When she was halfway down the hall, that twinge in her back came again, only this time it was just a bit stronger. Annie winced, stretched and as she stepped into the bedroom, glanced longingly at the quilt covered king-size bed. A veritable ocean of mattress called to her, silently offering a comfy spot for a nap. Dozens of plump pillows in varied shapes and colors were strewn against the headboard, and suddenly all Annie could think of was sinking down into them.
She’d wanted this weekend to be a quiet time. Two days all to herself. To think. To work. To mentally prepare for the coming birth.
Every muscle in her body screamed with fatigue. She’d spent the past six months working herself into a frenzy, trying to prepare for her coming baby. Trying to get ready to be a single mom. Trying to, she told herself tiredly, put the baby’s father behind her and think of him only as a kindly sperm donor.
For that’s all he really was, anyway. Mike Sinclair. A man of a million promises and a million and a half excuses for breaking them. But she hadn’t seen him for what he was. She’d had stars in her eyes that had blinded her to reality. She’d thought he was The One. The love of her life. The man she would marry. So she’d turned in her membership card to Virgins Anonymous and slept with him. A few weeks later she’d discovered she was pregnant. When she told Mike…she’d discovered just how fast a human male could really run.
“So he was a mistake,” she said, pushing thoughts of the handsome charmer out of her mind as she talked to the mound that was her baby. “At least he gave me you,” she said, “and for that I’ll always be grateful.
“However,” she continued with a sigh, “you do make Mommy tired.” Annie set her suitcase down beside the old, hand-carved mahogany dresser, then moved to the bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she clumsily leaned forward and tried to take her shoes off. She managed the right one but gave up on the left. Leaning back, she lifted her feet onto the bed and promised herself she’d wash Lisa’s quilt before leaving. Then she eased into those pillows, closed her eyes and drifted off, despite the nagging pain in her back. Twenty-seven years old and she felt like ninety.
Gunnery Sergeant John Paretti swung the ax high and brought it down with a thud into the log standing upright on an old tree stump. The ax blade bit deeply into the wood, and he pried the two halves apart with gloved hands. Then he split the halves again and again, before gathering up the kindling and tossing it onto the pile he’d already chopped.
By the look of the coming storm, he was going to need all the firewood he could get his hands on. Tipping his head back, he stared up into the wash of white that was now blanketing the sky and the surrounding trees. It had blown up fast, this storm. Rushing across the mountaintop on a freight train of frigid air that stole his breath then turned it into fog in front of his face.
He should have known better, he told himself in disgust as he reached for another log and set it into place on the stump. Should have gone to a beach house to do his thinking. Somewhere down the mountain the February sun was shining, and tourists and locals alike were strolling along the beach walk wearing shorts and sandals. Instead he was dressed like Nanook of the North and frantically chopping firewood to stave off a surprise blizzard.
“Only in California,” he muttered and slammed the ax down again.
He’d been working on the woodpile for the last hour, though to be fair, he probably wouldn’t need all of the extra wood. First Sergeant Pete Jackson had promised him when he’d loaned John the cabin that there was a pyramid of firewood ready and waiting. And there was. But between the coming storm and John’s own need to work off some of the frustration nearly choking him, he’d decided to chop more.
It was the most recent phone call from his father that had sent him looking for a retreat. As he splintered the wood with sure, strong strokes, he replayed that conversation in his mind.
“Your brothers are married,” Dominick Paretti said flatly. “They’re settled. They’re not going to be leaving the Corps, so it’s up to you.”
John shook his head and tightened his grip on the receiver. They’d been through this dozens of times. Ever since the old man had resigned from the Corps to start up a small business that had grown into Paretti Computer Corporation, he’d been after his sons to join him. But unlike the old man, his sons were Marines to the bone. And not one of them wanted to give up the Corps to ride a desk and attend board—or as they thought of them, bored—meetings.
“Dad,” John started, but his father interrupted him quickly.
“Look, John, I’m not getting any younger, you know?” The old man’s voice roughened up like sandpaper across a stone. “I want my family to run this business. It’s Paretti Computers and a Paretti should be in charge when I die.”
“You’re not gonna die tomorrow, Dad, and—”
“Think about it,” his father said, cutting off a possible refusal. “That’s all I ask.”
But, John thought now as he gathered up the firewood and carried it to the porch that ran along the back of the cabin, that wasn’t all his dad asked. It never was. He wanted at least one of his three sons to leave the Marines and take over the family business. And he wasn’t above using guilt to get his way. The old man, despite his words to the contrary, would go on forever. This had nothing to do with his age or infirm health—the man was healthy as two mules and just as stubborn—this came down to one thing.
Family Comes First.
The Paretti family motto. He and his brothers had been raised to believe that nothing was more important than family. And now Dominick Paretti was counting on his youngest son to live up to what he’d been taught.
Which was why John had borrowed the cabin from Pete for the weekend. He’d needed a place to think. Some quiet time to himself to decide which direction his life should take. Did he go with his heart and stay with the Corps? Or did he go with his head and be the son his father needed?
Wind shrieked across the clearing and shoved him into the log wall behind him. Ducking his head to avoid most of the flying snow, John stared out at the still-whitening world and wondered how the weathermen had missed predicting this storm. He’d been in blizzards before and he recognized the signs. In the last hour, enough snow had fallen to block the driveway and probably the road down the mountain, as well. And it was only going to get worse. Trees bent nearly in half as they surrendered to the wind. Windowpanes rattled behind him, and the lamplight flickered uncertainly. Power lines would be going down next, he told himself and grabbed up an armful of wood before turning for the door.
He stomped into the mudroom, shaking most of the snow off his boots before entering the tiny room off the kitchen. Then, walking straight through the cabin to the living room, he went down on one knee and dropped the load of wood onto the river stone hearth.
“Who’s there?” A distinctly female voice called out.
John swiveled on the ball of his foot and shot a glance at the darkened hall and the bedroom beyond. Who the heck? He stood up and crossed the room, tugging at the zipper of his jacket as he went. The heater in the small cabin was still on high, and he felt as if he’d parachuted out of the North Pole into the mouth of hell.
“Who is it?” she yelled again, and this time he heard a thread of panic in her voice.
Well, she had a right to be worried. Setting up camp in someone else’s cabin. What? Did she think he was running a motel?
Of course, a cynical voice within warned, it could be a trap. Some woman sounding scared to lure him in so her boyfriend could beat him to a pulp and rob him. As that thought settled in, he told himself he’d watched too many movies. Still, it paid to be careful.
Stalking down the short hall, he stopped outside the open bedroom door and carefully poked his head around the corner. He had just enough time to duck as one of the bedside lamps sailed across the room at him.
“Hey!” he shouted above