The Welcome Home Garden Club (12 page)

The waitress seated Richard at a table for two positioned behind Crockett. Richard had just given her his order when Bowie came loping in to join his brother at the bar. He didn’t look over at Richard. His shoulders were tense, his dark hair disheveled, a deep scowl carved into his brow. He didn’t even glance Richard’s way as he took the seat next to Crockett.

“So what the hell is up with Lester?” Bowie asked his brother. “Why did he ask us to meet him here?”

Crockett shrugged and pushed a bowl of peanuts toward his brother. “He said he’s got news about Garza. Peanut?”

His curiosity piqued, Richard found himself eavesdropping.

“No.” Bowie snorted. “I hope it’s good news. Like Garza is on his way out of town, never to return.”

Richard had to agree. He wanted Garza gone as much as the Goodnight boys did. At a time when he and Caitlyn had started to make forward progress in their relationship—she’d come to his house, after all, for the first time in eight years and asked for the carousel—Garza had shown up to set it back to square one.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Caitlyn figured out he’d paid Malone to lie, to make fake documents that showed Garza had died. If she hadn’t figured it out already. He’d seen Garza’s motorcycle in her driveway yesterday evening when he had gone for his nightly constitutional and walked past her house as he always did.

“Bourbon and branch,” Bowie ordered from the bartender and rubbed his temple. “Better make it a double.” To his brother, he said, “Can you believe Garza? Just giving the ranch back to us?”

“What I can’t believe,” Crockett said, “is that Dad left him the ranch in the first place. What in the hell happened?”

“The old man was hopped up on painkillers. That’s all I can figure.”

“Well, he about gave me a heart attack. Good thing Garza is stupid as a post and too proud to realize it.” Crockett circled a finger around the lip of his beer bottle. “Thank God for that.”

Bowie grunted but said nothing.

“There’s Lester.” Crockett nodded in the direction of the lawyer loping toward them.

LaVon nodded at Richard, Richard nodded back.

“Let’s get a table,” LaVon said, his briefcase tucked under his arm. “So we can talk face-to-face.”

Shoot. Now he wouldn’t be able to overhear their conversation.

But luck was with him. The table behind Richard’s opened up and the waitress seated them there.

“So,” Bowie said, once the waitress had departed. “What’s up?”

Lester took a deep breath. “I’ve got some bad news for you boys.”

Richard got a feeling like a spider crawling down his back.

“What is it?” Bowie asked.

Some fool put money in the jukebox and Willie Nelson started admonishing mothers not to let their sons grow up to be cowboys. Frustrated, Richard was forced to turn his head to the right in order to follow the conversation going on behind him.

“Garza changed his mind,” Lester said.

“What do you mean?” Bowie growled.

“He’s decided he wants to accept his inheritance after all.”

“Son of a bitch,” Bowie exclaimed, and thumped the table with a fist. “I knew it. What happened?”

“He just said he’d given it some thought and he’d changed his mind.”

Bowie swore again.

“Okay,” Crockett said. “What’s our next move?”

“You can take him to court. Hold the will up in probate for months, even years.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bowie said. “That’s what we want to do. Take him to court. Dad wasn’t in his right mind when he signed that will.”

“Honestly, what are our chances of winning?” Crockett asked.

Lavon spread his palms. “Look, boys, your daddy was of sound mind—”

“Not that sound! Giving our inheritance away to some bastard he sired with a Mexican whore,” Bowie exclaimed. “You’ve got to show he didn’t know what he was doing when he made out that will.”

“But he did know,” Lester said. “I can’t lie about that.”

“So what do you suggest we do?”

Lester slanted him a look. “I’m afraid you boys can no longer afford my services. Unless you sell those vehicles or that beach house he left you.”

Bowie’s rage—reliable as a match head against sandpaper—lit like a fuse. Richard could feel his seething a table away.

“It’s not fair! I was at our father’s bedside for the last four months, taking care of him during his final days. Me. I’m the one. I stayed home and helped him out with the ranch when in reality all I ever wanted was to be a pilot. And then this bastard Garza comes and steals away the one thing we have left. The Rocking J.”

“There’s got to be a way around this,” Crockett said. “Do you know for absolute certain that Garza is our half brother?”

“J. Foster admitted it. That’s reason enough. Of course, you’ll demand a paternity test, but I figure it will just prove J. Foster is Gideon’s daddy.” Lester cocked his head, cut a bite-sized chunk from his steak swimming in cream gravy. “But honestly? I’d cut my losses.” He chewed. “Make the most of what your father did leave you.”

