The Marine's Family Mission
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Victoria Pade
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Chapter One
Emmy Tate took off her soiled leather work gloves, stuffed them partially into the front pocket of her jeans and ran the back of her right wrist over her forehead to wipe the sweat away. Then she pressed both fists into the ache in the small of her back.
Enough for today, she decided.
As she surveyed her progress on the field that had, until two days before, been growing spring vegetables, she fought feeling discouraged and overwhelmed.
Bad enough that the record-breaking hailstorm had wreaked massive destruction on the organic farm on the outskirts of small-town Northbridge, Montana. But why did her progress clearing the damage have to be so slow? She’d barely made a dent.
Mandy would have done better, she thought.
Of course, her late sister would have known what she was doing, and that wasn’t true for Emmy.
But she was trying—and trying, and trying, for months now—to make the best of a bad situation.
But tomorrow was another day, she told herself, surveying the farm. She looked beyond the field to the apple orchard behind it, where branches were nearly bare of leaves now, where many limbs were dangling or left broken on the ground.
It would have made an effective photograph. One she would have taken long ago when she’d worked for the Red Cross documenting their good works in natural disasters or war zones.
But those weren’t the kinds of pictures she took now. Not that she had time for pictures at all lately, with all she had to do. At least cleaning up the field left her out in the open. She was dreading getting into that orchard.
She’d called the only arborist in the area to come and take a look at it. Because he’d known and liked Mandy, he’d come despite the fact that he was overbooked with all the damage in the area. But he refused to deal with anything under ten feet high or to start work before the already-downed limbs and the ground debris were cleared.
He’d assured her that it wasn’t anything she couldn’t take care of herself. Drag out the downed limbs. Rake the leaves. Use the pole saw and pruner to cut down the broken branches below ten feet.
He’d shown her how to do that, confident that she could manage.
It wasn’t that she didn’t think she could, it was just that she’d have to be in that orchard to do it. Under those broken branches that could—would—fall to the ground, sometimes without warning. If she wasn’t far enough back or quick enough to get out of the way, they’d trap her...
It’ll be fine, she told herself impatiently, tamping down on the panic trying to rise to the surface. It isn’t the school in Afghanistan, it’s a bunch of trees, for crying out loud.
And she was over what had happened. She was okay now, she insisted to herself.
But still she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, repeating the process again and again until the panic wasn’t looming.
Or at least until it was looming less.
“I don’t know how I’m gonna get in there, Mandy...” she confided to her late sister in a whisper.
But cleanup had to be done. She needed the place in perfect condition if she was going to find someone to lease it so she could get back to her everyday life in Denver. Back to what she’d been doing since leaving her work with the Red Cross—taking photographs of happy occasions like engagements and weddings and taking portraits of newborns.
“It’s just a bunch of trees,” she said out loud this time before she headed for the farm’s truck, assuring herself that it was only a matter of time before she could go home to Denver.
Although it wouldn’t exactly be back to her everyday life. Not when she’d be taking her three-year-old niece and two-month-old nephew with her to raise.
But even unexpected single parenthood was less daunting than the farming her sister had loved—and mastered. She reached the truck and saw her reflection in the driver’s-side window.
She’d never seen Mandy look as bad after a day’s work as Emmy did at that moment.
“You’re a mess, Em,” she told her reflection.
Strands of her chin-length reddish-brown hair had come free of the topknot she’d put it in this morning and fell limply around her face.
She hadn’t bothered to put on makeup, so there was no blush on her high cheekbones, no eyeliner or mascara to accentuate her chestnut-colored eyes, no highlighter dusting her thin, straight nose or lipstick on full lips that craved balm at that moment.
But there was a dirt smudge across her forehead and a general griminess to her appearance.
Not wanting to get into the truck with too much of that grime, she took the work gloves from her pocket, slapped them against the side of the truck until no more dust billowed out of them, then used them to whack the loose layer of soil off her jeans and faded red crew-neck T-shirt.
Once that was done, she kicked her boots against the truck’s running board to clear some of the crusted dirt from them and then climbed up behind the wheel, glad no one but her mother and the kids would see her looking like this before she could climb into a much-anticipated shower.
A shower, after which she would dry off with a clean towel before she put on equally clean clothes fresh out of the laundry her mother would have folded and waiting for her. Then she’d enjoy the nice dinner her mother was making and some time with the kids her mother had taken care of.
