The Welcome Home Garden Club (2 page)

Christine patted Terri on the back. “It’s okay. Gerald is fine.”

“I know, I know, but Bowie Goodnight will always have a soft place in my heart.” Terri plastered a hand over her heart.

“Honestly,” Emma said. “I didn’t really know them, but it sounds like both the Goodnight men have a lot of emotional baggage.”

“Amen to that.” Flynn reached for another cookie.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be losing my head or my heart over Crockett Goodnight,” Caitlyn assured her friends. “I harbor no illusions about him.”

“I say go for a booty call, I mean have you seen that boy? Butt like a Greek god, face like a cherub, a smile like Satan. Do him and then throw him away like a used tissue. Treat men the way they treat us,” Raylene said.

“Raylene!” everyone exclaimed.

Raylene glowered and snapped her fingers. “Hush y’all and pass the schnapps already, Dotty Mae.”

“You know, Ray, there’s always the possibility that Earl will come back,” Belinda murmured. “He does love you.”

“Booty call,” Raylene said firmly to Caitlyn, ignored Belinda, and tippled schnapps into her Assam. She held up the bottle. “Anyone else want a snort?”

“Let’s get back on track. About the victory garden contest,” Patsy said, steering the conversation where she wanted it to go.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Caitlyn said. “It’s an honor to be asked and I do thank you, but I just don’t have the time for volunteer work. I was even thinking of dropping out of the gardening club because it looks like I’ll be taking a part-time job to make ends meet.”

Or selling the flower shop.

She shoved that thought aside. Caitlyn loved being a florist almost as much as she loved being a mom and she’d do everything in her power to hang on to the shop. Well, except ask her father for money. Before she stooped to something that desperate, she’d sell a kidney on the black market.

But with her job skills or lack thereof, the only part-time position she qualified for required the utterance of phrases such as “You want fries with that?” She’d been a wife and a mother and Kevin’s assistant in the flower shop. That was the extent of her résumé.

“Did I mention that the job pays twenty dollars an hour?” Patsy asked. “Plus don’t underestimate the power of publicity. When we win this thing—and with you in charge, we
will
win it—you’ll have people flocking to buy flowers from the designer of the most romantic victory garden in Texas.”

Patsy’s unbridled optimism shot excitement up Caitlyn’s spine. But she was nothing if not cautious and she tamped down her enthusiastic mind which was already toying with plot design and flower selection. “It’s a paying position?”

“You’d get to dig in the garden and make money at your passion,” Patsy enticed.

She wanted to hope, but something didn’t sound right. Could her father be behind this offer? She wouldn’t put it past him. Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “Where’s the money for my salary coming from?”

“Town council has an overflow fund.”

“Why would they use it to fund a victory garden?”

“Because the grand prize is a hundred thousand dollars that would go into the town coffers if we won.”

Caitlyn stirred more honey into her tea. “And if we don’t win the grand prize?”

“We’d still have a beautiful victory garden to attract tourists. It’s a win/win situation.” Patsy ran a hand over her lap, flicking away cookie crumbs.

It seemed too good to be true. She didn’t trust too good to be true. Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“Well . . .” Patsy folded her napkin, paused for a long moment, and then took a deep breath. “The town council wants you to design the garden around your great-great-grandfather’s carousel.”

Gideon had once promised that he would fix up the carousel for her. Refurbish the damaged horses. Get the rusty old mechanisms working again. Gideon had had the hands for it—broad palms, long deft fingers, a way with both wood and engines.

But Gideon was gone, just like her mother.

Ah, here it was—the catch to end all catches. Hope flickered out. “Do we have to use the carousel for the garden?”

“I’m afraid it’s a deal breaker,” Patsy said. “No carousel, no garden. The town council feels the carousel
is
the tourist draw.”

“Couldn’t we just make a carousel?”

“It wouldn’t have the historical significance. Imagine if we built our garden around the oldest functioning carousel in the state of Texas, that just happened to have been built by the son of the town founders and then lovingly restored to its former glory in a garden nurtured and designed by Jon and Rebekka Grant’s great-great-great-granddaughter. It’s the stuff of legends.”

“No.”

“It’s really—”

Caitlyn held up a palm, cutting Patsy off. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Could you at least—”

“Not doing it.”

“What other options do you have, Caitlyn?” Dotty Mae murmured. “You’ve got Danny to think about.”

