Marry Me, Marine

CHAPTER TWO

“I’M SORRY.” ANGELA apologized again from the passenger seat of his pickup. The man beside her gripped the steering wheel as if maintaining control of his anger depended on it.

What did he have to be angry about?

They were on their way into town—to the auto parts store—for a tire she hadn’t known she needed and a water pump she knew she couldn’t afford. He turned right onto the highway at the mailbox.

Had to be some irony in there somewhere.

Angela stared out the window, wondering if her grandmother would be able to wire enough money to cover the cost of repairs. And just how was Angela supposed to explain being in Wyoming? Not to mention her reason for being here.

He’d hauled her out of the house and into the cab of his pickup so fast her head was still spinning. She was surprised he hadn’t dumped her by the side of the road. Instead, he’d cursed the lug nuts and her lack of a spare, took one look under the hood and ordered her back in his truck.

How could a man with one eye even have a driver’s license?

She met his hard stare in the extra-wide side-view mirror and sank farther into the bucket seat. “I was just looking for a bathroom.”

“They haven’t been usable in years.”

“Then where—”

“Not there.” He’d cut her off, but hadn’t answered her question. So where was she supposed to go? And where did he go?

And where did he live if “not there”?

She found it hard to imagine anyone living in that house with or without plumbing. But someone had lived there and died there. He didn’t elaborate, and several miles passed before Angela got the nerve to ask about his mother. “How long ago did she die?”

“There are no dead bodies in the house, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

It wasn’t.

But if he wasn’t going to accept her attempt to make peace, then why should she tiptoe around? “Good to know you’re not a cross-dressing psychopath.”

Other than muttering something about a cold day in hell, he let the Norman Bates Psycho reference slide.

A trace of wood smoke lingered in the cab, together with the pine-scented air freshener. Or was that Irish Spring? He’d shed the outer layer of dirt along with his outerwear.

Shedding her perceptions would take a lot longer.

He glanced at her in the side-view mirror again. “You know the opening scene of every teen horror movie—young woman, healthy lungs, goes looking for trouble and finds it? You’re that girl.”

Angela rolled her eyes. “You’re not as scary as you think you are.”

“And you’re not as tough.”

“I’m a lot tougher than you know.” She went back to staring out the window. A lot tougher.

The abruptness with which he returned his attention to the road signaled an end to their conversation. They continued in silence for several more miles, and she took full advantage of his blind side.

What did he look like under all that scraggly hair? With a little imagination, kinda like a roughed-up version of Alex O’Loughlin.

First impressions weren’t always right.

A jean jacket had replaced the heavy down coat and coveralls. Underneath that camouflage outerwear, he’d had on a clean chambray shirt and a plain white T-shirt. His Wranglers were also clean despite being worn through to indecency.

The last time she had a pair of strategically ripped jeans she’d paid over a hundred dollars for them. But it had been a long time since she’d been able to afford clothes costing that much.

He wore work boots. No cowboy boots or cowboy hat in sight despite him living in the Cowboy State. A couple U.S. Navy ball caps hung from the gun rack across the back window, where he kept his guns under lock and key.

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?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Clay. What brings you to town? Haven’t seen you in a while.” He’d heard the rumors going around. That he wasn’t right in the head since his return from Iraq. That the shrapnel had taken out more than just his eye. That he should have returned sooner, with his mama so sick and all.

That it was too late now for them ever to make amends.

“I’m here for a marriage license,” he reminded her.

“I heard you the first time,” she said. “And I still don’t believe you. Where’s your bride?”

“Throwing up in the ladies’ room, I suspect.”

The woman raised an eyebrow above the rim of her glasses. “Bridal jitters?”

He hoped that was all it was. Outside, Peaches had flung herself at him in a hug so fierce he was still reeling from it. But inside, she’d pressed a hand to her stomach and excused herself to go to the restroom.

“I’d like to get started on the paperwork.”

“We’ll wait.” Carla thrummed her fingernails against the desktop. They didn’t have to wait long.

“Sorry,” came the familiar refrain.

Carla removed her glasses and glared at him disapprovingly as Angela Adams sidled up beside him. “I’ll need to see the bride’s ID,” Carla said. “She has to be at least eighteen to get married without her parents’ permission.”

His bride was being carded before she could even fill out the paperwork.

Peaches extended her Colorado driver’s license to Carla. “I have my birth certificate and passport if you need them.” If he had any doubt that she was serious, the birth certificate and passport squelched it.

With a click of her tongue, the older woman handed him two pens and two clipboards, plus the separated pages of their application, highlighted in pink for her and blue for him.

He passed the pink pages to Angela.

“You okay?” he asked as they sat down in the row of empty chairs to fill out the brief forms. Wyoming had no waiting period for a marriage license. When a cowboy wanted to get hitched, he got hitched.

Without a blood test.

“Yeah.”

He looked up to gauge that one-syllable response. She didn’t sound okay. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

She smiled, laughed even. Better.

Except for that nervous edge to her laughter.

“Are you?” She gazed at him anxiously. “Okay with this, I mean?”

He answered with an equal amount of uncertainty. “Yeah.”

