Marine in the Wind (1Night Stand Series) Read online

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  Marine in the Wind

  Copyright © 2013 by Heather Long

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-558-1

  Cover art by Mina Carter

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Also by Heather Long

  Once Her Man, Always her Man

  Retreat Hell! She Just Got Here

  Tell it to the Marine

  Proud to Serve Her

  Her Marine

  No Regrets, No Surrender

  The Marine Cowboy

  The Two and the Proud

  A Marine and A Gentleman

  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

  Combat Barbie

  What Part of Marine Don’t You Understand

  A Marine Affair

  Marine Ever After

  ~DEDICATION~

  For my readers who never fail to make me push myself harder to tell the stories they want to read, and for my critique partners who never fail to support me even when I make them cry.

  Marine in the Wind

  A 1Night Stand/Western Escape

  Always a Marine - Book 15

  By

  Heather Long

  Chapter One

  Greg stepped down off the Greyhound bus into the cool air of a Wyoming morning. Mountains surrounded him and the sun shone down like a golden kiss. No one waited to board, so he swung his duffel over a shoulder and moved away from the bus so it could pull on down the highway. Apparently the small town of Freewill didn’t rate a stop inside the town itself.

  The bus pulled away and revealed A.J. leaning against a red, 1951 Ford classic truck on the opposite side of the two-lane blacktop. “Oorah, Marine.”

  Chuckling, Greg walked across the street and shook his outstretched hand. “Retired. Hello will do.”

  “I thought the other guys were coming up with you.” A.J. patted the vehicle. “Stow your bag.”

  Tossing it in, Greg circled around and climbed in the passenger side. “Miller and Jones had to catch a different flight. Miller’s post-op fever spiked and the doctors restricted him. Jones didn’t want to leave him there alone, so I’m on my own.” Which he preferred, truth be told, and when the other two Marines insisted he head out, Greg was more than ready to leave Mike’s Place in the rearview mirror.

  “Thanks for coming. I can use the assist.”

  Maybe he could, but like Greg, A.J. craved the silence and respite of a slower life, defined by hard work, because a ranch couldn’t be otherwise. He’d turned down a billet at the facility in Allen, Texas, when offered. Instead, he’d returned to Freewill, and the changes in his easy smile and relaxed bearing were an endorsement for its restorative properties.

  Firing the engine, A.J. drove them through town. A sleepy place, with storefronts right out of a fifties television show, colorful window displays, decorated stores with doors wide open to let in the fresh air, and people waving as they drove past, all invited a person to stop in for spell. A.J. touched a hand to the brim of his hat for each and every one.

  The kind of town where everyone knew everyone else. No strangers lasted long before they were woven into the fabric of small-town life. He earned his fair share of curious looks, easy to discern at a twenty-mile-an-hour crawl, per the posted speed limit. He didn’t mind. He wouldn’t be in town much, since A.J.’s ranch lay outside of Freewill on several acres of pristine land with horses, forests, grasslands and mountains.

  Greg wouldn’t need the town.

  “I have a date tonight,” A.J. said. “But there’s plenty to eat at the house, and I’m almost done re-roofing the bunkhouse. You can stay in a guest room ’til it’s finished. After that, you can move out if you like. Or not, your choice. Plenty of room, lots of work. You can start tomorrow, once you settle in.”

  “Today is fine.” He’d been idle long enough and alone with the emptiness in his soul even longer. Honest work and back-sweating labor appealed to him. “Just hand me some tools and point me at what needs doing.”

  A.J. gave him a long look before he nodded. “All right. I’ve been putting off work on the barn. The stalls in there need to be torn out, rebuilt, and structured so we’ve got twelve box stalls for foaling and another dozen for stabling on an as-needed basis.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Freewill faded behind them and A.J. picked up speed. The breeze carried a hint of moisture along with sweet grass and woods. Greg leaned his head toward the scents and let the wind wash over his face. He drummed his fingers against the door. The coolness carried the taste of a cleaner world, a world before desert, fire, bullets, and hate stripped him raw. His time overseas worked him over and spit him out on the other side…but as what, he hadn’t quite determined.

  “Greg?” A.J. dragged him back to the present.

  “Yeah?”

  “You get tired, you take breaks. You need to walk it off, you walk it off. Understood?”

  Concern underscored the orders, so Greg nodded. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to be there until he arrived. He thought A.J.’s invitation might have been pity—not many men needed their legs rebuilt to replace crushed femurs and shins. Six months of brutal surgeries later and they’d pieced what bone they could back together with metal rods and steel screws, reattaching torn muscle and sinew.