Low blow. Caitlyn felt more than a little bit manipulated. They didn’t want her. They were only offering her a paying job in order to get their hands on the carousel and her heritage. “Ladies, I’d love to help, I really would. But honestly, I’d rather sell the flower shop before resorting to that.”

“If you could even find a buyer,” Patsy pointed out. “Real estate just isn’t moving in these tough economic times.”

“I’m sorry.” Caitlyn got up, pushed back her chair. “I have to pick Danny up from his playdate. If you all will excuse me . . .”

“Sure, sure.” Everyone got to her feet and headed for the door.

Patsy was the last one to leave. She paused at the threshold, met Caitlyn’s gaze. “I do hope you’ll reconsider. The victory garden would be a boon to both you and Twilight.”

“Thank you again for your offer.” She pressed her lips into a firm line. “But I prefer to solve my own problems. I don’t need to be rescued and I don’t like being used.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Patsy said, “but the door is still open if you change your mind. We have until next Monday to file the entry form.” Then she turned and followed the others.

Caitlyn shut the door behind them, her mind racing. A job creating the victory garden was the answer to her prayers. Too bad it came with strings tied so tightly that a chain saw couldn’t shear through them.

Chapter Two

Traditional meaning of poppy—eternal sleep.

Badakhshan Province, Afghanistan

H
alf a world away, former Green Beret sergeant Gideon Garza stared out across the craggy desert landscape. A black SUV, windows tinted darkly, smoke billowing out from behind the tires, raced toward his encampment.

Trouble coming. He could smell it.

His good hand automatically went to the gun he kept holstered at his chest, and in Pashto, he calmly instructed the children to go inside the tent. They could be mischievous and unruly, but his tone told them he wasn’t kidding around. Far too accustomed to sudden danger, the orphans quickly left their games and did as he asked.

He’d been hired by concerned family members to escort the ragtag youths from volatile living conditions in the Pashtun heartlands to the relative safety of the mountains near Faisabad. The orphans’ relatives couldn’t pay him much, but he wasn’t doing it for the money. He made the bulk of his six-figure annual salary providing personal security and translation services to British and American opportunists doing business in Kandahar and Kabul. He was just damn tired of seeing kids with their limbs blown off by land mines.

Yeah, you’re a regular flippin’ Princess Di.

Right now, he felt more like Clint Eastwood, gun drawn, muscles tensed, eyes steely, stance ready for action. The children behind him, the threat rapidly approaching, the wind at his back. All he needed now was the soundtrack to
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
, because damn if he wasn’t all three rolled into one.

He’d set up the camp in a valley of stone outcroppings. The vehicle wouldn’t be able to just drive straight up on them. But it was close enough that he could make out that the SUV belonged to an infamous group of paramilitary subcontractors that, among other things, provided serious muscle to powerful and influential private citizens mucking around in war-torn countries. His competition. Why would they be interested in a handful of scraggly orphans? A chill ran through him at the potential answers. He steeled his spine, clenched his jaw.

The SUV halted at the lip of the rocky rim surrounding his encampment about five hundred yards from where he stood. His mind raced, but his heartbeat was slow and steady. Did he have a fight on his hands? There was only one vehicle. How bad could it be?

The driver’s side door swung open and a muscular man stepped out. Buzz haircut, dark sunglasses, desert fatigues, boots, AK–47 slung across his chest, all Mr. Badass. Gideon’s mirror image.

Rambo stood casually, but there was nothing casual about him. He mouthed something into a headset clipped to his ear and waited while the back passenger door opened and a greenhorn climbed to the ground.

The greenhorn and Rambo had a short powwow, then the greenhorn turned and headed toward Gideon.

It was almost worth the disruption to watch the balding man in the tailored Italian suit and leather loafers mince his way over the rocky terrain. He slipped several times in his attempt to navigate the hill. If Gideon hadn’t been full-on alert, he might have chuckled at the ludicrous sight.

One of the younger boys poked his head from the tent and made fun of the man.

“Get back inside,” Gideon said. “Now.”

The curious brown face disappeared, but he could hear childish giggles from the other side of the tent.

“Hello,” Italian Suit called out in a Texas twang.

“What do you want?” Gideon kept his voice low and even, one eye on the man in front of him, the other on Rambo, who was smoking a cigarette and lounging against the SUV. He could smell the burning tar. It had been a while since he’d heard the accent of his native land, and his suspicion escalated. He leveled the gun at the man’s head. “Arms up.”

Startled, Italian Suit shot his arms into the air, the briefcase clutched in his right hand banging against his head. “I’m looking for Gideon Garza. You’re him, aren’t you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Lester LaVon and I’m from Twilight, Texas.”

