Romance in the Rain

by Anthology

  “Just Joe” Caldwell was afraid.

  Was his fear simply out of concern for the well-being of two of his pilots, or was it more than that? Was it because it was personal—because the pilot in danger was her? And if it was because of her, why did she suddenly feel so completely okay with that?

  Charlie let her lids drift down. If there was anything that could refine wild, uncertain, confused emotions into the fine powder of truth and acceptance, it was having the tar scared out of you.

  Barely breathing, she pinched her eyes open. Joe was much closer now, and as she watched him run toward her—her rescuer, her hero—she felt the barrier around her heart crack, creating a chasm wide enough for a tall, handsome Army captain to burst through and capture the prize.

  Now, if she could just stay alive long enough to tell him how she felt, this might actually turn out to be a pretty good day.

  As Joe approached the B-25, his pace slowed and he stopped just below the starboard wing. A few moments later, Sgt. Franklin pulled up behind him, gasping for breath. In his grip, the sergeant held a long wooden pole with a rope loop on the end; a snake snare. She’d seen them around the base, but never had use for one—until today.

  Charlie’s eyes locked with Joe’s and she felt a connection she’d thought never to experience with a man again.

  “You will be okay,” he mouthed. “I promise.” Then he winked, and sent her a reassuring smile.

  When her lips formed an O and a K, he gave her a thumbs up.

  Gesturing to the canopy, he indicated they would open it from the top. Behind him, Dr. Gregory and virtually every available personnel on the base had gathered, waiting, watching, offering suggestions and eliciting warnings in hushed tones.

  Quickly, Joe left the starboard side of the plane and walked around the nose to port.

  “Hazel,” Charlie whispered. Shifting her eyes to meet the young woman’s gaze, she breathed, “When they open the canopy, get out as fast as you can.”

  As white as a sheet, her face beaded with perspiration, Hazel blinked and shook her head slowly. “Won’t… leave… you…”

  “Go,” Charlie ordered through clenched teeth. The weight on her foot moved, but made no sound. “That’s an order…”

  The plane’s engine droned on, masking other sounds that might alarm the deadly creature making itself comfortable against the warmth of Charlie’s leg. She didn’t think snakes could hear, but instead sensed things through movement. Hopefully, the steady vibration of the plane’s engine would mask Joe’s efforts as he began climbing onto the canopy.

  When he reached the top, he popped the hatch. The snake’s rattle quickly sounded and she felt the diamondback constrict around her ankle tighter still—as tightly as a hangman’s noose.

  Joe froze in place. Hazel seemed to be holding her breath. Charlie barely let herself breathe while she silently prayed for the snake to either go to sleep, or slither away somewhere.

  Miraculously, the creature quieted again, and Joe leaned down into the open cockpit, gesturing for Hazel to rise. Inch by inch, the young woman pushed herself to her feet. As soon as she was tall enough to reach Joe, she circled his neck with her arms as he grabbed her in a bear hug. Quickly lifting her out of the cockpit, he swung her around and handed her down to the group of women waiting to aid in her rescue. Before Hazel’s boots hit the tarmac, Dr. Gregory began questioning her—had she been bitten; had Charlie been bitten; where was the snake now?

  Charlie let her shoulders relax a bit. Hazel was out; Hazel was safe. Thank God. She felt such relief, she nearly forgot she was still trapped inside the cockpit, bound to the floor by a living shackle.

  Joe appeared in the open hatch once more. In his blue eyes, Charlie saw the kind of determination that moved mountains. Okay, they seemed to say to Charlie. One down, one to go.

  Chapter 9

  Final Approach: The last leg of a flight where the pilot descends from altitude to the runway

  Joe looked down into the cockpit and evaluated the situation. Charlie Thompson—the woman he was falling in love with—sat erect and deceptively serene as a deadly serpent tightened its grip around her leg. The very sound of its soft rattle turned Joe’s gut sour with apprehension and fear.

