Beginning with You (2 page)

He didn’t have to wait those few days. Jim heard the engine grind. Seeing the frustration in her face he girded himself for another round, then ambled up to the car and leaned down, placing his hands on the door.

“Won’t start?”

Rook gave him a distraught look. She wanted to cry, but hid the reaction.

A bit of a grin edged his mouth. He quickly swallowed it, struggling hard to remain somber about her predicament. The gods were with him. Maybe…if only he could get her to climb down off her high horse. She was as touchy as an old brood hen sitting on a clutch of eggs.

“Want me to try it?”

That did it! Rook, staring straight ahead, fists wrapped tight around the steering wheel, struggling to remain composed. “No, I don’t want you to try it.”

Rook didn’t need any of this—especially such a smart-aleck trucker. He was laughing at her; she could feel it. “Just because I’m a woman, I don’t know how to start this car. Is that it?”

“No way, Ms. Caldwell. I’d never say that about you.”

I’ll bet you wouldn’t
, she thought to herself.

“Want me to look under the hood?” Jim offered.

“No,” she sighed. Why wouldn’t he just go away? There was something about him that stripped her, made her feel vulnerable. That was something Rook had never felt around a man before—ever.

Jim straightened up. “Okay, how about under the car?” He glanced at the furrowed soil, where the car had run along the muddy bank. “Chances are, there’s something torn loose.”

Rook climbed out and shut the door. “You’re probably right.” She dropped to her knees, ignoring the mud. Barely able to see daylight between the undercarriage and the ground, Rook reached out, sliding her hand along the soil, hunting for a telltale oil slick.

Barton got down on his hands and knees. “When you were a kid, did you like to play in the mud?”

Rook almost laughed, the tension dissolving around her. She managed a slight smile. “My mother told me that when you got handed mud, you made mud pies, Mr. Barton.”

He grinned affably, placing his large hands across his tightly muscled thighs. “Well, I suppose we could do that here and now, if you want, because your car isn’t going to start.” For a split second, he saw the wariness thaw from her gray eyes. There was amusement in their silver depths. Just as quickly, Jim saw her replace it with a wall of coolness.

“Or I could give you a lift into town in my rig. There’s a garage down the way. I could get Charlie, the owner, to retrieve your vehicle.”

Rook pulled her hand from beneath the car, the sleeve of the blouse muddied, and studied her fingers. She groaned, thrusting her hand up under Barton’s nose.

“I’ve got a busted oil pan, just like I thought.”

He tried to appear contrite. “I’m sorry.” He dug in his back pocket for his handkerchief and held it out to her.

Rook stared at it.

“It’s clean,” Jim said drily.

Taking it, Rook got to her feet and wiped off her hand the best she could. “It looks like I don’t have a choice, Mr. Barton. Thanks for the offer. Let me get my suitcases….”

The trunk had been smashed so that nothing was coming out of it. Rook groaned as she stared at her car. “I can’t believe you did this! I guess the suitcase I’m going to be able to get is the one in the back of the car.” Despair filtered into her voice. “Do you know how much trouble you’re causing me?”

Jim came and stood at her shoulder, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s a lousy welcome, I know. Look, when Charlie brings your car in, he’ll pry open the trunk and retrieve your belongings. Where are you staying?”

Disheartened, Rook dug back into her black shoulder purse. In one of the many neatly kept compartments, she drew out a small black address book. “The Red Lion Inn.”

“Yeah, I know where it’s located.” Jim went back and pulled her other suitcase from the back seat of the sports car. “Come on, Ms. Caldwell, I’ll get you safely into Port Angeles.”

“You haven’t so far, Mr. Barton,” she said testily, walking at his side. He had a long, fluid stride, and Rook tried to ignore the animal image that it conjured up in her mind. Jim Barton reminded her of a cougar: lithe, tightly muscled and highly dangerous.

Grinning, Jim opened the driver’s door. “Climb in.” If he’d expected her to fuss or ask for a boost because of the height of the first step into the monstrous rig, Jim was wrong. Ms. Caldwell appeared completely at home around machines. She probably got along better with them, too, he thought with amusement. Still, as she hefted herself up and onto the seat, Jim admired her long, thoroughbred legs once again. Graceful, too. That was four things to like about her. If only she’d get rid of that sourpuss personality of hers, he might have a chance.