For this one last day until Karen Tate left.
But Emmy couldn’t think about the fact that her mother was leaving tomorrow. About the fact that she would soon be on her own, not only with the farm and storm cleanup, but also with the house and the laundry and the meals and the kids, who included a colicky baby who cried for hours at night...
No, she couldn’t think about it. She was already tired and dirty and hungry, and she just couldn’t.
So she pushed everything out of her mind, turned the key in the ignition and started the truck’s engine.
“I sure hope you didn’t bite off more than I can chew, Mandy,” she muttered as she released the emergency brake.
Then she sighed and said, “One foot in front of the other, Em. That’s all you can do. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
The truck made a cranky noise when she put it into gear and she reminded herself to add auto repair to the list of skills that would be good for a leaser to have. Then she drove down the dirt path that took her to the private drive leading to the house.
It was only once she was on the private drive that she saw another truck ahead of her. A black one almost as dated as the pale blue one she was in.
Company? She wasn’t expecting anyone. She and her mother were supposed to spend this evening going over the food her mother had stocked the freezer with and the revolving schedule of babysitters her mother had lined up to help with the kids. Then her mother needed to finish packing. She was leaving early Saturday morning, so Emmy doubted her mother had invited anyone over.
Hopefully it was just someone coming to say an impromptu goodbye to Karen Tate and Emmy could leave them to it while she hit the shower.
The other truck came to a stop near the front porch of the white two-story farmhouse. Emmy parked her own truck, paying little attention to the guest, who she was increasingly sure must be there to see her mother.
Until she got out of the truck.
The other driver had already disembarked and was standing beside his vehicle, facing Emmy, apparently waiting for her.
That was when she realized who her guest was.
Oh no, not him! Anybody but him!
Of all the people who had come to give condolences for her brother-in-law, Topher, in October, of all the people who had come to give condolences for Mandy during the last six weeks, of all the people who had come to visit or help since Emmy had taken over, of all the people in the whole wide world, not him.
Declan Madison.
He was her late brother-in-law’s best friend. The neighbor Topher had grown up with and considered a brother. The person Topher had gone to the naval academy with, who he’d served with in the marines. He was the person who had been with Topher when Topher died seven months ago, in an IED explosion in Afghanistan that also left Declan wounded.
And if it wasn’t bad enough that he was also tied to Emmy’s Afghanistan nightmare four and a half years ago, he’d rejected her in the worst way at Mandy and Topher’s wedding not long after that.
Emmy had dreaded the thought of seeing him again ever since.
But there he was.
She wanted to get back in the truck and drive as far away from him as she could get.
But he was staring straight at her and making this yet another bad situation she had to make the best of.
Feeling rooted to the spot, Emmy once again took a deep breath, breathed it out, then literally forced herself to put one foot in front of the other to cross the farmyard.
As she did, she took stock of him.
She didn’t know exactly how hurt he’d been in the explosion—she’d only heard that he’d survived. But looking at him now Emmy saw no clues as to what injuries he’d suffered.
As far as she could tell, there were no visible scars, no discernible differences in him. He still stood tall and straight—inches over six feet. His shoulders were still a mile wide, and even though he looked slightly leaner, the officer’s service uniform he was wearing was still packed with muscle.
It was only when her gaze went above the impressive body that she noticed a difference.
At first she thought it was just that he’d grown out the buzz cut from his black-coffee-colored hair. But a couple of steps closer made her realize that his handsome face had a new gravity to it. A brooding quality. Plus the hint of some weight lost there, too, had carved hollows that made his cheekbones and chiseled jawline more ruggedly drawn, adding an intensity to his exquisitely masculine features.
A few more steps took her near enough to better see the remarkable cobalt blue eyes that had mesmerized her in the past, and there she saw even more change.
There was no sparkle, none of the humor or lightheartedness that she’d seen in them before. Even his supple-looking mouth looked somber. It was as if the light had completely gone out in him.
“Declan,” Emmy said in greeting, hearing the chill in her own reception but unable to heat it up as she came to within feet of him and stopped.
“Emmy...” he answered with a heavy helping of his own reservations.
Only in that moment did Emmy remember how she looked herself—awful.
It was bad enough to have to meet up with this guy again, but to do it with no makeup, with stringy hair and all-around grunge? For the second time, she wanted to run the other way.
