Beginning with You (3 page)

Jim Barton’s eyes narrowed on the door leading into the Red Lion Inn’s restaurant. It was 6 a.m., and as usual for that time of day, he lounged at a table with his father and three other timber-truck drivers. Rook Caldwell had just stepped through the door, her eyes still puffy with sleep, her sleek cap of black hair combed to perfection. She was wearing a decidedly feminine pink blouse and khaki slacks.

He watched her progress into the restaurant, picking up his mug and sipping the coffee, tuning out the table conversation. She threaded her way through the busy establishment, finding an empty booth at the rear. Smiling to himself, Jim watched her sit down, her back to the wall so that she could look out into the area. Trusting wasn’t in her nature, he thought, rising to his full height. Excusing himself from the table, he walked slowly in her direction, wondering when she would spot him.

Rook nearly choked on the ice water she had swallowed when she saw Jim Barton walking toward her. He was clean-shaven, his blue eyes dancing with deviltry. A lock of reddish-brown hair grazed his broad, unlined brow. Maybe it was the lopsided grin on his mouth that was making her heart thump hard to underscore this unexpected meeting. Dressed in a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his elbows and pair of clean jeans, he looked incredibly masculine, and Rook found herself unable to resist staring at him in open admiration. Maybe it was the glint in his eyes. Whatever it was, Rook didn’t want any part of it.

“Good morning,” Jim murmured, halting at the booth. He saw color rise in Rook’s cheeks and her gray eyes grew suspicious. “I can tell that you think I came here deliberately to meet you this morning.” He smiled broadly.

Flushing, Rook grabbed the water with both hands. “You read minds, too, Mr. Barton.”

“Actually,” Jim began, gesturing toward the table in the distance, “my dad and I come here every morning before we start cutting timber. They’ve got the best eggs and bacon in Port Angeles.”

Was he lying? Rook craned her neck, spotting a table with four men sitting around it. “Your father?”

Returning his attention to her, Jim nodded. He put his hands on his narrow hips. “Yeah. He’s the tough old Irishman with the red beard sitting over there. Dad’s seventy-one and doing the work of a forty-five-year-old man.”

A smile edged Rook’s lips. No, he wasn’t lying. She saw the sudden warmth in Barton’s eyes and heard the underlying pride in his voice. “There are days I get up feeling like twenty-five going on eighty.”

Good, she was relaxing. “Is this one of those days?”

Rook sipped her water. She ought to invite him to sit down. But if she did that, he’d take it the wrong way. Jim Barton was like a summer cold’—hard to get rid of. “I look that bad, huh?”

Shaking his head, Jim met her small, hesitant smile. Her entire faced eased when her lips lifted at the corners. “Actually, considering the hell I put you through yesterday afternoon, you look pretty good.” Better than that, but Jim sensed that if he said she was beautiful, she’d consider it a line and ask him to leave.

Leaning back, Rook realized that he might be inquiring about her health for insurance reasons and not stalking her. “I feel fine. No neck pain or backaches from yesterday.”

“Great. Mind if I sit down for a moment?” He gave her a hopeful look.

“Well—I…” How could she say no to that innocent look on his face?

“Look, let me make up for yesterday’s crash. You’re going to live here in Port Angeles. At least let me buy you breakfast, and then we’ll call it even.” He slid into the booth opposite her before she could open her mouth to ask him to leave.

Rook stared at him. “Mr. Barton—”

“Call me Jim. And I’ve been wondering what your first name is.” He knew he had her buffaloed by the confusion on her face. “Are you a Jennifer, I wonder? Maybe a Susan or Katherine?”

The waitress came over. Helpless beneath Barton’s dazzling Irish blarney, she ordered a breakfast of orange juice, toast and coffee.

“That’s all?” Jim demanded.

Rook gave him a flat look of annoyance. “I’m not a timber truck driver, Mr. Barton.”

Jim shrugged and nodded to the waitress. “Millie, just bring me a cup of coffee, please.”

“Sure thing, Jim.” And the waitress left.

“You know,” he continued conversationally, “I think you ought to eat a little more. Sort of skinny, aren’t you?”

Meeting his friendly blue gaze, Rook gritted out, “I like myself just the way I am.”

Damn! She’d taken that the wrong way. Sure enough, Jim saw her lean back, that same distrust coming back to those large gray eyes of hers. “Well, what I meant was—”

“Save it, Mr. Barton. I know where you’re coming from and where you want to go.”

“What’s your first name?” he asked quietly, refusing to be drawn into her assessment of him.

“Rook.”

