A Marriage for the Marine Read online

  A Marriage for the Marine

  Brush Creek Brides: The Fuller Family, Book 7

  Liz Isaacson

  AEJ Creative Works

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  The Next Summer

  Chapter 17

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  Sneak Peek! A Fiancé for the Firefighter Chapter One

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  “But I would strengthen you with my mouth, and the moving of my lips should assuage your grief.”

  Job 16:5

  Chapter 1

  Wren Fuller pushed into the office she ran to the shrill sound of the phone ringing. Already. She sighed, this Monday shaping up to achieve the horrible reputation all Mondays dealt with.

  She’d arrived at A Jack of All Trades, the family owned and operated business, fifteen minutes early. Whoever was calling could leave a message. Wren dropped her purse at the desk where she sat and continued through the door to the left so she could put her lunch in the fridge.

  It would be nothing short of a miracle if her sisters came in today. They sometimes did after their housecleaning jobs, but Wren had them pretty well booked today, much to Fabi’s disgust. The oldest of the twins, Fabi loved sleeping in as much as the rest of the Fuller clan, Wren included.

  But whatever. Wren tucked her hair behind her ear and deposited her brown bag in the fridge. She paused and looked in the mirror to the side of the door that led back to the reception area, trying to make her blonde hair grow longer just by staring at it.

  It was in this weird, in-between stage she hated. But she didn’t like her hair long either, so she’d cut it. But she didn’t have a feminine enough face for a short, pixie cut, so she was growing it back out.

  No matter what she did, her hair seemed determined to make her life more difficult.

  As she settled into the ergonomic office chair she’d insisted Daddy buy, the phone rang again. Though they still didn’t open for another ten minutes, she answered the call with a chirpy, “A Jack of All Trades, it should be a good Monday,” and waited for a chuckle or at least half a giggle.

  She got silence.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  “Yes, hello,” a man said, his tone the no-nonsense clipped kind. “I need a maid.”

  “Well, we certainly can help you with that.” Wren’s four sisters managed to keep their schedules full with the amount of dust and dishes that the townspeople in Brush Creek wanted someone else to take care of. Especially in the summer, when they’d rather go camping, fishing, hiking, or strawberry-picking.

  “Let’s see,” she said, tapping to wake her computer. Sometimes it took an extra few seconds to find the WiFi after being asleep overnight. Thankfully, it fired right up today, and she had the family’s online calendar open in less time than it took to inhale and exhale.

  “I can get someone out to you next Tuesday.”

  “Next Tuesday?”

  “That’s right. It’s best if you get on our regular schedule. That way, we’ll come at the same time every week, or every two weeks, or once a month. It’s—”

  “I just need someone once. I can clean my own house.”

  “Oh.” Wren blinked, the man’s tone the type that shut down conversations and left no room for argument. “Then I can get you an appointment for next Tuesday.” And if he could clean his own house, why had he called her and asked for a maid?

  “I need someone today. Is that possible?” He removed the demand from his question. Sort of.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “My girls are all on other jobs.”

  “I just arrived in town,” he said. “I just need help for a few hours today, and then I can get my stuff moved in.”

  “Oh, you’re new?” Wren leaned back in the chair and put her shoes on the edge of the desk. “How did you hear about us?” Wren wasn’t sure, but she could’ve sworn he growled.

  “Erin at the bakery. And Landon up at the horse farm.”

  Wren grinned and nodded, though this new stranger to Brush Creek couldn’t see her. She pushed the glasses she didn’t need to wear higher on her nose. “Some of our best clients.”

  “I’ve got to take Octagon up to the horse farm, actually. Then I’d like to move in.”

  “So you want someone to come right now, this morning?”

  “If possible. I’ll pay double the rate.”

  “You don’t even know what the rate is.” Wren enjoyed this exchange more than she should’ve. She should tell this guy to find someone else and begin her morning Solitaire game until she had to get some work done for the day.

  “Can you send someone or not?”

  Wren could send someone…herself. Technically, she could be out of the office for the morning. Any calls that came here would forward to her cell, and she could pocket the extra cash as a tip.

  “Give me a few seconds to check with one of my girls.” She put the man on hold as he started to protest, a grin flirting with her lips. She wasn’t exactly dressed for scrubbing sinks or mopping floors, but she could do it. Heaven knew she’d spent enough time growing up cleaning everything from tack rooms, to trucks, to toilets.

  Still, she loved this shirt with the bright purple My Little Pony on it. Bleach would not be kind to it, so she resolved to grab an apron from the closet in the kitchen before she went out on the job.

  She pressed the hold button and said, “I can send Wren.”

  “Great,” he said, almost a deadpan.

  “Where am I sending her?”

  “I’m on Traverse Road?” He spoke the name like a question, but that wasn’t the reason Wren’s blood turned cold.