“What if we don’t want to do that?”

“It is your right to contest the will,” Lester said.

“But you don’t think we can win?”

“Not likely. But you can tie things up in probate court for a long time. Damn, this is good chicken fried steak. Eat up boys, my treat.”

“That’s our only option?” Crockett snorted.

Lester raised an eyebrow. “You could make nice with Garza, maybe he’ll cut you in.”

“Fuck that,” Bowie said. “I’ve got another question.”

“Yes?” Lester smacked his lips around a second bite of chicken fried steak.

“What would happen if Gideon was to die before the will was probated? Would the money go to us?”

“According to J. Foster’s will, if Gideon dies before he inherits, the money goes to you boys.”

“Well hell.” Bowie smiled. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“Unless,” Lester said, “he has heirs. Does Garza have any heirs?”

“Not that we know of,” Crockett answered.

There was that spider-crawling feeling scurrying down Richard’s spine, because Gideon did have an heir. A little dark-haired boy named Danny.

Richard’s grandson. And he had the strangest feeling the child had just been threatened.

Chapter Ten

Traditional meaning of Carolina rose—love is dangerous.

F
or long stretches at a time, Gideon dwelled on thoughts of Caitlyn and the boy. On Saturday night, a week after he’d come back to Twilight, he lay alone on the extra-firm mattress at the Merry Cherub, just a few blocks away from Caitlyn’s house. He imagined her tucking their son into bed, reading him a story, putting a glass of water nearby in case he should wake up thirsty in the middle of the night.

It was not just thoughts of Caitlyn and Danny that kept him awake. Since his return to his hometown, the nightmares had come back in full force. Almost every night, he did battle in his sleep, viciously killing and slaying his enemies, with two good hands, only to wake up in a panic, gasping for air with the fresh realization his hand was gone. It had gotten to the point where he was afraid to sleep.

Anxiety fueled the nightmares. Or so the shrink he’d been forced to see had told him. Control the anxiety; control the dreams. But how could he control the anxiety? He was still adjusting to the fact he was a dad and trying to fit into a place where he’d never belonged.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make himself fit in. It wasn’t that the people weren’t friendly and welcoming in Twilight, because they were. Too welcoming, in fact. Everyone wanted to talk to him, buy him lunch or a cup of coffee or a beer. They wanted to hear his stories. He just didn’t want to tell them.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to try to be part of the community. Rather, it was as if he’d left a part of himself on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan. The good part, the part that knew how to connect, make nice, play the game, be a member of the team. It seemed to be the part of him that had been connected to his left hand.

Was that where your humanity dwelled? In your left hand? Once it was gone you couldn’t ever really connect again? Did other soldiers feel like this? Or was he unique? Wasn’t he supposed to embrace his homecoming? When a soldier was in country, that’s all he ever thought about. The place he’d left behind. But now he was back, he found himself displaced.

Knock it off. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. She gave no indication that your disfigurement bothered her.

Maybe not, but it bothered him.

He’d tried to drown it out by working. He’d started in on the carousel full throttle. He’d already gotten the mechanics of the carousel working again. The gears and cogs and pulleys had been the easy part. Next week, he and high school volunteers were going to set up the base in the middle of the garden.

Now came the art and the craft of restoring the animals to their former majesty. That was going to take a lot of time.

Gideon threw back the covers and got dressed. It was after eleven, but even on a Saturday night the bed-and-breakfast was silent. He tiptoed from the Merry Cherub, and then walked along the empty streets, breathing in the stimulating night air that smelled heavily of the lake. He had no plans other than to roam, burn off some restless energy, until he came to the town square and saw her.

Caitlyn.

Standing in front of the vacant lot, head tilted, arms on her hips. She wore blue jeans, a pink long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, grubby sneakers, and gardening gloves. A tiller sat off to one side. The lot stretching in front of her had been freshly tilled around where they would set up the carousel base. She looked hot and sweaty and dirty. He had an urge to make her even hotter and sweatier and dirtier.

Oh yeah.
Involuntarily, he licked his lips.

She must have heard his approaching footsteps, because she turned toward him, peered into the darkness. “Evening,” she said.

The wind carried her scent to him—womanly, musky, earthy—and his nostrils twitched. He felt like a lone wolf on the hunt. Hard, horny, and ready to mate. “What are you doing out so late?”

“Couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d get some real work done, now that you guys have gotten the mechanics of the carousel up and running. We start planting tomorrow.” She waved at several sacks of seeds and budding containers stacked against the wall of the temporary storage barn that workmen had erected a few days before. The lettering on the side of the plastic wrapping read “Carolina Roses,” along with a picture of a white flower that didn’t look much like a rose to Gideon.

“Why didn’t you call me? I would have helped.”

“I don’t have your number.”

That’s where she was wrong. She had his number a long time ago. “Give me your cell phone,” he commanded.

She arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll put my number on your speed dial. You need it in case something happens with Danny.”

She took her cell phone from her hip pocket—he couldn’t help following her movements and noticing exactly how nice her fanny looked in those jeans—and passed it to him.

He flipped it open and with one hand deftly programmed his number in at the top slot on her speed dial, demoting . . . He peered at the screen. Someone named Emma.

“There you go.” He handed the cell back to her.

His thumb brushed against her knuckles and he heard her sharp intake of breath. He realized his own breathing was erratic. His body hot and bothered.

“Where is Danny, by the way?” he asked, staring at her lips.

“What? You think I left him at home alone?”

“Don’t get testy.”

She shot him an irritated glance. “Danny is spending the night with his best friend, Charlie.”

“You know,” he said, “I don’t even know Danny’s full name.”

“Daniel Dane.”

“You gave him my middle name.” A flush of pride rushed through him.

She nodded. “I wanted to name him Gideon, but figured that was too much of a giveaway.”

“Yeah,” he said.

That was hard to accept. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know he was Danny’s real father. In a way, he understood. It was easier for her to let everyone believe Kevin Marsh was his Danny’s dad, but understanding her motives didn’t stop him from hating them.

A moment of silence passed between them.

“Caitlyn,” he said.

“Yes?”

God, when she pursed those lips it was all he could do not to grab her and kiss her until she begged for more. “I wish things had turned out differently.”

“Is that an apology?” Her tone mocked him. “You never used to apologize.”

“And you never used to be so smart-mouthed.” He grinned.

“Things change,” she said.

It was a cliché, but a profound one.

“You want some help packing up?” He waved a hand at her tools strewn about the lot—hoes, rakes, twine, the tiller.

“Yes, thanks.”

The streetlamps cast them in an eerie, ghostly purple-white glow. Moths circled the lights, dipping and swirling. He knocked dirt clods off the blades of the tiller before loading it into a metal shed. His gaze lifted from the tiller. The feel of metal cool against his skin, he studied Caitlyn’s strong, slender back, her shoulder blades moving beneath her cotton shirt as she worked.

She’d always loved plants. Whenever he brought her flowers, which hadn’t been often on his meager salary working as a stock boy at Branson’s, she’d been delighted. He’d picked wildflowers for her once and she’d been just as impressed by that as she had by the store-bought variety.

Gideon guided his gaze back to getting the tiller ensconced in her shed, his emotions clouded and confused. He wanted her, God, how he wanted her, but he didn’t feel he had a right to claim her. She’d thought he’d died and she’d done what any good mother would have done. She’d picked up the pieces of her life and moved on. Providing for her son the only way she knew how—by marrying Kevin Marsh.

Jealousy pushed up hard against his rib cage, making his chest hurt. Kevin had gotten to hold her in his arms, press his lips to hers, make love to her. Gideon swallowed, narrowed his gaze.

“Gideon?” Her voice was soft.

He didn’t want to look at her. He was terrified she’d see the despair inside him. Or worse. The emptiness.

Slowly, he raised his head.

She was standing in front of him, a bottle of water in her hand. She extended it. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

Their gazes clutched. Or at least his clung to hers, but then that made him feel desperate. So he closed the shed, locked it, and took the water.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, and twisted the cap off the bottle.

Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. He tried not to notice, but it was impossible not to acknowledge the gesture. Innocent enough on her part, but it flooded his system with testosterone.

He’d imagined this moment a million times. Being back with Caitlyn. In the early days of his exile in Afghanistan—for that’s how he thought of it now, banishment from the one person who’d meant more to him than life itself—he’d thought of her constantly. Then when his letters came back unopened he’d stubbornly hardened his heart and her memory had begun to fade until he’d stopped fantasizing about her.

But he hadn’t stopped dreaming.