“Rook?”

“That’s right. Rook.” She sat there smiling to herself. For once, she had him on the defensive.

He lifted his eyebrows. “That’s quite a name.”

“I like it. That’s all that counts.”

“I imagine there were a few kids who might have made fun of it when you were growing up.”

His insight was startling, unexpected. Rook moved nervously around in the booth, her appetite completely gone. “A few.”

Jim grinned. “Let’s see…a rook is a crow.”

“I’ve eaten some now and then. Haven’t you?”

His smile broadened, and so did hers. When she relaxed and dropped those walls, she was like blinding sunlight. Jim liked her self-deprecating sense of humor. “Oh, yeah. Like yesterday. I ate a plateful.”

“At least you aren’t too stuck on your ego to admit that much.” Chuckling, Rook met and held his warm gaze. A delicious sense of protection overwhelmed her in those fleeting seconds. It was a feeling she’d never experienced around a man before. And, just as quickly, Rook shielded herself from it.

Spreading out his long legs on either side of where hers were tucked beneath the booth seat, Jim nodded. “Well, I don’t see any resemblance between that kind of crow and you. So, Rook has to mean something else.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in thought. Her low chuckle had moved through him like a warming spring breeze, eliciting and tugging at all his senses. “You know, crows and ravens are real tight family members. In fact, no one in the bird kingdom is as family-oriented as they are.” He glanced at her significantly. “Does that part fit why you have that name?”

Uncomfortable, Rook stared down at the glass of orange juice the waitress had placed in front of her. “I don’t discuss family matters, Mr. Barton.”

Ouch. Strike two. Frowning, Jim nodded. “I know what you mean. My father’s always trying to tell me he can do the work of any man in our outfit, and I keep trying to put him in safer jobs. Sometimes, parents don’t do what you want them to.” And he gave her a brief smile. There was no thaw in Rook’s features. Sensing that he’d hit a real sore spot with her, he left it alone.

“Well, everyone knows a crow or raven is smart. Matter of fact, they’re downright clever.” He cocked his head, studying her. “Are you?”

“What?”

“Smart?”

“I can hold my own.”

“Clever?”

If I were, Rook thought wryly, I’d have found a way to get out of this breakfast with you. “Practical. Not clever.”

“A good dose of horse sense is worth its weight in gold,” Jim agreed, suitably impressed. “So, you’re a lady with intelligence coupled with common sense. That makes you as rare as your beautiful name.”

“You’re impossible, Mr. Barton,” Rook growled, gripping the glass.

Holding up both hands in a sign of surrender, Jim said, “Whoa. I just paid you an honest compliment. Since when is honesty wrong?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Where I come from, Mr. Barton, men give lines like that every minute of the day.”

He sat up. “Oh? And where do you come from?”

Rook blew out a breath of utter exasperation. “Mr. Barton, I don’t want to discuss my personal life with you. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but—”

Jim got up and gave her a one-cornered smile of apology. “No problem.” He took the check the waitress had left, noticing the nonplussed look on Rook’s face. “I don’t intend to make your second day in Port Angeles a pain in the rear, too. I’ll see you around.”

She watched Jim saunter off, heading for the cashier at the end of the counter. Rook felt like a first-class heel for her less-than-polite reactions. Dammit, he was stalking her, and she knew it. So he went slinking off like a hurt puppy dog, trying to get her to feel sorry for him so the next time he made a hit on her she’d allow it to happen.

Well, there would be no next time. Having lost her appetite, Rook picked up her purse and left the restaurant. She had to rent a car and find an apartment. It was going to be a royal pain.

The gray clouds that lay above Port Angeles like a soft, quilted blanket were beginning to darken. Any minute, it was going to start raining. Great! Rook ducked into her room. At least she didn’t have to attend the change-of-command ceremonies that would be taking place shortly over at the Coast Guard station. Her luck hadn’t totally deserted her. Opening the newspaper to the rentals section, Rook tried to concentrate, but Jim Barton’s affable, smiling face kept appearing.

Rook muttered an unladylike oath under her breath. Okay, so she had acted like a first-class bitch to him! Admit it. She wasn’t sure of Jim Barton’s motives, but her instincts told her he was stalking her for whatever selfish goal he had in mind. As she leafed through the ads, Rook reconsidered. He really had looked hurt when she rebuffed him, but some men, she knew from experience, were very good at playing a role in order to get a woman to fall into their arms.