  “Traverse Road?” she repeated it like a question.

  “Yeah. It’s the first one after you turn. I guess a family named Hammond used to live here.”

  “I know it,” Wren said, the rundown house flashing through her mind. She straightened, intending to tell him she was Wren and she’d be there in twenty minutes.

  “Great. Good-bye.” He hung up before Wren could say anything. She tilted her head and stared at the receiver, wondering if the entire call had been a prank. It didn’t seem to be. She hung up and exhaled as she stood.

  “Good news, Wren,” she said. “You can change before you go next door and clean the house that should’ve been knocked down years ago.”

  Wren hadn’t seen anyone around the old Hammond place, ever. Her house sat a hundred yards past it, on the same side of the street, and she drove by every morning and every evening. So really, anyone could’ve come and gone during the day and she wouldn’t have known.

  She liked to think she would’ve noticed tire tracks, or something left on the porch, or that one of the fence slats had been nudged slightly out of place. But she hadn’t noticed anything.

  After she changed and pulled into the driveway, she still didn’t see anything that told her someone had purchased this home and planned to live here.

  Because it was pure madness. The porch needed to be replaced, as did the railing, the roof, and all the windows. The who
le thing needed to be remodeled, and Wren actually worried that her foot would bust through the steps as she climbed them to the front door.

  So she’d put on a few pounds. She didn’t care. She’d listened to her mom put her value in the number on the scale, and she didn’t want her life to be measured in pounds. Maybe she chose nachos when she should’ve opted for the Caesar salad. But at least she could walk around with a smile on her face.

  “Hello?” she called when she noticed the front door gaped open a couple of inches. No one responded, and she caught sight of a scrap of paper taped to the doorframe.

  Come on in and get started. I took my horse up to the ranch. Be back later.

  Relief rushed through Wren, and she pushed the front door open further. The inside of the house hadn’t fared much better than the outside, much to Wren’s disappointment. He hadn’t given specific instructions for what he wanted cleaned, but it was obvious the kitchen in the back needed a thorough scrub from top to bottom. All the floors needed to be stripped of their dust. And one peek down the hallway showed three bedrooms and a bathroom that all needed a vacuum, a duster, and a whole lot of elbow grease to make them habitable.

  “Did he even look at this place before he bought it?” she wondered as she set her bucket of cleaning supplies on the tile in the kitchen. If he had, he would’ve known he couldn’t just move right in.

  She started in the kitchen, glad when clear water came from the sink. Wren didn’t worry about splashing on the floor, as she’d clean that last.

  Two hours—and at least a bucketful of sweat—later, Wren finished the kitchen and living room. She’d emptied her vacuum three times, but the carpet was walkable now. The walls had been wiped down. The light fixtures and shelves had been relieved of their cobwebs. All cupboards and appliances had been scrubbed, and the floor glinted where the sunlight hit it through the back windows. She’d abandoned the bulky black frames she wore to make herself look smarter long ago, as it was too hard to keep pushing them into place as she worked.

  She smiled at her progress and wondered when the man would return. It certainly couldn’t take that long to drive a horse up to a ranch and drop him off. She moved into the bathroom, secretly hoping he wouldn’t return until she was finished. She could bill him.

  Bent over the tub, she heard the distinct sound of boots entering the house.

  “Hello?” a man called, and he sounded softer, kinder, than he had on the phone.

  Wren scraped her bangs off her forehead, cursing her hair for the tenth time that morning as it stuck to the back of her neck. It wasn’t quite long enough to pull into a ponytail, and she had the fleeting thought that she’d like to shave every last hair from her head.

  She hadn’t even made it to her feet when he said, “You call this cleaning?”

  Wren faced him and put her hands on her hips. She felt red-faced and sweaty and her guard went right up as she drank in the boxy shape of his shoulders. The deep brown hazel color of his eyes. The way his jaw already held a day’s worth of facial hair. It matched the rich brown color of his hair, and Wren suddenly needed a very cold glass of water.

  “Yes,” she managed to clip between her lips. “I call this cleaning.”

  “There’s dust on the shelves in the living room.”

  “Impossible,” she said. “If that’s true, it settled there in the past half-hour.”

  His eyebrows went up as if he wasn’t used to being questioned. And it was clear he wasn’t. “You want me to show you?”

  Frustration boiled in her, and though her momma had always taught her to clean until the customer was satisfied, she bent and extracted a duster from the box she’d brought. “I’d rather you just wiped it up.” She held the blue duster toward him, satisfied when he looked at her like she’d grown a second head and told him he would too if he touched her.

  Who was this man?

  Your new next door neighbor, her mind whispered, and Wren regretted her decision to quip at him to do the dusting himself. She started to withdraw her hand, but he reached out and snatched the duster from her, spinning with military-precision on his toe, and marching down the hall.

