Wild Cat and the Marine
Jackson’s expression was stony. “You don’t think much of me, do you?”
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
Wild Cat and the Marine
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.”
CONTENTS
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
PROLOGUE
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.
CHAPTER ONE
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 doo
r.
The wind sucked at the worn old door as she opened it and slammed it hard behind her. A grunt of annoyance accompanied the accusing glare she cast toward the drafty entranceway. The basket handles bit into the blisters that had popped up on her palms while she shoveled manure and wheatstraw from the barn stalls. She winced and shifted her grip. Her hands should have hardened to the work by now, but they hadn’t.
As Cat entered the living room, Joey looked up from her seat on the floor in front of the TV, then scrambled to her feet. “I’ll help you carry the basket, Mom.”
At least she was in her pajamas. Cat grinned ruefully at her offspring. “Never mind, Teddy Bear. Why don’t you set the table for dinner while I put away these clothes. I’ll reheat the stew from lunch. That won’t take long.”
“Okay.” Joey sat down on the floor and turned her attention back to the television, dismissing her mother with a completeness Cat couldn’t help admiring.
“Now, please,” she insisted. It was always tough to put a sharp edge in her voice with Joey. Well, not always, but mostly. Joey was a good kid, but on a bad day she ranked right up there with those cartoon Simpsons. The ones she wasn’t supposed to watch. The ones Cat gave in and let her watch once in a great while and regretted immediately. She shook her head at the sight of Joey trying to stand up an inch at a time, keeping an unwavering gaze glued to the TV screen. She carried the basket of clothes into her bedroom.
Dropping the basket on the bed, she glanced at the answering machine. The red indicator light blinked twice slowly, then paused and blinked twice again. Two messages. She wasn’t expecting any calls. It was probably Tommy Karl wanting Joey. Those two were always up to something.
She pressed the button to play the messages. A cool, official-sounding voice began to speak.
“Catherine? Greg here. Greg Lundstrom from Engerville State Bank. We need to get together and talk about the mortgage on your farm. There are two quarterly payments overdue now and, frankly, I’m very troubled. Call me as soon as possible, will you? Thanks.”
A cold chill settled on Cat as nausea hit her stomach. She backed up to the bed, still staring at the phone in disbelief. Her legs gave way and she collapsed on Aunt Johanna’s colorful handmade wedding ring quilt.
Her hands shook. She clasped them together in an unsuccessful effort to stop the trembling, then untwined her fingers to reach for the jade necklace at her throat. Nervously, she clutched the beads. The spring payment had come due last week, but she’d been sure she could get an extension. In the confusion and grief of burying her father two months ago, she hadn’t even thought about the January payment. Why hadn’t her father taken care of it?
He hadn’t said a word to her about being short of cash when he bought RugRat, the newest addition to their small herd of horses. But then, he wouldn’t. It was like him to joyfully hand over the last bit of their cash for a pricey colt they couldn’t afford.
Now, she had to make up two payments. How could she do that? There’d been no horse ready to sell since the previous fall. It was high odds whether she could get RugRat ready by October and not a chance before then. Her jewelry business, more hobby than a means of support, brought in a bit, but not nearly enough.
Cat’s hands clenched so tightly her short, ragged nails dug into the new blisters. She’d neglected the horses’ training schedule badly. Too much to do just keeping them fed, groomed, their stalls clean and the vet bills paid. The horses were beautiful and she loved them as much as Joey did, but her father’s way with them had skipped her and gone directly to her daughter. It was too bad Joey was only eight. If she’d been older, maybe she could have taken over the training.
Cat stood up, stiffening her legs in grim determination. Dammit, she wouldn’t take refuge in foolish wishes. There had to be a way out, and she’d find it. This broken-down, beat-up, almost useless ranch was their home, the only real home she’d ever known, and no way in hell would she let the bank take it.
She pushed the play button to listen to the second message. Cassidy Gray’s usually cheerful voice was somber.
“Pop’s been hurt awfully bad, Cat. I knew you’d want to know. I’m at the hospital with him, now. I’m going to call Jackson to see if he can come home. I’ll call again as soon as I know more about Pop’s condition. Bye.”
If finding out she needed to make two payments to the bank had sent her reeling, then the news of her nearest neighbor’s injuries and his son’s probable return was the knockout punch. She sagged back onto the bed, her legs betraying her again. Her heart raced in frantic beats. Jackson back in Engerville? The thought sent excitement coursing through her body, warming her with sudden speed. A second later, the brief burst of joy faded and a nightmare wave of dread overwhelmed her. Somehow, she had to avoid Jackson. Stay as far away from him as was humanly possible. It was her only chance.