On those dark nights when he cobbled together a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, his treacherous mind would spin dreams of her. Caitlyn, coming to him, standing in the doorway of his subconscious, wind blowing her hair about her face in soft wisps, her eyes filled with longing just as they were now.

If it had been a million years ago, he would have dropped the water bottle to the ground, reached up, snagged his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him. He would have moistened those tempting lips for her.

But too much time had passed.

She’d been married and widowed. She’d given birth to his child without his even knowing about it. He’d been on the other side of the world, losing an arm, losing his humanity. He had nothing left to give her. A kiss would make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

So he tipped back his head and drank, letting the cool water slide down his throat. Allowing the liquid to substitute for the nectar he really wanted. Caitlyn’s sweet lips.

“I should head home,” she said, wrapping her arms around her.

The night wind had kicked up and blew cold against their skin. She shivered. But Gideon’s goose bumps weren’t from the breeze, rather his skin prickled from being so close to her, wanting her but not knowing how to have her again. Not knowing if he could. If he even should.

Things could never go back to the way they had been.

“I’ll walk you,” he said.

“There’s no need. Twilight is safe as a cocoon.”

She was probably right. “I’ll walk you,” he said, making sure his tone brooked no argument.

For a long moment, she said nothing, just peered into his eyes, and he thought she was going to buck him on it, but finally, she nodded. She’d always been cautious. In their youth, he’d been the reckless one. The war had tempered that impulsiveness. Recklessness on the battlefield could get you killed. Recklessness had indeed almost cost him his life. His phantom limb gave a twitch, reminding him that he had not conquered his impulsiveness. It was there. Lurking. Ready to stir up trouble.

He stared at her, fascinated by the unruly tendrils of blond hair escaping her ponytail to frame the angular edges of her face. She looked so fierce with her shirtsleeves rolled up, but in that fierceness he spied the vulnerability she struggled to hide. She was still his soft, innocent Tulip underneath it all. So achingly sincere.

“Okay.” She nodded. “You can walk me home.”

The full moon shone overhead as they left the square and started toward Caitlyn’s house.

“Let’s cut through Sweetheart Park,” she said, surprising him.

She left the pavement, her feet angling for the grass. He followed her to the cobblestone path leading to the wooden footbridge stretching over the narrow tributary of the Brazos that ran through the park. She paused on the bridge, rested her hands on the wooden railing, and took a deep breath. Moonlight illuminated the stalwart oak, pecan, and elm trees that dominated the park. The air smelled heavy with the scent of water. A clump of white ducks slumbered in a group along the banks. Gideon wondered what prevented a predator from attacking them. What kept Twilight ducks so safe?

“What are you thinking?” she murmured.

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“You were frowning so intently. Like you were mad at the world.”

“I was thinking how vulnerable those ducks were,” he said. “Just sitting out here in the open. A dog could come by or a raccoon or a coyote.”

“Animal control is pretty vigilant and the park is well patrolled. It is on the road to the sheriff’s office.”

“Still . . .”

“The ducks do the best they can,” she said. “What else can they do? They live their lives and—”

“Die.”

“Everything dies.”

“But not many things come back to life,” he said, not knowing why he said it.

“No.” Her whisper was so low that he almost didn’t hear her.

“Caitlyn,” Gideon whispered, still really unable to believe that this was real. That she was here with him and it wasn’t some dream.

She reached up to stroke his shoulder, a gentle palm, soft and light.

His body roared to life, throbbing so strong with a blinding-hot need to possess her. He wanted this woman more than he wanted to breathe. His dick hardened to stone.

His erection was so hard he could barely catch his breath. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. His blood raced with the thought of making love to her, but how prudent was that? He was damaged beyond repair and it wasn’t simply because of his missing limb. His psyche had been mutilated and there was no way to repair it. He could not unsee what he’d seen, could not undo what he’d done.

Ironic really, that the same issue that tore them apart as teens still stood between them, albeit in a different guise. They came from different worlds. Back then the rift had sprung from the fact she was the daughter of the judge, the great-great-great-granddaughter of the town founders, and he was the bastard child of the richest man in town and a Mexican woman of low moral character. She’d lived in one of the most elegant houses in Twilight. He’d grown up in a shack across the railroad tracks. She was gentle and cautious and sweet. He’d been rough and reckless and impecunious. She’d kept her emotions under wraps; he expressed himself without reservation.