Change-of-command ceremonies were a royal pain in the ass as far as Gil Logan was concerned. Thanks to the outgoing captain’s inefficiency and shortsightedness, the pilots were standing SAR—Search and Rescue—duty every other day. At any other station, it would have been duty once every four days. This had been going on for two weeks, and it was wearing everyone down. It was Saturday, his only day off before duty again on Sunday. The last place he wanted to be was in dress blue uniform, waiting for Admiral Savage to arrive by helo so the ceremony could begin.

Logan hid in his office, catching up on some badly needed work regarding housing for the personnel. Each officer had “collateral” duties besides flying SAR. Some jobs, such as public relations, which Gil considered a candy position because there was so little responsibility, were in high demand. Usually ring knockers got those. Safety, personnel and housing were the toughest. As always, he got lucky and was assigned to housing.

He glanced at his watch. In a few minutes, his wife, Eve, would meet him. Gil gathered up some brochures, placed them in a manila envelope and marked
Lt. Caldwell
across it. When she came aboard on Sunday, he’d give it to her. He picked up his white cap, careful not to get fingerprints on the black patent-leather bill, and settled it on his head. He knew he was running late, and Eve didn’t tolerate tardiness.

Just as he emerged from the side door, he saw her enter the building at the far end. She looked luscious and feminine in her lavender raincoat, her umbrella a dainty concoction of her Southern heritage. Her pale blond hair lay around her proud shoulders, emphasizing her flawless complexion, high cheekbones and pouty, full lips. Gil felt himself tighten with desire, as he always did when he was around Eve. Automatically, he checked her forest-green eyes for telltale signs of how she was feeling. There were emerald flecks of anger in them.

“I hate this rain, Gil,” she complained, shaking the excess water from the sleeves of her raincoat. Folding the umbrella and placing it under her arm, she gave him a frustrated look. “I’ll be so glad when this tour is over. Washington State is nothing but rain or fog, three hundred sixty-five days a year. I hate it!”

He came to a halt and placed his hands on Eve’s shoulders. He wanted to kiss that little-girl pout off her lips. More importantly, he needed a few moments in her arms. The SAR case they’d had yesterday had been a gut-wrencher. They had been called out to locate an eleven-year-old boy who had fallen overboard from a yacht that was sailing the straits. When they located the boy, around midnight, Marchetti had paled as he pulled the lifeless form onto the platform attached to the MH-60 Jayhawk helicopter. Sam Talbot, their rescue swimmer, had vomited afterward, never having seen a dead person before. Gil had wanted to cry when the family, waiting at the hospital, had seen their son’s lifeless form rolling away from the ’60 on a gurney.

“Come here,” he said thickly, taking her into his arms. “I need you….” He had wanted to talk to Eve about the boy they had plucked from the straits, to release the pent-up emotions that he had held so tightly in check. By the time they had flown back to the air station it was one o’clock, and he knew from past experience not to call Eve after ten because it would ruin her beauty sleep. Blindly, Logan crushed her curved, pliant form to him, hungrily soaking up her feminine warmth and the White Shoulders perfume she always wore. He kissed Eve’s cheek, searching for the warmth of her mouth to drive the knot of coldness out of his gut.

“Gil…! Not here!” Eve struggled free of his grasp, taking a few steps back from him, looking around. “What will people think if they see you mauling me in public? Where are your manners?”

Frustration thrummed through Gil, and he angrily smoothed his rumpled jacket. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so sensitive about what other people think, Eve. I haven’t seen you in damn near two days. I’m human, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Stung by his growling, Eve pouted. “Believe me, after seven years of marriage, I know just how human you are.”

Gill hung on to his shredded patience. It was on his lips to tell her how much of an insecure child she always was. Dammit, he needed an adult sometimes—someone who could be strong when he got tired. And right now, with all the flying, the lousy collateral duty, plus an absentee commanding officer, Gil desperately needed a harbor of peace and warmth. But Eve wasn’t going to provide him that shelter—not now, not ever. Swallowing his frustration, he took her by the arm, leading her toward the rear doors.

“Come on. The admiral should be landing shortly, and we can get this show on the road.”

Eve gave him a sour look. “Do you think the new CO’s wife will be like the old one? All Mrs. Crane did was fish with her husband. She never threw one party. Really, she had the manners of a boor, Gil.”

He opened the door for her and waited patiently while she opened the dainty umbrella. He’d never tire of her graceful movements. What was it about Southern women that kept men snared in their traps? Whatever it was, Eve possessed that mystique. She was a delicate, sensual creature, given to fits of temper and whim, but he loved her anyway, faults and all. God knew, he had enough of those himself.