CORPORAL JUAN SANCHEZ LOOKED up as Jackson Gray entered the company office. “Hey, Jackson, it’s about time you got here. You’ve had three phone calls in the past hour. New babe?”
Jackson rubbed his eyes. They burned as if cinders had worked their way under the lids. “Give me a break, Sanchez. I didn’t get back to barracks last night.”
“It’s not me you should worry about, Red. Captain’s been asking for you. You’re late.”
“Five minutes, for crying out loud! What’s the problem?” He watched Juan toss a handful of papers into the “out” bin.
“Not my problem, Jack. Yours. Captain Ricky is ready to chop you into little, bitty pieces and have you for lunch. What’d you do?” Sanchez practically salivated with curiosity.
Jackson glared at the company clerk. “Why don’t you tell the Captain I’m here, Juan? If he wants to see me that bad, then he’s not going to appreciate your holding up the show.”
“Okay, no problem, but I wanted to talk to you about our trucking deal with Marty. He needs us to make up our mind whether or not we’re with him.”
“Sure we are. We already decided that. We’ll both have our release by September.”
“Yeah, well, the word up the line is that headquarters is going to offer up to three months early release to anybody whose discharge date is between April and October. I guess they recruited too many guys. Whaddaya think?”
“It would be a chance to get a head start finding a place to stay in Seattle. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Sergeant Gray?” The curt voice belonged to a lanky male in sharply creased khakis, who stepped through the hallway door into the room. The officer threw an irritated frown in Sanchez’s direction, then glared at Jackson. “I’m glad you could make it. Come with me to my office, please.”
Without his even thinking about it, Jackson’s body stiffened into a near-attention pose. “Yes sir, Captain Richards.”
Sanchez hurriedly bent to his filing, his tan cheeks highlighted with pink. Jackson repressed the urge to snicker at his friend’s sudden industry and quickly followed the company commander down the short hallway, wondering what he’d done to attract the captain’s attention.
The captain walked around his desk and sat down in the chair. He shuffled some papers, looking preoccupied, then glanced up at Jackson who maintained a rigid pose.
“At ease, Sergeant.”
Jackson snapped smartly into parade rest, his feet slightly apart, his hands behind his back, one nesting the other. He stared straight ahead at a position on the pale green wall just over the Captain’s head.
“I’m sorry to be giving you bad news, Sergeant,” Richards picked up a pencil and twirled it between his dark fingers as he continued, “but that’s in my job description.”
Jackson’s heart leapt to his throat. This wasn’t what he’d prepared himself for. Bad news to a soldier only meant one thing—trouble at home. He shot a quick glance at Captain Richards’s somber face. A frown marred the lean features.
“Your father has been badly injured.”
Jackson struggled with a surge of dismay. “Sir?”
For one dizzying moment, the office spun. Jackson fought for control. The spinning stopped with a jerk that left him shaken. The Captain waited for his reply. “Is he dead?” Force of habit made him add, “Sir.”
“No! No. He’s hurt, but your sister says he’s holding his own.”
Jackson’s heart banged hard against the chest wall surrounding it. His voice sounded raspy as he asked, “May I leave, Captain? I’d like to call her and find out what’s happening.”
“Sit down, Sergeant. You don’t look too steady. Take the near chair. Relax a moment. Your sister is calling this number sometime in the next ten minutes.”
Jackson sat on the edge of the straight-backed wooden chair, reluctant to lean back and relax. Sitting in the Captain’s presence made him uneasy, even if it had been his suggestion—order. “Thank you, Captain.”
“You’re a tough man to locate, Gray. I’ve had the duty sergeant at the barracks up half the night waiting for you to come in.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” His reply was automatic, his thoughts in turmoil, barely aware of what he said.
Richards growled his reply. “No need to be. You’re a good-looking pup. You’re entitled to spend your nights screwing around if you choose to. It’s your time.”
“Sir, I wasn’t screw— I wasn’t out messing around.”
The Captain looked disbelieving.
Jackson’s body wanted to twitch under the man’s metal gaze. He didn’t have to explain. Let the Captain think what he wanted to. In fairness, though, Richards had reason to think as he did and his commanding officer didn’t have to let him wait for Cassidy’s call in his office.