  Yet, when Charlie lifted her gaze to meet his, what he saw in her blue eyes was even more frightening to him than any viper—she believed in him, trusted him to save her, was certain he would do so.

  Failure could cost her life. He’d only get one chance to do this—he had to get it right.

  All Charlie had to do was sit as still as stone—and not die.

  “No matter what I do,” he whispered, “don’t move.” She blinked in tacit agreement.

  His hope was that if Charlie remained motionless, should the diamondback become agitated, it would strike Joe and not her. A coiled rattler could only strike half its length, but it was impossible to gauge the snake’s size at this angle. If he could get the noose in position, get the damn diamondback to lift its head, come for him, he might have a chance of snaring it. Problem was, the strike from a rattler was faster than the human eye could follow.

  Lowering the snake snare into the cockpit, he wiggled it a little, making the noose shake—sort of like dangling a wiggling worm in front of a fish. The snake reacted immediately by coiling tighter around Charlie’s ankle and rattling louder. Charlie closed her eyes.

  He shook the rod again and the diamondback lifted its angular head, its tongue flicking in and out like a black ribbon in the wind. The glare of its dead eyes settled on the end of the stick.

  It struck like a lightning bolt across the cockpit toward Joe. But the snake was too small to get very far. As the serpent stretched out across the floor, Joe swung the rod around and slipped the noose around the viper’s head. Yanking on the line, he shoved the snare down and tightened the rope, pinning the snake—and its deadly fangs—to the floor. Though the creature hissed and rattled and twisted itself into knots trying to escape, Joe used all his strength to keep it right where it was.

  “Charlie!” he shouted. “Climb out!”

  In an instant, she was up, standing on her seat and reaching for the hatch. Hands reached down to help her and in another second, she was out of the cockpit and down on the tarmac, safe and sound.

  Next to Joe, Dr. Gregory lowered a metal can into the cockpit and set it on the seat Hazel had vacated. Carefully, Joe lifted the snake snare and set the hissing rattler inside the can. Gregory slammed down the lid and flipped the latch. Done and done.

  Looking over at the doctor, Joe blew out a breath and smiled. “I think I peed my fuckin’ pants.”

  Gregory met Joe’s gaze and chuckled. “Hell, I know I fuckin’ peed mine.”

  Leaving Sgt. Franklin to deal with their captive, Joe jumped down to the tarmac, grabbed Charlie and pulled her to his chest. For a moment, she did nothing. Slowly at first, and then all at once, her arms came around him, hugging him tight, embracing him like she’d never let him go as a cheer went up all around them.

  As he held her, he wished it were nightfall because if it were, he would be able to wish upon the nearest star that she would never let him go—never—ever.

  “You did great, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You did absolutely great. Are you okay?”

  Her head buried against his shoulder, she nodded. “I’m fine,” she said thickly. “Just a little rattled.”

  He laughed and hugged her tighter. She giggled into the fabric of his jacket.

  Pulling back, he looked down into her eyes. “You were very brave.”

  “I know.”

  He snorted. “You never give an inch, do you, Lieutenant?”

  She sent him a sly look. “Not an inch, Captain.”

  Their eyes still locked, his smile widened. “I think I can live with that.”

  As the crowd around them began to disburse, Joe and Charlie began walking to his office. Her tone serious, she said, “When I saw that snake, I didn’t know what to do. But as soon as
I saw you, when you came running toward us, I knew everything would be okay.”

  He pursed his lips. “First a bee and now a snake. Either Mother Nature doesn’t like lady flyers, or…”

  “Or Hank doesn’t.”

  Of course she’d figured it out. There was nothing sexier on the planet than a smart woman who just happened to be beautiful, too. “Fortunately,” he assured Charlie, “our favorite mechanic won’t have much of a chance to give any other critters a bad rap. As soon as I got the call that you were in trouble, I had him arrested. He’s in the brig and will be charged with murder, attempted murder, and several counts of sabotage.”