The hairs on the back of Gideon’s neck stood at attention, but he’d be damned if he’d let his fear show. Twilight, Texas, scared him more than Rambo and company. “Long way from home. You aren’t in Texas anymore, Toto.”

LaVon looked confused. “Huh?”

“You’ve gone over the rainbow, Lester. There’s a field of poppies just beyond that next rise, and people delight in killing overfed white Americans for them. You find any yellow bricks around here, then you better run like hell.”

“Why are you speaking in riddles? I’m not following a word you’re saying.”

Gideon didn’t bother to explain his sarcasm. He simply nodded in the direction of the SUV. “Who’s your friend?”

“My escort.”

“Is he coming down for this little chat?”

“Our business is not his concern.”

“Clue me in. What is our business?”

“Must you point that gun at me?” LaVon shifted nervously, arms still extended over his head, briefcase resting on his balding pate.

“Until I know who you are and what you want, yeah, I must.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“I don’t mean your name. Who sent you?”

LaVon’s face flushed and sweat slid down his temple. “If you’ll just put away the gun . . .”

The hairs on the nape of Gideon’s neck were dancing now. Trouble, trouble, trouble. “Who sent you?” he repeated, but from LaVon’s shifty behavior, he already knew the answer.

“Umm . . .” LaVon licked his lips. “Your father.”

“I don’t have a father. His name was left off my birth certificate.”

“J. Foster Goodnight.”

“Ah, you mean the jerkwad who ignored my mother and me and then denied who he was when I confronted him.”

“He’s sorry about that and he wants to make amends.”

Gideon snorted. “I don’t believe you, and furthermore, I don’t give a damn if it is true.”

“Look, can I put my hands down now? This briefcase is getting heavy.”

Gideon was not inclined to trust him. Then again, Gideon wasn’t inclined to trust anyone. At twenty-seven, he’d already seen far more of the dark side of life than most men three times his age.

Moira Simon, the British relief aid worker he visited whenever he crossed over the border, had once told him he possessed the eyes of a very old soul. He didn’t believe in new age mumbo-jumbo, but her words had unsettled him. He
felt
very old.

Tilting his head, he sought out Rambo again. The hired gun was taking a leak against the back tire of his own vehicle. What a dog. But if he was relaxed enough to do that, he wasn’t expecting immediate danger.

Gideon let out his breath and nodded, but kept his gun leveled at the intruder. “You can put your hands down, but do it slowly.”

Inch by inch, LaVon lowered arms that trembled with exertion. “May I sit?”

Gideon indicated a large flat rock with a nod of his head. LaVon sank down on it, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and sopped his sweaty brow.

“Goodnight flew you all the way to Afghanistan?” He knew his biological father had both the money and political means to make that happen, he just couldn’t figure out why. Especially after all this time. He didn’t for one minute believe it was to make amends as LaVon claimed.

“He did.”

“How did you find me?”

“J. Foster kept up with your career. He knows what happened.” LaVon glanced pointedly at Gideon’s prosthetic hand.

Feeling both exposed and violated, Gideon narrowed his eyes. “Well isn’t that nice? I suppose this is where you expect me to get all teary-eyed over Daddy Dearest?”

“Your father is not well, Sergeant Garza.”

“Why are you telling me this? He’s got two legitimate sons. Let them take care of him.”

“He wants to see you before he dies. I have money in my briefcase to pay your travel expenses.”

“I’m kind of in the middle of something.” Gideon waved a hand at the orphans peeking from behind the tent flap, staring with interest at the white-skinned interloper in foreign clothing. “I couldn’t leave if I wanted to and I don’t want to.”

LaVons gaze slid over the orphans dismissively. “But your father, he’s dying—”

“I don’t give a shit,” Gideon interrupted.

“I came all this way.” The lawyer worried the strap of his briefcase. “J. Foster is going to be very disappointed.”

“Not my problem.”

“So what do I tell him?”

Without batting an eye, Gideon said coldly, “To rot in hell.”

O
n Monday morning after she dropped Danny off at school, Caitlyn paced outside the stately Victorian on the ritzy end of Ruby Street. It had been eight years since she’d set foot in the home she’d grown up in, even though she’d tried, really tried, to bridge the gap between herself and her father. He was the holdout, hard-nosed and unbendable and condemning. She’d made one mistake, and although close to a decade had passed, he was still punishing her for it. Punishing Danny too. And whether he knew it or not, Judge Richard Blackthorne was punishing himself.