On the way into Port Angeles, Jim noticed she kept to her side of the truck, blatantly ignoring him. He shifted the growling truck into a higher gear.

“So, you’re going to live here?”

“That’s right, Mr. Barton.”

“Ouch. I haven’t exactly given you the best welcome, have I?”

Rook grinned slightly, trying to ignore the warmth in his voice. Barton had an incredible effect on her. What was going on? The men she’d been around lately saw her as nothing more than competition for a flight slot. This redneck truck driver seemed to actually be enjoying her company—what little of it she was giving him.

“You’ve earned a permanent place in my memory, Mr. Barton.”

Jim winced. “Talk about getting off on the wrong foot….” He downshifted, taking it easy with his air brakes, which were still low on pressure. Once he dropped her off and got to Charlie’s, he was going to park this monster and hitch a ride back to the office to get his Corvette.

Rook studied his rugged profile. “There was no foot to get off on, Mr. Barton.”

It felt as if a hand had gripped his heart. “You married?”

Panicked, Rook muttered, “That’s none of your business.”

“There’s no ring on your left hand.” The words were out of his mouth before he could take them back. Normally, he thought before he spoke. This raven-haired woman was wreaking havoc on his normal tact and diplomacy.

Heat crawled up into Rook’s cheeks. This guy was worse than a virus! “I’m not up on the meat-market block, Mr. Barton, so forget it.”

Jim studied her for a moment, dividing his attention between driving and absorbing the fervor of her reaction. She was scared—genuinely scared.
I’ll be damned. In this day and age, too
. He laughed to himself. Maybe she’d just come out of a nunnery or something. Yeah, that would fit: no makeup, plain, simple clothes.

“Peace?” he asked, holding up his hand in a Boy Scout salute.

“I don’t hide behind the Boy Scouts.”

He chuckled indulgently, watching a grudging smile come to her mouth. Some of the caution had fled from her eyes. “Do you trust anyone?”

“Yes. Myself.”

“Good place to start,” Jim agreed. He slowed down, bringing the truck along the curb. “Here we are—the Red Lion Inn. I’d drive in, but I’d never get this monster out of that parking lot.” He reached for the suitcase, but she grabbed it first.

“Thanks for the lift, Mr. Barton,” Rook said, prying open the door. The metal protested loudly, but she used her foot and pushed it wide enough to slip out. The less she had to do with this man who rattled her senses, the better.

“But—wait!” Jim got out, walking quickly around the truck.

The salt air was invigorating; Rook took a deep breath of it. “I can find my way to the lobby,” she told him.

Jim took the suitcase from her hand. “I’m sure you can, Ms. Caldwell, but where I come from, a man is taught to carry a woman’s suitcase.”

Rolling her eyes, Rook shook her head and marched on ahead, leaving him to follow. “This is the twenty-first century, not the fifties.”

“Guess it’s the backward ways of Port Angeles that did it,” Jim teased good-naturedly.

“I can tell a feminist is out of place here.”
Especially with you
.

In the lobby, Jim put the suitcase down and waited while Rook checked in. He noticed a Coast Guard symbol on it. Maybe she had a boyfriend at the air station. Damn.

“What room are you in, Ms. Caldwell?”

Rook wondered if she was getting used to Jim Barton’s persistent presence, because the question didn’t rankle her as much. “Twelve.”

“Great. Listen, I’ll take care of your car.” He saw her full lips twitch. Was it a sign of distrust? Frustration? Or just pure annoyance? Probably the latter.

“Fine.”

“I’m really sorry for the accident.”

Rook melted beneath his utter sincerity. Who was immune to that kind of warmth in his blue eyes and the dark tenor of his voice? Suddenly very tired, Rook nodded. “I’m sure you are. Thanks…for everything.”

He nodded. “I’ll be in touch. Can you give me your cell number?”

Right now, all Rook wanted was a hot bath and to relax. She needed time and space to get her head on straight about tomorrow. “Okay….” And she gave it to him.