“You ought to be glad Mrs. Crane didn’t invite you aboard their boat. How’d you like to bait a hook?” He grinned down at her as they huddled under the umbrella in the steady downpour, making their way toward the huge hangar.

Eve shivered dramatically. “Gil Logan, you love to torment me with these awful things you say! A lady would not pick up those squirmy worms and put the poor things on a hook! It’s unthinkable.”

“The Cranes are outrageous,” he agreed, unable to halt his smile over her response.

“I’m so glad we’re getting rid of them. I wonder if Mrs. Stuart will be more like a real CO’s wife? She ought to invite the officers’ wives over for a luncheon within the first month, you know.”

Gil ignored Eve as she rambled on about military protocol. His wife had become an expert on that topic, there was no doubt. Eve had trained hard to be an exemplary military wife, but the twist was, she hated the military. Gil wasn’t getting promotions fast enough to suit her. She wanted him to get a better paying, more prestigious job on the outside, in the civilian world. With a shake of his head, he dismissed that particular can of worms. They had enough arguments without him bringing up another of their sore spots now.

“Hey…” Lt. Taggart Welsh said, sidling up to Gil. “Where’d you get this scrumptious-looking Alabama peach?” The ceremony was due to start in an hour, and a number of personnel had arrived early, before the call to muster in the ranks was given.

Eve colored beautifully beneath the officer’s obvious flattery. “Oh, Tag, you’re such a gentleman. Always flowery words for us poor, bedraggled women. I’m dying in this horrible rain and fog.” She reached out, squeezing Tag’s long, slender hand. “How are you? More importantly, how’s Paula doing?”

Gil flinched inwardly. Paula had leukemia, and it was slowly draining the life out of Tag. He had known the tall, gangling officer since Pensacola. They were the best of friends. Eve’s light banter on such a painful topic made Gil boil. Couldn’t she see the haunted look in Tag’s hazel eyes? Or the fact he was losing weight when he had none to spare? Why the hell couldn’t she have just asked politely about Tag and left Paula out of it?

Tag gave her a forced smile, stretching the paper thinness of his long, horselike face. “Oh, we’re fine, fine. And I might say, despite this rain, you’re looking as lovely as ever, Eve.” He nudged Gil in the ribs. “All the pilots are jealous of Gil, you know. We all wish we had such a good-looking woman around.”

“You’re so sweet, Tag. But how’s Paula?”

“Eve, they’re going to muster the ranks shortly. Why don’t we leave serious talk for later?” Gil gave her an imploring look, trying to save Tag.

She frowned. Gil was always trying to orchestrate her behavior. “You see, Tag? Now he’s trying to tell me what I can and can’t talk about.”

Tag shrugged good-naturedly. “Aw, I think he means well. We’ve got a few more minutes before the head honchos arrive. I’d like to pass the time of day with you until then. Any objections?”

“Just as long as you don’t start cracking those corny jokes of yours,” Eve warned, smiling up at him winningly.

Tag came around and stood next to Eve. “Now, now. Hey, did I tell you two my latest joke? It was so hot when I was stationed in Alabama, the eagles on the captain’s shoulders were Southern-fried.”

Tag glanced down at Eve, who was pointedly trying to ignore the joke. He looked over at Gil and saw his friend’s blue eyes alive with amusement. “You liked that one, huh, Gil?”

Gil tried to keep a straight face. “Yeah, Tag, I can identify with it.”

“Gil!” Eve gave him a dirty look. She knew he hated Alabama, her home state.

“Don’t worry, honey. Tag knows our marriage wasn’t made in heaven, like his and Paula’s.”

She crossed her arms, embarrassed. Eve wanted to die.

No matter what she tried to do to make their marriage work, it just kept crumbling before her eyes. “You shouldn’t be talking about our marriage in public, Gil.”

“I know….it’s bad manners.”

Tag looked around. Operations, aviation engineering and the cutter officers were beginning to muster. “Well, hang on to your hats, boys and girls. We’re about to witness the event of the year. A new skipper is coming on board.”

Ward Stuart tried to look relaxed as he and his wife, Marcia, stood next to Admiral Savage. The air station’s four helicopters had been placed outside the hangar for the duration of the ceremony. The cold April wind whipped through the cavernous, well-lit structure, and rain pounded unrelentingly on the glistening black asphalt ramp outside the opened doors. Captain Bob Crane had said little to him upon their arrival; a few polite words, that was all. One comment stuck like a thorn in Ward’s side: Crane had said he could fish full-time now that he was retiring from the Coast Guard. Previously, he’d confided, he’d only been able to pursue his passion part-time. Stuart grimly wondered what “part-time” meant.

