Jackson sees Cat again and he knows leaving is going to be hard. After he meets Cat’s little girl, leaving gets a whole lot harder.

I visited several small towns in North Dakota to set the scene for this book. My fictional town of Engerville is about fifty miles north of Fargo. The land is fertile and grows a bountiful crop for the hardworking farmers of that area, but the harsh winters make it a tough way to earn a living.

My respect for these hardy descendants of Norwegian, German and Swedish pioneers knows no bounds. I visited a small-town museum and listened to two elderly ladies of the historical society describe how the pioneers walked barefoot across Minnesota to get to North Dakota—there were no cobblers and no way for pioneers to replace their shoes. Picture a covered wagon pulled by oxen, lumbering slowly across an untracked prairie. Father sits in the driver’s seat. Behind the wagon a young woman picks her way through brambles and gopher holes, barefoot. All the way to the Goose River in North Dakota, where the Indians told the settlers they’d find good farmland.

Cat and Jackson are descendants of those pioneers, and they’re just as strong, just as brave and every bit as stubborn. I hope you enjoy reading about them.

I love to hear from readers. You can contact me at the following e-mail address: Jade@jadetaylor.com.

Sincerely,

Jade Taylor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated to my parents, Robert C. and Idell Beam Groves, for all they gave me, and especially for raising me with a love for books.

For the friends and family who supported my dream:

My siblings, Roberts, Jr., Albert, Roy, Sarah, Bertha, Tommy, David and Harry. We were a rowdy bunch of kids who grew up knowing how much we loved each other. We still do.

Bill, Sheri and Holly Ann Groves. You have my heart.

My critique partner, Alisa Clifford, for all she taught me; my friends at Midwest Fiction Writers, especially Pamela Bauer, Stacy Verdick Case and Rosemary Heim; LaVyrle Spencer for her wonderful books, for inspiring me to write and for telling me about RWA; my editors, Beverley Sotolov, who liked my story and bought it, and Johanna Raisanen, for making it better.

My friends at American Financial Printing for December 10, 2001 and for many other things less dramatic, but just as meaningful.

Jane Lindstrom for calling me up one day and saying, “Let’s write a book.”

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

BEFORE SIX-YEAR-OLD Catherine Darnell went to sleep, she said a prayer. Squinching her eyes shut, she swiped tangled black hair away from her face and pressed thin, scratched hands together under her chin. She recited the appeal she made nearly every night. “Please God, don’t let us move somewhere new tonight. I really want to stay here so Bobby and Arlene Sanders can be my friends forever. Don’t let Daddy get mad at his boss again. Please, please, God, make Mommy come back and live with me and Daddy. Amen.”

God didn’t answer that prayer, either. Two nights later, her father woke her in the middle of the night, kissed her once and carried her out to their rusty brown Ford Maverick. He laid her on the back seat along with two battered suitcases, sheets, blankets and the chipped ceramic figure of a rearing black horse he’d given her two months ago. Daddy put her mother’s jade necklace around her neck and whispered something about being sorry, then got into the driver’s seat.

Catherine watched as her father used a leather string to tie his straight black hair into a ragged ponytail. He pitched his cigarette out the window, tossed the road map onto the seat beside him and slammed the old car into gear. The wheels tossed gravel from the worn rear tires as he gunned the car out of the driveway and left the shabby little rented house on Roosevelt Street, her mother and all things familiar behind.

HEAD DOWN, Catherine Darnell trudged the worn path from the barn to her home. Halfway to her destination, she lifted her gaze from the uneven ground. The low-slung, one-story ranch house blended into the North Dakota prairie as if it had sprouted from the furrowed earth. Nothing about the dull siding, weathered gray where the white paint had peeled away, set it apart from the sameness of the surrounding farm land. It was as ordinary and unassuming as the plowed rows drifting off into the distance behind it.

The spring air reenergized her and her steps quickened. For all the faults the old house had—and those faults were beyond counting—it still welcomed her at the end of a long day with the comfort only a home could give. Her home. The thought warmed Cat, despite the chill breeze finding its way through her loose-knit sweater.

A strong wind sprang up and whipped the clothes on the line in the yard into a frenzied dance. She’d forgotten about the clothes. Evening dew hadn’t fallen yet, so they’d still be dry. Every bone in her body ached with the weariness of all the chores she’d rushed through that day. For a few minutes, she’d thought her work almost finished. Taking the clothes from the line and folding them, then bringing them inside to iron or put away meant at least another hour. Finally, supper for Joey. For herself, coffee and a sandwich would have sufficed, but her daughter deserved—no, needed—a good hot meal. At eight, Joey was small for her age.

Cat smiled, fatigue forgotten, as she pictured Joey stepping out of the shower and tugging on faded pink pajamas. She hoped the picture was accurate. Joey was a dreamer, forever forgetting her chores and, instead, picking up a horse magazine and mooning over some tall Kentucky-bred stallion, or turning on the television and becoming deeply engrossed in a Disney movie.

After grabbing a laundry basket from the porch, she hurriedly unpinned the shirts and sheets and towels and jeans and underwear from the clothesline. It took longer than it should have; the cold made her fingers clumsy. After the last piece had been placed in the basket, she caught it up and hurried to the kitchen door.