I’ll be back in touch sooner than you think
, he promised her silently. Jim didn’t take her preoccupation as an insult. There was a faraway look in her gray eyes, faint circles forming beneath them, too. The accident had drained her. The adrenaline high she’d been on had suddenly disappeared, and now exhaustion was setting in.

It was nearly one o’clock. Rook headed for her room, glad to be alone. She had all day tomorrow to get herself together. Her car wouldn’t be fixed soon enough to drive on base, so she’d have to rent a car.

Sighing, she threw her suitcase on one of the queen-sized beds, turned on the lights and the television. The first thing she wanted to do was take a shower. She shed her clothes immediately.

Hot streams of water pummeled her, and Rook turned her face into it, letting it wash away the last hour’s fear and terror. To be honest, she was still afraid—of Jim Barton. How could a man trigger such an incredible array of emotions from her? No one ever had before. Scrubbing her face with the fragrant bar of soap, Rook tried to wash away all thoughts of the man.

Instead, she allowed her drowsy mind to dwell on the fact that tomorrow, the base of Port Angeles would be getting a new captain. At least she didn’t have to attend the ceremony. No, tomorrow she’d wander around the area on foot and get acquainted with the town that would be her home for at least the next two years.

As she shut off the shower and toweled herself, Rook wondered what the new skipper was going to be like.

Captain Ward Stuart straightened his tie one final time—a nervous habit he’d never been quite able to break. The highly polished halls of the 13th Coast Guard District of Seattle reflected his image. Cabin call…that’s what this little tête-à-tête with Rear Admiral Pete Savage was fondly called. Actually, Ward thought, it was more like an inquisition, complete with veiled threats about the victim’s career prospects if the admiral’s ideas weren’t followed exactly.

At forty-three, Stuart thought he cut a fairly decent figure. He didn’t have a potbelly, like a number of his contemporaries. He was lean and walked with a slight cockiness. The only thing he regretted was his small size: five foot six was really short. And it didn’t help psychologically in command situations. Over the years, Stuart had heard it whispered behind his back that he had a Napoleonic complex. According to his eldest son, Kenny, who was seventeen and a real problem, he was Napoleon. Ward considered himself tough but fair. With a slight frown, he dismissed thoughts of the problem between himself and his rebellious son. First things first. He had to get this cabin call out of the way, then assume command of the station and then make another effort to square his son away. Ward slowed and made a right turn into Admiral Savage’s outer office. His yeoman looked up and smiled pleasantly.

“Captain Stuart. I’ll tell the admiral you’re here. It will be just a moment.”

When Ward entered the spacious office, Rear Admiral Pete Savage rose from behind his highly polished bird’s-eye-maple desk, his hand outstretched.

Ward quickly came to attention, saluted and then offered his hand. “Admiral.”

“Ward, good to see you. Sit down, sit down.” He pushed a buzzer and his secretary, Chief Yeoman Gent, appeared. “Two coffees, Susan. Ward, you still drink it black?”

Sitting down in a chair angled toward the desk, Ward nodded. “Black, and strong enough to throw a salute, sir.”

Laughing pleasantly, Savage waved the yeoman out the door. He tapped his fingers on Stuart’s personnel file, which was spread out neatly before him. “You’re looking fit, Ward. Lean and mean as ever, I see. That three-year stint back in Washington, D.C. didn’t hurt you a bit.” He raised his gray brows, the rest of his angular face remaining impassive. “I’m impressed with your record. It isn’t often we get a non-Academy man who not only makes captain, but also gets command of a group/air and cutter station.”

Stuart had the good grace to blush; his cheeks were ruddy, anyway, because of his Irish and English lineage. The inference was there: Ward had used the “system” at the main office of the Coast Guard to get what he wanted.
You bet your sweet ass I did
. Ring knockers from the Academy didn’t like non-ring knockers getting their favored positions. Yes, he had maneuvered politically, but any officer who wanted command did.

“I felt very honored to be considered, sir.” Humility was best at this stage. Ring knockers didn’t like upstarts in the ranks, and he was definitely listed in that category.

