A SEAL's Oath (SEALs of Chance Creek Book 1) (3 page)

“You better watch out dressed up like that; some guy will think you want more than you bargained for,” Jericho said.

Walker’s normally grave expression had grown even more grim.

Riley had ignored them all. She’d squared her shoulders, looked Boone in the eye and said, “Will you dance with me?”

Shame flooded Boone every time he thought back to that moment.

Riley had paid him a thousand kindnesses over the years, listened to some of his most intimate thoughts and fears, never judged him, made fun of him or cut him down the way his other friends sometimes did. She’d always been there for him, and all she’d asked for was one dance.

He should have said yes.

It wasn’t the shake of Walker’s head, or Clay and Jericho’s laughter that stopped him. It was Melissa, who had returned in time to hear Riley’s question, and answered for him.

“No one wants to dance with a Tagalong. Go on home.”

Riley had waited one more moment—then fled.

Boone rarely thought about Melissa after he’d left Chance Creek and when he did it was to wonder what he’d ever found compelling in her. He thought about Riley far too often. He tried to remember the good times—teaching her to ride, shoot, trap and fish. The conversations and lazy days in the sun when they were kids. The intimacy that had grown up between them without him ever realizing it.

Instead, he thought of that moment—that awful, shameful moment when she’d begged him with her eyes to say yes, to throw her pride that single bone.

And he’d kept silent.

“Have you heard of the place?” Fulsom broke into his thoughts and Boone blinked. He’d been so far away it took a moment to come back. Finally, he nodded.

“I have.” He cleared his throat to get the huskiness out of it. “Mighty fine ranch.” He couldn’t fathom why it hadn’t passed down to Riley. Losing it must have broken her heart.

Again.

“So my people tell me. Heck of a fight to get it, too. Had a competitor, a rabid developer named Montague.” Fulsom shook his head. “But that gave me a perfect setup.”

“What do you mean?” Boone’s thoughts were still with the girl he’d once known. The woman who’d haunted him all these years. He forced himself to pay attention to Fulsom instead.

Fulsom clicked his keyboard and an image sprung up onscreen. “Take a look.”

Letting his memories go, Boone tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Some kind of map—an architect’s rendering of a planned development.

“What is that?” Clay demanded.

“Wait—that’s Westfield.” Jericho leaned over Boone’s shoulder to get a better look.

“Almost right.” Fulsom nodded. “Those are the plans for Westfield Commons, a community of seventy luxury homes.”

Blood ran cold in Boone’s veins as Walker elbowed his way between them and peered at the screen. “Luxury homes? On Westfield? You can’t do that!”

“I don’t want to. But Montague does. He’s frothing at the mouth to bulldoze that ranch and sell it piece by piece. The big, bad developer versus the environmentalists. This show is going to write itself.” He fixed his gaze on Boone. “And if you fail, the last episode will show his bulldozers closing in.”

“But it’s our land; you just said so,” Boone protested.

“As long as you meet your goals by December first. Ten committed couples—every couple married by the time the show ends. Ten homes whose energy requirements are one-tenth the normal usage for an American home. Six months’ worth of food produced on site stockpiled to last the inhabitants through the winter. And three children.”

“Children? Where do we get those?” Boone couldn’t keep up. He hadn’t promised anything like that. All he’d said in his proposal was that they’d build a community.

“The old-fashioned way. You make them. No cheating; children conceived before the show starts don’t count.”

“Jesus.” Fulsom had lost his mind. He was taking the stakes and raising them to outrageous heights… which was exactly the way to create a prime-time hit, Boone realized.

“It takes nine months to have a child,” Jericho pointed out dryly.

“I didn’t say they needed to be born. Pregnant bellies are better than squalling babies. Like I said, sex sells, boys. Let’s give our viewers proof you and your wives are getting it on.”

Boone had had enough. “That’s ridiculous, Fulsom. You’re—”

“You know what’s ridiculous?” Fulsom leaned forward again, suddenly grim. “Famine. Poverty. Violence. War. And yet it never stops, does it? You said you wanted to do something about it. Here’s your chance. You’re leaving the Navy, for God’s sake. Don’t tell me you didn’t plan to meet a woman, settle down and raise some kids. So I’ve put a rush on the matter. Sue me.”