  Chapter 2

  Anger bubbled just beneath Tate Benson’s skin. He couldn’t believe he’d come to this town out in the middle of Nowhere, Utah.

  “You wanted to come here,” he muttered to himself as he swiped the duster along the shelf, picking up a few grains of dust that mostly looked like his dog’s hair. So maybe she was a good maid. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t just tell her she’d done a fine job, pay her, and get his boxes inside.

  Sully, his German shepherd, huffed as if he knew Tate had projected his fury about this house onto the innocent woman still scrubbing the bathroom. The beautiful, innocent woman. He cut a glance at the dog. “I wasn’t that rude.” But he had been, and he knew it.

  He let the hand still clutching the duster fall to his side, sighing as he turned. He felt made of bone and muscle, with a simple layer of skin holding it all together. Only one hundred-sixty pounds soaking wet, he wondered how in the world he’d thought he could join the Brush Creek Police Department and fix up his deceased grandfather’s house at the same time.

  Tate had barely known his mother’s father, but he knew this house had been sitting here since the old man’s death several years back. Paid for. Free and clear.

  And while Tate got a pension from his time in the Marines, he didn’t turn down a free house, even if it was in the middle of Nowhere, Utah.

  “Hey,” he said, returning to the bathroom and startling the cute blonde for a second time. “I just wanted…I’m sorry.” He sort of barked the apology at her, and she flinched with both words. “It’s been a stressful couple of days.”

  For reasons he couldn’t fathom, her face split into a grin. “It’s no problem. I’m used to cantankerous men.”

  That intrigued him, and Tate leaned into the doorway and crossed his arms. “Oh yeah? How so?”

  “I have four older brothers,” she said, her sponge going around and around the sink though Tate couldn’t see the rust ring any longer. “Trust me, I’ve had plenty of practice with being told I’ve done something wrong.” She spoke with a note of sincerity in her voice.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He held out the duster. “It was probably Sully’s hair. That dog sheds like mad.”

  “You have a dog here?” Alarm crossed her face. “What kind?”

  “He’s a German shepherd.” As if on cue, Sully came down the hallway, his huge German shepherd tongue hanging out of his mouth as this house didn’t have air conditioning.

  Yet, Tate thought. No way he could live here this summer without air conditioning. He had a week before his job on the police force started, and he intended to put in long days to get this house livable again.

  “Here he is.”

  Wren did a little dance away from him, back toward the sparkling toilet. “I—I’m—I don’t like dogs.”

  Tate crouched down and scrubbed Sully’s scruff. “How is that even possible?” He and the dog had been through a lot together, and Tate didn’t think he could go five minutes without Sully by his side.

  “He’s huge,” she said in response.

  “He’s harmless.” Tate straightened, still baffled by the distinct fear he saw in her eyes. She really was afraid. He nudged the “huge” dog back with his leg and said, “I’m Tate Benson, by the way.”

  “I’m Wren,” she said.

  “Right, the woman at the service said that.”

  Something crossed her face, and Tate’s military training told him to dwell on it. So he let several seconds of silence pass, giving her the chance to explain whatever she needed to. Instead of talking, she attacked the mirror with a glass cleaning wipe.

  “I’m close to done here,” she said. “It’ll take a few times over the carpet in the bedrooms, and then I just need to wipe down the walls. But you can start moving things into the kitchen and living room.”

&nbs
p; Tate nodded, telling himself to take a step back. But he didn’t move. She’d forgiven him for his snappy attitude, and he appreciated that. He should probably call and apologize to the woman who’d sent her too, as he hadn’t been very accommodating with his timeframe for when he needed help.

  “Thanks for coming today,” he said. “I know it was last-minute.”

  Her smile was quick and revealed pretty white teeth that had obviously cost her parents a lot in orthodontia. “It’s no problem.”

  With her pale blue eyes and that handful of freckles tossed carelessly across her cheeks and nose, Tate found his heart beating a bit irregularly. “All right then.” A lesser Marine would’ve cleared his throat. But not Tate. He forced himself to turn and walk away, surprised at how hard it was to do.

  Finally away from Wren’s easy-going nature and stringent cleaning supplies, his thoughts aligned. Moving. Unpacking. Yes, that was what he needed to do. Get settled. Get to work.

  The last thing he needed was another wife.

  Tate stepped out of the back door and into the blistering June sunshine, a moan sliding between his lips. Why had he decided to move into an un-air conditioned house during the summer?

  His jaw tightened, and he went to get the work done. Sometimes things happened that couldn’t be helped or changed, and it didn’t do any good to dwell on them. At least that was what Tate’s counselor had been telling him since his best friend’s death only six weeks ago.

  It wasn’t your fault. That was what Tate had been telling himself since the accident. That, and you can get through this.