Such heartbreak he’d caused with his lack of forgiveness.

She fisted her hands.
Come on, you can do this. Remember, it’s for Danny’s sake.
Everything she’d ever done, from fleeing this house in the middle of the night, to marrying Kevin, to staying in Twilight even though the pain of staying here was at times almost too much to bear, had always been about her little dark-haired boy with the soulful eyes so much like Gideon’s. Part of her kept hoping against hope that her father would relent and her son could finally know his grandfather.

Yesterday, she’d told Patsy and the other ladies from the gardening club that she would not consider taking the job if it meant asking her father for the carousel. The honest reason was that she simply couldn’t take another rejection from him. There were only so many times a woman could grovel with no results before she gathered up her self-respect and closed the door on all possibility of absolution.

She’d spent a sleepless night tossing and turning and thinking about not just the twenty-dollars-an-hour, part-time job that could help solve her problems, but about the joy of creating a victory garden honoring Twilight’s war heroes.

And one hero in particular.

Gideon.

Caitlyn laid a palm over her heart. Would the pain of losing him ever subside? She thought of all he’d missed. The excitement of learning he was going to become a father, the joy of seeing his child, their son’s first words, Danny’s first steps, his first day of school.

Over time, she’d taught herself to not think of him constantly, to accept her loss and be content with what she had, and for the most part, she was successful. There’d really been no other choice. She’d done it for Danny’s sake. Just as she was doing this.

Her soul ached in mournful remembrance. Time might have blunted the old wounds, but it hadn’t healed them. Her throat constricted. It wasn’t as if she was asking her father for money. The carousel was her heritage. A legacy from her mother’s people. He had no right to keep it from her.

How do you know he’ll keep it from you? You’ve never asked him for the carousel.

She’d never asked because she understood how her father operated. He would use any leverage at his disposal to control her.

Judge Richard Blackthorne believed right was right and wrong was wrong. His black and white worldview might make him a decisive adjudicator, but his steamroller superiority flattened any mere mortal stupid enough to disagree with him. Not once had she ever seen him compromise or admit a mistake. The local lawyers lived in terror of him.

The thing about her father was how difficult it was to keep him in perspective. He stood five-foot-ten, yet people swore he was much taller. Maybe it was because most folks found it really difficult to look him in the eyes. His stare was unrelenting, as if he could see every dark secret of your soul. He had the town buffaloed. If a person wanted to hold his own with Judge Blackthorne, he had to keep in mind that the judge wasn’t as omnipotent as he seemed.

Squaring her shoulders, Caitlyn took a deep breath, opened the wrought-iron gate, and marched up the cobblestone sidewalk to the wide wraparound porch. She knocked on the door, and it was all she could do to keep from turning tail and running away.

Remember, this isn’t about you. This is about Danny and the town victory garden and memorializing Gideon’s honor and sacrifice.

She didn’t know the pinched-face, razor-backed housekeeper who answered the door. Caitlyn’s demanding, impossible-to-please father went through servants like strippers went through pasties.

“Yes?” The woman stood a good four inches taller than Caitlyn’s five-foot-four and she had her graying hair pulled back in a tight bun. She blocked the space between the partially open door and the frame, a perfect threshold guardian obscuring Caitlyn’s view into the foyer beyond. This housekeeper might last awhile.

“I’m here to see Judge Blackthorne.”

“He’s already left for the courthouse.”

Relief rushed through her, but as much as she wanted to do so, she couldn’t throw in the towel that easily. “I’m his daughter.”

“I know.” The woman gave her a half-lidded reptilian stare.

A long silence stretched between them. Caitlyn weighed her options. Come back later, or wrangle with the woman? She put on her best customer-service smile and lied through her teeth. “I’m sorry I missed him.”

“He’ll be back for lunch.”

She knew that. Her frugal father rarely took his meals away from home, unless someone else was buying. She started to ask the housekeeper if she could have a peek in the backyard barn, but realized the woman would not grant her permission.

“Thank you for your time.” She turned away.

“He’s really lonely, you know,” the woman said.

Caitlyn paused, hand on the porch railing, and swiveled her head around.

“You ought to come see him once in a while. Like a good daughter should.”

She didn’t appreciate being lectured. The woman knew nothing of their relationship, or how hard Caitlyn had tried to reach out to him in the past, only to be repeatedly rebuffed. “My father and I don’t see eye-to-eye.”