  Many more months passed in intensive physical therapy—relearning to walk, to build his muscle strength—for a total of eighteen months since his life had shattered beneath the bulk of a flipped vehicle on foreign sands.

  “Greg?” A.J. tapped his arm.

  “I’m here. And, fine, I’ll work ’til I
’m tired. You have any watering holes or lakes up this way?” The scent of water tickled his nostrils; clean, fresh water without the irritation of chlorine or humid air. Real water. Real land.

  “More’n a couple. I’ll leave notes on the map at the house. I’ve got one for the whole spread, so you’ll know where you are.”

  He didn’t offer to give him a tour. Greg appreciated it. He wanted to be alone. A man had to be alone if he hoped to ever find himself again.

  “Thanks, A.J.”

  “Anytime, man. Anytime.”

  They didn’t need to say anything after that.

  ***

  As promised, A.J. showed him to a room when they arrived, handed him a map with markers for the land’s borders, as well as the local lakes and ponds—three of which were on his land. When Greg headed down to the barn, A.J. waved from his perch, working on the roof of the bunkhouse. He saluted and that was it.

  Two hours later, he finished breaking down the wood he’d ripped out of four of the six stalls he selected for his first task. Stripping off his shirt, he worked bare-chested to dry the sweat dripping off his body. His legs ached and his back hurt. He had to pause more often than he liked, but overdoing it would only put him down longer.

  Walking to the edge of the barn, Greg stared out at the vistas. He used to joke that he and the land were one. When he traveled, he courted the land like he courted a girl. Iraq, for example, was a hard maiden. She kept her secrets veiled and preferred no flirting. He thought they’d reached some kind of understanding over time, he and that foreign mistress, but she’d never accepted him—or maybe he never accepted her.

  Either way, it never stopped not being home.

  After he returned stateside, his native land felt as unfamiliar as that foreign soil. Canting his head, he stared at the distant mountains. If he could finish the stalls in a couple of days, he’d head that way. Walk through the shadow of the mountain…taste the air there. See what the land had to say.

  “You shouldn’t wait too long.” The voice behind him jerked him around, and Greg stared at the older man shuffle-stepping down the long corridor between the shredded stalls.

  Where the hell did he come from?

  “For what, sir?” As the man drew closer, Greg made out a flat forehead and more pronounced nose on a face that time had simply not been kind to. Deep wrinkles spread out from the corners of his eyes and snow white hair fell from a single part to the middle of his back.

  He was one of the People, though Greg lacked his grandfather’s skill for placing tribe just by looking.

  “For you. If you do not look, you can’t find.” His shoulders curved forward, his bearing hinting at stooped. Despite the slow walk, he didn’t appear frail on closer inspection. “Tosa'e netao'setsêhe'ohtse?”

  “Sir?” Maybe he’s lost. A.J. hadn’t mentioned any other residents on the ranch.

  “I asked where were you going, son. Maybe I should have asked, where have you been?”

  Hard to be irritated with an old man—particularly when the man reminded him of his grandfather and great-grandfather: two men he’d been privileged to know throughout his youth. They’d taken the place of a father who died, marrying his ancient culture with modern sensibilities, and a nation they supported even though they did not feel a part of it.

  “I’m just building some stalls today, sir.” He held out his hand. “Greg Rainwater.”

  The elder regarded him with something akin to curiosity but shook his hand. “They call me Crane. I’m going for a walk.” He pointed past Greg. “To the mountains. I want to listen to the wind.”

  And he shuffled past, leaving Greg to stare after him, uncertain of whether he should follow or not. He glanced at the stack of discarded wood. A.J. told him to take breaks when he needed them. Crane had nearly reached the edge of the tree line. Damn spry for an older man.

  Hanging the hammer on the edge of a stall, Greg hurried after him. Forced to stretch his legs to catch up, he winced at the cramps threatening his muscles. Running wasn’t an option.

  Not yet.

  He paced himself, never quite closing the gap to Crane. Somehow the old codger managed to stay ahead. Greg found, after a while, he didn’t need to catch up. Sunshine warmed his skin and a breeze, carrying the scent of pine and cedar, kept him cool.

  The land beckoned. They walked for nearly an hour before the old man stopped and Greg slowed—the man didn’t hold his attention anymore, the great vista beyond did.

  “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

  “Shh.” Crane motioned him closer. “Listen.”

  Greg frowned. He scanned the horizon, not hearing anything, save for the rustle of the trees and the faint sound of water trickling over rocks.