Savage scratched his thinning gray hair, making a pretense of studying Stuart’s record. “You’ve got all the earmarks of a fine commanding officer, Ward. You flew fixed-wing up in Alaska for two years, helos at every other base. I’m particularly impressed with your stint in Puerto Rico as base supply officer. You not only created a better accounting system, but one that has now been adopted service-wide by the Coast Guard. Impressive.”

“Thank you, sir.” And no thanks to his commanding officer in Puerto Rico, who had tried to bury his career by giving him bad marks on his fitness report. No, Ward knew the CO, commanding officer, had hated his guts. It was a mutual and natural animosity. Ward had no respect for a CO who put his own welfare above that of his men and women. The mayhem Ward had created in trying to protect the enlisted from the CO had been considerable and cataclysmic, almost sending his career down the drain. The fact that he had streamlined the accounting system had saved his ass. Bad officers could make even great junior officers look like unsalvageable material, doomed to be drummed out of the service. He never forgot that lesson.

The yeoman came back with their mugs of coffee and then left. Ward relaxed only slightly. He could see a strange light in Savage’s pale blue eyes. The admiral wanted something; he could sense it. Ward squirmed. Some officers made ridiculous demands upon their people, and he knew that Savage was bucking for promotion to Commandant of the Coast Guard.

“Just how much do you know about the Seattle District, Ward?”

“That it’s one of the busiest on the West Coast for drug interception, sir.”

Savage was pleased. “Correct.” He leaned forward, elbows on the bird’s-eye maple, buttonholing Stuart. “Which leads me to a topic of prime importance to me and the base commanders within my district.” He cleared his throat, his brows moving downward. “As you know, I’m sector commander for the Maritime Defense Zone. In December, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be conducting a major military exercise, which will involve the Coast Guard, Navy and Air Force. The exercise will be held in the 13th District—my turf. I need all my commanders to have their individual bases in top form.” Savage leaned back in his expensive leather chair, a pleased look replacing his intense expression. “Bluntly, Ward, if I look good in this interservice exercise, I’ll improve my chances for commandant. If just one of my commanders screws up, my aspirations for that position are scuttled.”

“Yes, sir.” Great. The handwriting was on the wall: if the admiral was scuttled, the offending commander’s career would be down the tubes, too.

“Now, let’s talk about your base. Port Angeles has had a fine skipper, a personal friend of mine, for two years. Unfortunately, Bob Crane is retiring after thirty years of unblemished service. Bob is a fine officer and has left Port Angeles shipshape for you to take over. I’ll expect the same response from Port Angeles under you as I did from him. He was one of my best station commanders. I could always count on him when I needed help keeping things under control.”

Crane was a ring knocker, so of course he was nothing but Superman in Savage’s eyes. Ward nodded. “I’ve never had the pleasure of working with Captain Crane before.”

“If you can be half as good as Bob was, I’ll be satisfied.”

From the stories Ward had heard, Crane was a real bootlicker. He grimaced to himself. Superman, he wasn’t, but he had a hell of a lot of horse sense, and he was good at managing people—all except for his son, Kenny. There, he was failing—badly. Ward forced his concentration back to Savage; the problem with his elder son was never far from his mind.

“Naturally, I’ll preside over the change-of-command ceremonies tomorrow at 0900.”

“Thank you, sir. I’d consider it an honor.”

Savage smiled paternally. “Port Angeles has just been given another honor. Do you know that you’ll be getting our first female helicopter pilot day after tomorrow? Lt. (jg) Rook Caldwell. I’ve seen her service record. Been flying helos since she was sixteen. Graduated from Texas A&M with honors. She went to Pensacola and outscored the boys at their own flight games. At Mobile, Alabama, training, she was one of the best. Quite frankly, I think she’s going to be a fine asset to the 13th District. I hope you will feel the same.”

“Lieutenant Caldwell sounds sharp, sir. I’m sure she’ll fit in just fine at the station.”

Ward left the office mulling over several potential problems. Tomorrow he’d find out what shape the station was in. Nagging questions about Lt. Rook Caldwell hovered in front of him as he walked down the hallway toward the exit. She could turn out to be a royal pain to his career or a blessing in disguise.