  Charlie’s brows furrowed. “But why?”

  He lifted his shoulders in a matter-of-fact shrug. “Jealousy and revenge. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. Mere girls could fly, but he couldn’t. Apparently he became obsessed with revenge.”

  “He killed Edie?” Charlie’s eyes filled with tears. “For revenge?”

  “He did.”

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, she said firmly, “And he nearly killed Hazel and me.”

  “Not to mention that damn rattlesnake will never be the same.”

  She snorted a laugh, then chuckled, then rolled right into a giggle.

  He opened the door for her, then followed her inside where they could be alone. Chucking his knuckle under her chin, he raised her face and looked into her eyes. Her beautiful bluer-than-blue eyes. “But we stopped him, Charlie. We stopped him before anyone else died. It’s done.”

  She continued gazing up at him, but was quiet for a moment. Swallowing, she said, “My husband was an officer on the Arizona and died at Pearl Harbor. We’d been childhood sweethearts and were only married three months.”

  He was silent for a moment. “I know.”

  She arched a brow.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you still love him. I accept that.” Twisting his lips, he considered making his own confession. “I’m blind in my left eye. It’s why I’m flying a desk and not a B-25 anymore.”

  She tilted her head. “You flew a B-25?”

  “Sure did,” he said. “It’s how I lost the eye.”

  Her expression changed and she looked both pleased and astonished. “You were with Doolittle? You bombed Japan?”

  “I did, but it cost me the eye. Even so,” he admitted, “it was worth it.”

  She lifted her hand and gently touched the jagged scar. “Does it hurt?”

  “Only my ego.”

  Her lips quirked. “I think your ego is healthy enough to withstand most anything.”

  “Except maybe losing you.” Damn. The words had come out before he’d had a chance to keep them locked away, but to his surprise, she slid her arms around his back and pulled herself tightly against his chest. Their bodies were flush, chest to toes—and he loved it. He loved her.

  “I’ll need a little time,” she said quietly. “Johnny was my best friend. I just… I just need a little more time. Someday, after my scars—and yours—have healed…”

  “I’m a very patient man.” He wrapped his arms around her, snug as two bugs in a rug.

  With a flirty grin, she said, “This base is overflowing with smart, pretty girls. You’ll probably meet somebody else…”

  “Perhaps,” he countered. “But believe me when I say I only have eye for you.”

  She giggled again. “Are you going to kiss me now, or what?”

  She’d taken him by surprise and he stared down at her while trying to come up with some kind of snappy retort.

  While his brain was still working on it, she said, “Don’t you go to the movies? In the movies, the story always ends with a kiss.”

  “So if I kiss you, is the story over?”

  Lifting up on her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to his and murmured, “Oh no, Captain. It’s only the beginning…”

  He kissed her. And how. Her lips were as soft as he’d expected; her warmth liable to make him explode into flames. She leaned into him, opening for him, allowing the kiss to go far beyond what he’d anticipated, what he’d hoped. There was passion in her kiss, desire, want. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was an answer to the question he’d dared to ask only in his heart.

  When the kiss ended, he said, “I like this women-in-the-military thing. Especially when you’re the woman.”

  She smiled. “Girls in the Army and the Navy and the WAFS are going to change a lot of stodgy old men’s-only situations. We’ve taken over the men’s rooms and call them women’s rooms now.”

  He kissed her again, tasting the sweetness of her lips. When he pulled back, he said, “The close quarters in some of these planes is going to cause a few problems in crowded cockpits.”

  She stopped, looked up at him. “Oh, haven’t you heard?” she said with a sly grin.

  “Heard what?”