He had a point. But still—

“I could sell the land to Montague today,” Fulsom said. “Pocket the money and get back to sorting out hydrogen fuel cells.” He waited a beat. When Boone shook his head, Fulsom smiled in triumph. “Gotta go, boys. Julie, here, will get you all sorted out. Good luck to you on this fabulous venture. Remember—we’re going to change the world together.”

“Wait—”

Fulsom stood up and walked off screen.

Boone stared as Julie sat down in his place. By the time she had walked them through the particulars of the funding process, and when and how to take possession of the land, Boone’s temples were throbbing. He cut the call after Julie promised to send a packet of information, reluctantly pushed his chair back from the table and faced the three men who were to be his partners in this venture.

“Married?” Clay demanded. “No one said anything about getting married!”

“I know.”

“And kids? Three out of ten of us men will have to get their wives pregnant. That means all of us will have to be trying just to beat the odds,” Jericho said.

“I know.”

Walker just looked at him and shook his head.

“I get it! None of us planned for anything like this.” Boone stood up. “But none of us thought we had a shot of moving back to Chance Creek, either—or getting our message out to the whole country.” When no one answered, he went on. “Are you saying you’re out?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Jericho said, pacing around the room. “I could stomach anything except that marriage part. I’ve never seen myself as a family man.”

“I don’t mind getting hitched,” Clay said. “And I want kids. But I want to choose where and when to do it. And Fulsom’s setting us up to fail in front of a national audience. If that Montague guy gets the ranch and builds a subdivision on it, everyone in town is going to hate us—and our families.”

“So what do we do?” Boone challenged him.

“Not much choice,” Walker said. “If we don’t sign on, Fulsom will sell to Montague anyway.”

“Exactly. The only shot we have of saving that ranch is to agree to his demands,” Boone said. He shoved his hands in his pockets, unsure what to do. He couldn’t see himself married in two months, let alone trying to have a child with a woman he hadn’t even met yet, but giving up—Boone hated to think about it. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d done unexpected things to accomplish a mission.

Jericho paced back. “But his demands are—”

“Insane. I know that.” Boone knew he was losing them. “He’s right, though; a sustainable community made only of men doesn’t mean shit. A community that’s actually going to sustain itself—to carry on into the future, generation after generation—has to include women and eventually kids. Otherwise we’re just playing.”

“Fulsom’s the one who’s playing. Playing with our lives. He can’t demand we marry someone for the sake of his ratings,” Jericho said.

“Actually, he can,” Clay said. “He’s the one with the cash.”

“We’ll find cash somewhere else—”

“It’s more than cash,” Boone reminded Jericho. “It’s publicity. If we build a community and no one knows about it, what good is it? We went to Fulsom because we wanted him to do just what he’s done—find a way to make everyone talk about sustainability.”

“By marrying us off one by one?” Jericho stared at each of them in turn. “Are you serious? We just spent the last thirteen years of our lives fighting for our country—”

“And now we’re going to fight for it in a whole new way. By getting married. On television. And knocking up our wives—while the whole damn world watches,” Boone said.

No one spoke for a minute.

“I sure as hell hope they won’t film that part, Chief,” Clay said with a quick grin, using the moniker Boone had gained in the SEALs as second in command of his platoon.

“They wouldn’t want to film your hairy ass, anyway,” Jericho said.

Clay shoved him. Jericho elbowed him away.

“Enough.” Walker’s single word settled all of them down. They were used to listening to their lieutenant. Walker turned to Boone. “You think this will actually do any good?”

Boone shrugged. “Remember Yemen. Remember what’s coming. We swore we’d do what it takes to make a difference.” It was a low blow bringing up that disaster, but it was what had gotten them started down this path and he wanted to remind them of it.

“I remember Yemen every day,” Jericho said, all trace of clowning around gone.

“So do I.” Clay sighed. “Hell, I’m ready for a family anyway. I’m in. I don’t know how I’ll find a wife, though. Ain’t had any luck so far.”

“I’ll find you one,” Boone told him.

“Thanks, Chief.” Clay gave him an ironic salute.

