SEALs of Summer 2: A Military Romance Superbundle (132 page)

Now he wasn’t good for much as far as he could tell. He’d come a long way from those first weeks when he required a wheelchair, but he still walked with a lopsided gait he’d keep for the rest of his life. Where once he could run, jump and maneuver with the best of them, now he couldn’t go anywhere without the tap of his cane announcing his presence long before he arrived.

His family had urged him to join them in Louisiana after his separation from the Navy, but he’d decided instead to accept a joint invitation from Mason Hall and Dan Hemmins—two SEALs he’d known during his service. Mason and his brothers owned a large ranch in Montana named Crescent Hall after the three story gothic mansion at the heart of the spread. Dan had opened an extreme training camp in one section of the ranch for people who wanted a taste of Navy SEAL life. They’d promised him a room of his own and a chance to catch his breath before returning to the civilian world.

Ben knew these fellow ex-SEALs understood his situation in a way few people could and he was grateful for the offer. He needed a chance for his anger to cool and to accept that from now on he could no longer rely on the strength and speed that had gotten him this far. Once he’d been a star athlete. Now he felt sure that Mason’s great aunt Heloise could outrun him. Just last year he’d laughed with his friend over the way the old woman had tried to take over Mason’s life. Now that it seemed like the whole world had the upper hand on him, such things weren’t funny anymore.

Each day presented new challenges, great and small. Like the stairs he now faced that led down from the tiny commuter plane he’d flown in on from Billings.

Ben paused at the top to catch his balance before he hung the cane over his wrist, gripped both rails of the stairway and started down. It was a slow process. The bullet that shattered his ankle hadn’t left enough for the joint to be rebuilt. Now that it was fused, he couldn’t bend or flex his foot, but at least he could walk.

He’d made it almost to the bottom when he slipped, crashed down the last two steps and landed hard on his ass on the pavement. The flight attendant dashed down the steps behind him, her high heels clattering on the metal treads. A member of the ground crew rushed up at the same time and tugged Ben to his feet.

“You okay, man?”

“Oh, my goodness, Mr. Warren. Are you all right?”

He brushed off their concerns brusquely. “I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to call for a wheelchair?”

“I don’t need a wheelchair.”

He limped over the tarmac as quickly as he could, wanting nothing more than to forget the whole incident. This was what he had to look forward to for the rest of his life—petty humiliations and sickly sweet sympathy. He gritted his teeth together to keep from hurling his cane as far as it could go. Getting upset would do him no good.

“Ben! How are you?” Mason called out as soon as he entered the terminal.

“Good to see you, Ben,” Dan chimed in. Both men came to meet him.

Ben knew they had seen the whole debacle on the stairs and once again he had to push down a swirl of anger at his plight, but as they clapped him on the shoulder and expressed their happiness at his arrival, he knew he was being unfair. Mason and Dan were good friends.

He forced a smile. “I’m fine, except for the enormous bruise on my ego.”

Mason grinned. “I wasn’t going to mention that, but hey, most of our presidents have fallen down airplane stairs at one time or another. Why shouldn’t you?”

“That’s right, Ben, you think you’re something special?”

Ben relaxed. A little. Until Mason insisted on picking up his bag from the baggage carousel and carrying it outside to his truck and Dan slowed his pace to a crawl to match Ben’s. These were the things that drove him mad. He wanted to be the man he always had been. He wanted to pull his own weight and then some. Instead everyone treated him like an invalid.

Mason kept the conversation light on the way to the ranch. They wound along narrow, curving two lane country roads flanked by wide pastures, with farm houses in the distance. “You came at exactly the right time,” he said as they pulled up in front of Crescent Hall. Ben eyed its clapboard siding, wraparound porch and wide, circular tower. He could see why Mason loved it so much; the house had character. “The Harvest Festival kicks off this weekend. There’s a dance and everything.”

“Don’t think I’ll do much dancing anymore,” Ben said shortly.