  A saucy gleam lit her eyes. “What with all the lady changes going on, we don’t call it the cockpit anymore…”

  About the Author

  Long ago and far away in a fairytale land called California, MARIANNE STILLINGS’s mother read her the Little Golden Book of The Ugly Duckling. Marianne cried so hard at how badly the duckling was treated, her mom frantically skipped ahead to calm her and prove all would end well. The book has been lost over the years, but Marianne’s love of reading and happy endings has remained. Now a resident of Washington State, when not writing happy endings of her own, she spends time crocheting, quilting, embroidering, gardening, and with her family, which includes a wonderful husband, two beautiful grown-up daughters, two adorable grandchildren (so far!), and two rescue dogs, Lily and Ginger. Please visit Marianne at www.mariannestillings.com. Romance In The Rain is Marianne’s seventh book.

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  Dawn Kravagna

  Scene 1

  University of Washington, January 1983

  It all started the first day of winter classes with a slap to the face.

  Seriously.

  In most romances, the slap comes after the couple have a big fight, the guy or gal gets walloped across the chops, and then, ridiculously, they get turned on and make out.

  Not facile with small talk, I tend to be direct, so I skipped the fight and went straight to getting smacked across the face.

  The first day of Scene Design 101 was held in a busy set design shop with a cement floor. The ceiling towered above. Teacher assistants were staged in various corners of the warehouse, eager to display their skills.

  And I displayed mine—the inability to think quickly on my feet.

  I, and the thirty other Drama program students, wandered around in groups of four to five, clustering around demonstrations of the different skills and equipment required to build sets. First, I observed a dark-bearded mountain man mix ingredients to create a mushroom of ochre-colored foam, which would be spray-painted to mimic a heavy boulder. Next I watched a female sprouting a green Mohawk demonstrate how to use a lathe machine to create stair balustrades. But it was at the third station that I “pulled a Kara,” as my younger brother Hector Daniel would put it.

  You see, I was distracted a bit.

  Because the lanky guy painting backdrops in the middle of the room was cute! Black straight hair hung just below his small lobed ears and hugged the nape of his neck. Long tapering fingers pulled a five-inch wide paintbrush back and forth across a canvas lying flat on the floor. His eyes were dark brown, framed by arched eyebrows. I estimated him to be about six inches taller than me, although it was difficult to be sure since he was bending over the faux brick wall he was creating. Pale and dressed in black, he resembled the lead singer from Modern English, but with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks;
likely, then, his hair was dyed. But no matter.

  I managed to attract his attention, but not the way I intended.

  Behind him stood another scenic backdrop reeking of fresh paint, which depicted an English floral garden with a few armless Greek statues. It was about twenty feet long by ten feet high, the base fitted at both ends into wooden cross supports. It didn’t seem sturdy at all.

  In an attempt to get a closer look at what Mr. Cutie was doing, a stocky fellow tried stepping over one of the supports but misjudged and tripped. The backdrop wobbled erratically and threatened to collapse upon the head of another curly-headed blonde guy who, oblivious, was staring in the opposite direction, probably at the giggling group of girls across the room.

  “Watch out!” I yelped and leapt forward to push him out of the way of the falling scenery.

  “Huh?” the blonde guy asked, swinging around.

  Whack! He hit me right across the face with his book bag.

  Which was full of books, apparently.

  “I’m really sorry! Are you okay?” my attacker cried out, clearly horrified.

  Stunned, I hesitated a moment before responding. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said, peering over the top of my hands, cupping my face protectively.

  Mr. Cutie dropped his paintbrush and leapt to his feet. “You sure?” he asked, frowning with concern.

  I pulled my fingers away from my face. “Family always said my nose was a bit too small,” I replied, trying to make light of a totally embarrassing situation. “Swelling would probably improve it.”

  My joke apparently fell flat because the blonde guy’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed with dismay.

  Ignoring the fact that the bridge of my nose throbbed a bit, I wriggled my nose. “Just teasing. See. My nose is just dandy.”

  When I smiled, the blonde was clearly relieved. “Your family’s wrong. It’s a cute nose,” he said, sounding a bit hopeful. His voice was tantalizingly low and mellifluent, but a dark blonde mustache detracted from his sky blue eyes.