Jericho walked away. Came back again. “Damn it. I’m in, too. Under protest, though. Something this serious shouldn’t be a game. You find me a wife, too, Chief, but I’ll divorce her when the six months are up if I don’t like her.”

“Wait until Fulsom’s given us the deed to the ranch, then do what you like,” Boone said. “But if I’m picking your bride, give her a chance.”

“Sure, Chief.”

Boone didn’t trust that answer, but Jericho had agreed to Fulsom’s terms and that’s all that mattered for now. He looked to Walker. It was crucial that the man get on board. Walker stared back at him, his gaze unfathomable. Boone knew there was trouble in his past. Lots of trouble. The man avoided women whenever he could.

Finally Walker gave him a curt nod. “Find me one, too. Don’t screw it up.”

Boone let out the breath he was holding. Despite the events of the past hour, a surge of anticipation warmed him from within.

They were going to do it.

And he was going to get hitched.

Was Riley the marrying kind?

Riley Eaton took
a sip of her green tea and summoned a smile for the friends who’d gathered on the tiny balcony of her apartment in Boston. Her thoughts were far away, though, tangled in a memory of a hot Montana afternoon when she was only ten. She’d crouched on the bank of Pittance Creek watching Boone Rudman wade through the knee-deep waters, fishing for minnows with a net. Riley had followed Boone everywhere back then, but she knew to stay out of the water and not scare his bait away.

“Mom said marriage is a trap set by men for unsuspecting women,” she’d told him, quoting what she’d heard her mother say to a friend over the phone.

“You’d better watch out then,” he’d said, poised to scoop up a handful of little fish.

“I won’t get caught. Someone’s got to want to catch you before that happens.”

Boone had straightened, his net trailing in the water. She’d never forgotten the way he’d looked at her—all earnest concern.

“Maybe I’ll catch you.”

“Why?” She’d been genuinely curious. Getting overlooked was something she’d already grown used to.

“For my wife. If I ever want one. You’ll never see me coming.” He’d lifted his chin as if she’d argue the point. But Riley had thought it over and knew he was right.

She’d nodded. “You are pretty sneaky.”

Riley had never forgotten that conversation, but Boone had and like everyone else he’d overlooked her when the time counted.

Story of her life.

Riley shook off the maudlin thoughts. She couldn’t be a good hostess if she was wrapped up in her troubles. Time enough for them when her friends had gone.

She took another sip of her tea and hoped they wouldn’t notice the tremor in her hands. She couldn’t believe seven years had passed since she’d graduated from Boston College with the women who relaxed on the cheap folding chairs around her. Back then she’d thought she’d always have these women by her side, but now these yearly reunions were the only time she saw them. They were all firmly ensconced in careers that consumed their time and energy. It was hard enough to stay afloat these days, let alone get ahead in the world—or have time to take a break.

Gone were the carefree years when they thought nothing of losing whole weekends to trying out a new art medium, or picking up a new instrument. Once she’d been fearless, throwing paint on the canvas, guided only by her moods. She’d experimented day after day, laughed at the disasters and gloried in the triumphs that took shape under her brushes from time to time. Now she rarely even sketched, and what she produced seemed inane. If she wanted to express the truth of her situation through her art, she’d paint pigeons and gum stuck to the sidewalk. But she wasn’t honest anymore.

For much of the past five years she’d been married to her job as a commercial artist at a vitamin distributor, joined to it twenty-four seven through her cell phone and Internet connection. Those years studying art seemed like a dream now; the one time in her life she’d felt like she’d truly belonged somewhere. She had no idea how she’d thought she’d earn a living with a fine arts degree, though. She supposed she’d hadn’t thought much about the future back then. Now she felt trapped by it.

Especially after the week she’d had.

She set her cup down and twisted her hands together, trying to stop the shaking. It had started on Wednesday when she’d been called into her boss’s office and handed a pink slip and a box in which to pack up her things.

“Downsizing. It’s nothing personal,” he’d told her.

She didn’t know how she’d kept her feet as she’d made her way out of the building. She wasn’t the only one riding the elevator down to street level with her belongings in her hands, but that was cold comfort. It had been hard enough to find this job. She had no idea where to start looking for another.