“Hell, Warren. Don’t be like that,” Dan said. “Slow dancing’s the best part anyway. You can handle a slow dance.”

“Sure, if I had a woman willing to stand in place with me. What woman wants that?”

Mason got a gleam in his eye Ben didn’t like the look of. “Plenty.”

“Bullshit. I don’t want anyone’s pity.” He opened his door and got out, then planted his cane firmly on the uneven ground. Hell, more stairs—a whole bunch of them—led up to the front door.

Mason came to stand beside him. “I’m not talking about pity. I’m talking about women being crazy for Navy SEALs.”

“Ex-Navy SEALs.”

“Holy hell, man, you are dead set on feeling sorry for yourself, aren’t you?”

Stung, Ben turned to face him. “Wouldn’t you in my place?”

“Maybe. But then I’d get on with living. Lots of people have bigger problems than you.” Mason grinned suddenly. “I know what you need—a little motivation.”

“Spare me.”

“No, I learned from the best. What would my aunt Heloise do?” He stroked his chin.

“This oughtta be good,” Dan said.

“Don’t even go there.” Ben had heard all about Aunt Heloise. The woman had put Mason and his brothers through the wringer when she designated them heirs to this ranch, if and only if they all married and one of them had a child within the year. They’d pulled it off—but not before they had come close to losing it all. The way that woman got Mason and his brothers to dance to her tune was nothing short of ridiculous. He didn’t want anyone calling the shots with him like that.

“What is it I have that you want?” Mason mused. He brightened. “I know. My 1851 Colt Navy revolver.”

Ben straightened. “Are you kidding?” He’d collected historical firearms since he was a teenager and the revolver Mason had mentioned was one he’d long wanted to get his hands on. “Is it a replica?”

“Hell, no.” Mason looked offended. “It’s the real deal. My Dad picked it up at a gun show in Texas, but later he inherited a similar one that was used by a family member in the Civil War, so if you want it, it’s yours—if you ask a pretty girl to the Harvest Dance on Saturday night.”

“Do I just have to ask, or does she have to say yes?”

Dan laughed and Mason chuckled along with him. “She has to say yes and you have to dance with her through at least one song.”

“You’re a cruel man, Mason Hall.” Ben turned and walked to the stairs. Resigned, he used the rail to haul himself up them one by one. When Dan moved to his side and offered an arm, Ben shrugged him off. “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s the spirit. You’ll win that revolver before you know it.” Dan jumped out of the way when Ben elbowed him.

“Quit that Pollyanna tripe.”

“Then quit your whining.”

It was perfect.
Caitlyn Cross held up the dress she’d dreamed of finding ever since she’d bought her new pair of cowboy boots. She’d already worn them in to just the right state. Too scuffed up to be brand new, not scuffed enough to be consigned to cleaning stalls. Paired with her cropped jean jacket, she’d look smoking hot—

Or she would if she ever left the house in it.

A squawk from Lottie reminded her she’d better not dawdle long. She’d come to Willow’s to buy a new pair of jeans, not a pretty dress. She had no occasion to gussy up these days, and if she felt a pang for the times when she used to run out to the Dancing Boot on a Friday night, it was her own fault she was in this predicament. She’d let her guard down, had a one night stand with a man who’d left town before the sun even came up, and now she’d spend the next eighteen years raising her daughter alone.

Laughter caught her attention as she bent to check on Lottie, but the baby had already settled herself back to sleep in her car seat carrier. Caitlyn lugged her over to the next rack which was filled with jeans and looked for a couple of pairs to try on, trying not to let her gaze stray to the two young women looking at jewelry on the far side of the store.

“…still hasn’t told anyone who the father is,” she heard Lilian Frank say.

“Maybe she doesn’t know who he is.” That was Brittany Wallace.

They were talking about her. Gossiping about her. It hurt, even though she told herself to ignore it. She’d never been friends with either of them, so maybe she should have expected it, but she didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. She hadn’t slept around; she’d just lost her head once. Both she and Lottie would pay for it for a long time.