But she squared her shoulders as if she had nothing to be self-conscious about, thanked heaven that at least seeing him again still hadn’t caused flashbacks to Afghanistan and said bluntly, “What are you doing here?”
His clean-shaven chin went up a notch, defiantly, defensively. “I’ve been in one hospital after another since October and now I’m just out of two months of rehab—I was released three days ago. I thought I’d be coming to face Mandy, but then I got the news that she died?”
The question revealed understandable shock. As far as anyone knew, her sister had been a healthy, vital thirty-two-year-old.
“Apparently she had a congenital heart problem that no one knew about... She died in her sleep two weeks after Kit was born.”
“She made it through a second pregnancy, a second birth and then...” His full dark eyebrows arched and he shook his head in disbelief.
“My mom thinks Topher came for her so they could be together,” Emmy said softly, wanting to believe that, too.
The mention of Declan’s late friend caused those eyebrows to pulse together as if she’d struck a nerve before he said, “I’m sorry for your loss. I liked Mandy. She and Topher were good together.”
“They were,” Emmy agreed.
A moment of silence followed that before Declan went on.
“So instead I’m here about the kids,” he announced.
“The kids?” Emmy repeated.
“I came to see what’s going on. To make sure Topher’s—” the name choked him up but he conquered it in a hurry “—kids are okay. To do what I can... I’m Trinity’s godfather, you know.”
And Emmy was her godmother. It had happened in two separate ceremonies—one with Emmy soon after Trinity was born, and a second with Declan when Topher and Declan had arranged leave time a month later.
It had been something Emmy was grateful for so she didn’t have to see Declan again then.
“Not long after Topher died, Mandy decided she’d better make a will and name a guardian for the kids in case anything ever happened to her. Nobody thought it would, but...” This time it was Emmy who choked up a bit before she got on top of it. “She named me as the kids’ guardian, so...they’re mine and you don’t have to concern yourself with them.”
That beetled his brow again. And seemed to raise a little ire in him because there was an edge to his deep voice when he said, “Topher was no different to me than either of my own brothers. I feel about his kids the way I’d feel about my own blood niece or nephew. I’m going to do what I can for them.”
“They don’t need you. Or anything from you,” Emmy said tersely, her own ire raised at the thought of having to have anything to do with him—and also at the implication she wasn’t enough to look after them.
“Look—” he said in a commanding, no-nonsense voice just as the front door opened and her mother came out.
“Declan! Is that you? I looked out to see if Emmy was back and... It is you, isn’t it?”
Oh nooo... Emmy groaned silently.
She knew how her mother felt about Declan Madison. Even before meeting him, Karen Tate—like Emmy herself—had been grateful to him for saving Emmy’s life in Afghanistan.
At Mandy and Topher’s wedding—unaware of the memories Emmy feared that the sight of him might cause her—her mother had expressed that gratitude and developed a fondness for him.
What her mother didn’t know was what had happened later on the night of the wedding.
Or how incredibly confused Emmy’s feelings about Declan had become.
Or that he’d walked her to her hotel room, made a date for breakfast with her and then gone next door for a night of what had sounded like very raucous sex with another bridesmaid.
So of course Karen Tate was excited to see him and hurried down the steps of the front porch to give him a hug.
“Oh, honey, how are you?” she asked.
Declan returned the hug stiffly, keeping his solemn, steady gaze on Emmy over her mother’s head as if to let her know that they weren’t finished with their talk.
“I’m okay,” he answered, his tone oddly reserved.
Emmy’s mom must have heard it, too, because she ended the hug and linked her arm through Declan’s to turn him toward the porch. “Come in. I want to know how you really are. And I know you must want to see Kit. And every time Trinity looks at the picture of her daddy, I point you out standing next to him and tell her who you are—she calls you Decan. Let’s see if she recognizes you in person.”
Then over her shoulder, Karen Tate said, “Go on up and have your shower, Em. I’ll keep Decan occupied.”
As her mother urged Declan to the porch steps, Emmy noted his slight limp.
For his part he didn’t cast her so much as another glance. Which irked Emmy even more.
She let them get all the way through the door before she followed, thinking about what had seemed like nothing but a generous idea when Mandy had said she wanted to volunteer for the Red Cross mission to Afghanistan that Emmy had been assigned to follow and photograph four and a half years ago.
And how much her sister’s life and her own had been altered when Topher Samms and Declan Madison had become their military escorts.