  “Listen to the wind,” Crane advised, head tilted back and eyes closed.

  Nodding slowly, Greg moved next to him, and he closed his eyes, too. His heart thudded, almost too loud, but breath-by-breath, it calmed until the rustling in the trees drowned out its thump. The water bubbling in its path echoed over the breeze brushing through the leaves.

  The unease in his center settled. For the first time, since medics carried his broken body off a plane, his shattered legs held together with long screws protruding through his skin, his soul quieted and he listened to the wind.

  ***

  Georgia scowled at the front door of her grandfather’s house. She’d gone to the grocery store along with running errands, dealing with any of a half-a-dozen minor details from paying the yearly taxes on his house to making sure all of the utilities were paid. Logically, she could have logged into a computer and handled all of the accounting online, but her grandfather didn’t believe that was neighborly. A man paid his bills in person.

  He preferred to shake the hand of his banker when he turned in his mortgage, exchange pleasantries with the coordinators of his utilities and get to know the man who collected property taxes. Society forgot about people, putting everything at arm’s length, and made them faceless behind computer screens, plain white envelopes, and account numbers.

  Ezekiel Minninnewah Crane grew up in Freewill. He knew every person who lived there, whether born within the small community or migrated into it—as so many had. He knew the land, met his wife there. Married her. Raised a family and buried her. One by one, his children fled the confines of the sedate pace of life for bigger cities and faster careers.

  All except Georgia. While she wasn’t his daughter, she’d reversed the migration trend and fled the confines of the city to settle in her grandparents’ home. Once upon a time, she’d loved Freewill. She loved to spend her summers with her favorite set of grandparents, embracing their traditional values and soaking up the fun. She couldn’t put her finger on when the joy turned into obligation, or when obligation became a chokehold on her future, but there she was.

  And her grandfather had snuck out. Again.

  Tossing her keys on the side table, she walked through the house and checked each room. She wouldn’t find him, but better to be systematic in case he merely napped.

  Not that the seventy-five-year-old cardiac arrest survivor would nap even if good for him. He’d spent three months in the hospital following two bypass surgeries for his ailing heart. His surgeon cautioned him to take it easy in the months following his scare.

  But does he listen? Not that she could tell. She’d turned down several lucrative job offers in the last year because he needed someone close at hand to look after him. He disagreed with the three home nurses hired to look after him, disappearing on them regularly. Georgia fired them for incompetence, but she had to wonder—if she turned her back for five minutes, her grandfather wandered off.

  Letting herself out of the house, she checked the street. She couldn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t gone down to have a cup of coffee with Widow Jones or to play cards with Pete Simpson, the retired social studies teacher who’d relocated to Freewill a couple of years ago. The two men became fast friends during the Native American
Heritage Festival and often engaged in enthusiastic arguments about how the oral tradition her grandfather maintained differed from American textbooks.

  Resigned to a search pattern, she pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through the contacts. She could knock on doors and call at the same time. Her grandfather had to be somewhere. She checked her watch. He was due for his medication so she had a little over an hour to find him. Pivoting on her heel, she jogged up the steps and through the front door, grabbed his extra bottle of pills.

  An hour later, her already bad mood soured further. He wasn’t at the Sunrise Café or the Watering Hole. No one at Jensen’s Grocery or Hometown Bakery had seen him and the livestock store owner mentioned he’d been by a lot earlier in the day, but—sorry ma’am—no one had seen him since.

  Her feet hurt and her temper unraveled a little more each time someone suggested she call his cell phone. Her grandfather didn’t have a cell phone. Didn’t believe in collars, leashes, or fences. He called cell phones fences, a fact he pointed out regularly whenever hers rang.

  Which admittedly had been less and less as she fell out of touch with friends in Jackson Hole, and farther away in Seattle. She’d had a promising career in Seattle. The heel on her shoe snapped as she crossed the street, and she nearly ended up on her ass in the gutter. If not for A.J. Turner and his girlfriend, Sheri, crossing the street at the same time, she might have.

  A.J. caught her arm and kept her upright. Her face warmed and she tried to straighten before humiliation overwhelmed her, but her ankle twisted and she did go down.

  “Hang on.” A.J. didn’t let her go, and Sheri intervened to remove the offending shoe. They steadied her and Georgia sighed.

  “Thank you. Sorry. I didn’t mean to crash into you.” She’d known A.J. growing up through a very circuitous route. He’d dated her sister in high school. Despite returning from the Marines a few months before, he didn’t spend much time in town anywhere—except the library.