He’d been saving his first marriage for that first big mistake, and right now he couldn’t imagine a bigger one.

She completed her form in record time and handed it to him. He finished his and took both back to the counter, glancing at Angela’s vital statistics before turning the forms over to Carla, together with the twenty-five dollar fee and five dollars for the certified copy Angela had said she’d need to give the recruiter once this was all over with. Calhoun owed him big-time.

Hatch glanced at the wall clock and frowned. A quarter to four on a Friday was cutting it close.

“The judge in?” he asked, trying to hurry Carla along.

The sooner they got this over with the better.

She held up an index finger as she talked into the phone, presumably to the judge. “Half his age,” she was saying. “And throwing up in the ladies’ room.”

“I’m standing right here, Carla.”

She lowered her voice and craned her neck for a better view of his bride-to-be. “Can’t tell if she is or isn’t.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Is she pregnant?”

“None of your damn business.”

With a smug smile, Carla handed over the phone. “Your aunt wants to speak to you.”

“She’s not half my age,” Hatch said in a preemptive strike. “Twenty,” he responded to the question that followed. “No, she’s not pregnant.” Not with his baby, anyway. “I’m doing a friend a favor. She’s a single mom who wants to join the Marine Corps. And that’s all there is to it.”

Somebody had to sign for her.

He’d finally figured out what Calhoun had known all along. That he was the guy most likely to remember having been dependent on somebody else to join the service.

Parental consent. Spousal support.

Not spousal support in the traditional sense, but he really didn’t know what else to call it. Felony? Fraud?

It wasn’t as if they were doing this for monetary gain, or even military benefits. He had his own military pension with benefits. And therein lay Calhoun’s genius.

Hatch gained nothing by marrying Angela Adams.

Which meant neither of them had anything to lose. As far as he knew, only Immigration Services had a problem with people marrying for the sake of convenience.

Just a signature on a piece of paper.

And here he was, stone-cold sober and ready to sign.

“There’s no point in your coming down here,” he said to his aunt, when he could get a word in edgewise. The last thing he wanted was his only living relative caught up in this fiasco. “All right.” He agreed to stop by later. “See you then.”

He handed the phone back to Carla. “You were going to check on the judge,” he reminded her.

She took their freshly minted marriage certificate from the printer with her and came back a few minutes later and asked them to wait.

At four o’clock on the dot Carla ushered them into the wood-paneled chambers of Judge Booker T. Shaw. The judge stood before his massive desk with a Bible and Colt Peacemaker clasped in his hands.

The antique revolver was for show. The cabinet full of rifles behind the desk was not. Every inch of wall space was covered with pictures and plaques of the judge’s award-winning bird dogs.

A sign behind his desk read I’d Rather Be Hunting. Judging by the waders beneath his robe and the two Brittany spaniels at his feet, Peaches and Hatch were keeping the man from his preferred pastime.

Hatch could relate. He’d rather be anywhere than here.

Angela stooped to scratch the dogs behind their ears. The judge glanced at her and then at him.

“What’s all this nonsense, Clay?” Judge Shaw reviewed the application and license Carla had presented to him, along with whatever commentary the clerk had deemed necessary. So Hatch knew the man had gotten an earful. “Why isn’t your aunt here?”

“My aunt couldn’t make it,” he said. “Just strip it down to the legalese. We don’t plan on staying married all that long.”

Angela rose to her feet as if expecting the judge to throw them out. The spaniels wandered off to the rug in front of the unlit fireplace.

“Well, at least you’re honest about it. That’s more than I can say for most folks.” Shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to do, the judge asked his clerk and bailiff to act as witnesses. Carla and Ned stood off to the side nearest the door.

Angela was to Hatch’s left, his good-eye side. Where he could see her resolve, which strengthened his. She wanted this paper marriage. And aside from being inconvenienced, he had nothing to lose by giving her what she wanted. Judge Shaw opened the Bible to his cheat sheets and flipped through several before finding the right script. Then he cleared his throat. “We have come together today to witness the marriage of Clay and Angela. The legal requirements of this state having been fulfilled, and the license for their marriage being present, we’ll begin.”

He raised his eyes from the page to look at them individually. “Clay and Angela, you stand before me having requested that I marry you. Do you both do this of your own free will?”

Angela glanced sideways at Hatch before joining her voice to his. “We do,” they answered in unison.

She probably wasn’t even aware that in its simplest form marriage was a civil contract between two people. As long as he didn’t have to stand here and lie his ass off with promises to love, honor and cherish, he was okay with that.

“Do the witnesses know of any reason we may not legally continue?”

“We do not,” Ned replied.

“Your Honor—”

“I said legally. Any other reason and I do not want to hear it, Carla. While marriage is never to be entered into lightly, it’s up to this young couple to determine what constitutes their marriage. And up to the rest of us to butt out.”

The woman shut her mouth.

“Clay, repeat after me,” the judge said.

“I do solemnly declare,” he repeated, “that I do not know of any lawful impediment why I, Clayton Henry-Miner, may not be joined in matrimony to Angela Anne Adams.”