Judging from the sloppily uniformed enlisted personnel, Crane’s part-time was probably closer to full-time. Either that, or Crane hadn’t run a tight ship. The officers from the 82-foot and 210-foot cutters stood in their own formation. As he perused each formation, he saw tension-lined faces, dark circles under the eyes of his pilots and wives shifting nervously off to one side where they sat. No, if his sixth sense was operating, this group wasn’t a happy one—not by far. Damn.

Logan remained at attention throughout the mercifully brief change-of-command. His gaze strayed to Ward Stuart. The new skipper had an alert look on his square-jawed face. He reminded Gil of a wolverine: small but dangerous. Maybe it was the man’s large, intelligent green eyes or that mouth, compressed into a thin line, that rang a warning bell in the back of his head. Gil wasn’t sure. Stuart, compared to Crane, looked fresh out of boot camp: all spit and polish.

Glancing down at his own black shoes, he realized too late that Stuart had zeroed in on him and them. And if Gil could read the new skipper’s mind, he was mentally putting him on his shit-bird list right now because his shoes were dull-looking, the brass buttons on his uniform unshined and God only knew what else.

Logan’s gaze moved cautiously around the assembly as the ceremony progressed. The admiral was presiding over it like an indulgent parent with his two favorite sons. He saw Chief Aviation Machinist Chappie Jarvis weaving slightly while at attention. Christ, was the man drunk at an event like this? Everyone knew Jarvis was an alcoholic—even Crane, who didn’t care. Had Stuart spotted Chappie’s weaving? Flicking a look in the new skipper’s direction, Gil’s stomach knotted. Yep. Stuart’s intense gaze was lethally pinned on Jarvis. Did the man miss anything? Groaning to himself, Logan rolled his eyes upward to look at the superstructure of the hangar. Stuart was going to be one of those CO’s who had eyes in the back of his head. Great….

Ward glanced toward the rest of his family. Marcia looked elegant in her dark-blue suit and ruffled white blouse. Her dark, walnut-colored hair was drawn back into a chignon, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Pride moved through him. Marcia had been his childhood sweetheart; they had married right out of high school. She’d stuck with him through good stations and bad. He admired her grit and he loved her. Next to her was Robby, their fourteen-year-old, red-haired, freckle-faced son. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, which matched his mother’s outfit to a degree. His light blue tie was knotted painfully tight at his neck. Ward smiled down at his son, wanting to tousle his hair.

Ward was embarrassed by his seventeen-year-old son’s obvious absence. Earlier that morning, Kenny had sullenly come downstairs, dressed for the ceremony. His dark brown hair was long and would have been unkempt if Marcia hadn’t begged him to comb it. What grated on Ward even more was the two-day growth of sparse beard Kenny was trying to grow in order to more closely imitate singer Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam.

Damn internet. It did nothing but sway gullible children. And when he’d seen Kenny’s outfit and appearance, Ward’s heart had sunk. The stone-washed jeans and mint-green T-shirt with a blue checked shirt had triggered Ward’s anger. Kenny looked slovenly—certainly not someone he wanted to parade out in front of his new command. Why couldn’t Kenny understand that he had to be a model citizen because of his new status?

A heated argument had ensued over Kenny’s attire. Ward absolutely refused to allow him to come to the ceremony dressed in that manner. Kenny had slunk off to his room, but not before Ward had made his son promise to come and pick Robby up shortly after the ceremony—and in decent attire, or else. The admiral began to speak, and Ward shifted his attention to him.

“Port Angeles is in for two top flight changes,” Savage began, his voice rolling across the one hundred and fifty assembled Coast Guard people. “The first is that a new group commander, Captain Ward Stuart, will be taking the helm. I don’t need to repeat his credentials, which are considerable and available for you to read in the change-of-command brochure handed out to each of you. The 13th District is proud to have him aboard and expects great things of him in his two-year stint here at Port Angeles. You’ll benefit from his experience. The second change is that tomorrow morning, Port Angeles will be getting something rare: a female helicopter pilot—Lt. (jg) Rook Caldwell. She is the sister of Lt. Noah Caldwell, skipper of the
Point Countess
. The Coast Guard, as you know, has been a leading proponent of utilizing women in all career categories. Lieutenant Caldwell is a graduate from the Academy and, of course, we’ll expect great things from her.” Savage looked meaningfully over at Stuart, who sat to his right on the platform. “And I’m sure, with Captain Stuart’s leadership, everyone will move ahead at full speed.”