“Want me to start a fitting room for you?”

Caitlyn handed over the pairs of jeans she’d found to Storm Hall, who owned the store. With her waist-length blond hair and penchant for sarongs and halter tops, the California native always seemed out of place in Chance Creek, but the women in town were in her debt for offering them a new venue for shopping. “Thanks.”

“I saw you looking at this dress. Isn’t it cute? Why don’t you try it on, too?” She lifted the pretty garment from the rack and held it out.

“I don’t have anywhere to wear it.” But Storm had already added it to the pile and Caitlyn followed her to the fitting rooms, carrying Lottie’s car seat along with her.

“Let me keep an eye on Lottie. You go try things on.” Storm held out her hand and Caitlyn passed her the car seat.

“Thanks.” She appreciated the chance to change without fear of bumping Lottie’s seat and waking her up. She hurried, though, afraid to take up too much of Storm’s time. She didn’t know the woman well, and while she’d always been friendly, she did have other customers to wait on. Including Lilian and Brittany.

She tried on the jeans first, and was relieved when one pair fit like they were made for her. She’d been lucky with her figure, which thankfully bounced back after she’d given birth to Lottie, and she liked her thick chestnut brown hair, too, although these days she never had time to do more than shove it up into ponytails and messy buns. She was less fond of her face. Wide set eyes made her look too innocent and her smile always seemed crooked to her. She wouldn’t have minded a more patrician nose, either, but like her mother said, the one she had got the job done.

Satisfied with her choice, she tried on the dress next. As soon as she pulled it over her head, she knew it had been a mistake to let Storm hang it in the fitting room. It was perfect, as she’d known it would be. As she twisted and turned to take in her reflection from all angles, she swallowed the resentment that rose within her. It wasn’t fair that Lottie’s father got off scot free while she raised her daughter alone. She wouldn’t give up Lottie for the world—it was just so lonely sometimes.

“Come out and let me see that dress,” Storm said.

“Okay.” She bit back a sigh and opened the door.

“Wow! That looks fantastic on you. Look at your legs—they’re a mile long!”

Caitlyn grew aware of Lilian and Brittany’s silence and realized they were looking at her too. Brittany leaned over and whispered into Lilian’s ear. Lilian tittered.

Caitlyn’s face grew warm. To hell with them. They were too bored with their own lives to do anything but pick on her. She was allowed to have something pretty even if she’d made a mistake once. A mistake that had brought the most precious thing she’d ever known into her life. “I’ll take it.”

“Good! Get changed and I’ll ring you up.”

Caitlyn’s defiant mood lasted long enough to get her out the door, but once she was back in her second-hand Chevy Geo, her bravado deflated. What good was a dress that would sit forever in her closet?

No matter how pretty she was, no man would look at her now.

‡

“T
ake Aaron for
a second, would you?”

Ben gripped the squirming bundle Mason suddenly thrust into his arms and held it at arm’s length. “What am I supposed to do with him?”

“Hold him!” Mason’s frustration was evident and Ben knew why. The tractor he was supposed to use for the morning’s chore had quit working, and his wife, Regan, had passed him the baby just moments ago on her way to a dentist appointment.

“Ella will come get him as soon as she’s got Michael down for a nap,” she said. “Aaron isn’t ready to sleep yet. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to run.”

As far as Ben could tell, Mason was always pleased to hold his seven-month-old son, but time was passing and chores needed to be done. Ben had already found that he was just as inept at helping with the ranch work as he was at everything else these days. His first twenty-four hours at Crescent Hall had been a comedy of errors. He’d knocked over a dining room chair on his way to dinner last night, dropped a plate full of eggs and bacon this morning as he tried to carry it from the kitchen to the table, and had nearly taken a header on the uneven path between the house and the barn. He hoped like hell he could keep from dropping the baby. Ben propped Aaron against his shoulder awkwardly, unsure how to do it right. Aaron snuffled against his shoulder as if searching for something.