The Welcome Home Garden Club (4 page)

Rationally, he’d understood that the silent aneurysm lurking in Angelica’s brain had burst. That the carousel hadn’t killed her. But when the doctor said the centrifugal force of the spinning merry-go-round might have precipitated her death, Richard had lost all power of reason.

His beautiful young wife had inherited not only the carousel from her prominent, affluent family, but also the propensity for brain aneurysms. It was what had killed both her great-great-grandmother Rebekka Nash Grant and Angelica’s father. He couldn’t lash out at those ghosts, so he’d taken his revenge on the one thing that symbolized his wife’s ancestry.

The carousel.

He hadn’t stopped to think that it was Caitlyn’s heritage as well, but after Angelica’s death, he’d been diligent about keeping his daughter healthy. He paid for an annual CAT scan and MRI for her out of his own pocket because insurance wouldn’t cover it. He’d kept her safe. Guarded her with every resource at his disposal.

He’d been tough on her, yes, but it had been for her own good. He couldn’t believe she’d blamed him for everything. It hurt that she didn’t understand how he’d been operating from a place of love, wanting only the best for her. Yes, he was strict. Yes, he put discipline ahead of hugs. But a child needed to learn right from wrong.

If he gave in, loosened his principles, what would that say? In essence, he would be condoning her choices, and he simply could not do that. You followed the rules. That’s how the game was played. That’s what he was all about.

Except a small part of him whispered,
Where has following the rules gotten you? Estranged from your daughter, no relationship with your only grandchild. Lonely and alone rambling around in that big house. You followed the rules, kept up your principles, and you still lost the love of your life. Your code of honor hasn’t saved you
.

If he dared to admit it, he often felt humiliated that he’d swallowed the letter of the law, hook, line, and sinker, and taken such an unbending stance. He had believed in the false promise that a just God would reward his adherence to the rules.

Richard reached for the glass of water on his desk, hoping to wash away the taste of resentment, bitterness, and regret. He was mad at the world and even madder at himself, because deep inside his core, he feared he’d somehow sold out his daughter, and for a very poor price.

Chapter Three

Traditional meaning of begonia—beware, I am fanciful.

T
wo weeks after Lester LaVon’s surprise visit, Gideon ambled into the relief aid camp on the Pakistan border. He’d gotten the orphans to their relatives in the mountains and he was ready for some R&R. Which basically constituted hanging out with Moira for a few days. Of course, that meant she’d put him to work.

He grinned. She always put him to work, but he didn’t mind. Work kept him from dwelling too much on the past. Left alone for too long, he had a tendency to hide inside his own head, and brooding took him to dark places he didn’t need to travel.

Gideon found Moira in one of the medical huts, bandaging the stump of a child who appeared to have lost his leg to a land mine. Tears of pain and loss welled in the young boy’s eyes. Involuntarily, Gideon ran his right hand over his left arm where it was joined to the cyborg-esque, military-funded bionic myoelectric hand. His own stump throbbed in empathy.

Inwardly, he was annoyed with himself for the vulnerability. The kid didn’t need anyone’s pity. Neither did Gideon.

He’d lost the arm a few inches below the elbow two and a half years ago, and he was used to the phantom pains. Pain he could handle. It was the limitations that got to him. He’d been left-handed, after all, and he’d never stopped feeling at a disadvantage even with his state-of-the-art prosthesis.

Moira glanced up, met his gaze. The minute he looked into her face, he knew something had changed. Her usually calm blue eyes were stormy; her bright smile taut and faded.

“Gideon,” she said softly in her melodically harsh Scouse dialect that revealed her distinctive Liverpudlian roots. “I’ll meet ya in my hut straightaway.”

He scowled. Something was definitely different. Under normal circumstances, she would have invited him to give the boy a pep talk, do a little show-and-tell with his mechanical hand.

She made a shooing motion. “Be off, big man.”

For a long moment, he simply stood there wondering what was going on. His relationship with Moira was casual. They’d both wanted it that way. But even so, he couldn’t suppress the concern stomping around inside him. Was she going to break things off with him? Finally, not knowing what else to do, he turned and shambled away.

Once inside her domicile, he sank down on the end of the narrow bed with the cheap mattress that was too small for his big frame, and scanned the sparse space. Not many personal effects in here. Toiletries on the small bureau made of stout cardboard. A few snapshots of the kids she’d helped, displayed on a makeshift desk of plywood and cinder blocks; a notebook computer plugged into the precarious wiring system. Beside the computer and pictures sat a potted plant of red begonias. He recognized the plant because they’d once grown in profusion in his mother’s front yard. When he was a kid he’d thought they were called Be Gone You.

Did Moira have another admirer?

He didn’t feel jealous. They weren’t exclusive. They both knew their relationship wasn’t headed anywhere. It was what it was—comfort, solace, the commingling of two lonely strangers in a strange land. But he
was
curious.

A few minutes later, Moira stepped into the hut.

His desire, fueled by the thought that another man wanted her, sent Gideon to his feet. He pulled her into his arms, cupped her butt with his right palm, and planted a kiss on her lips.

But she didn’t melt into him as she usually did. Instead, she ducked her head and turned away. Yet she took his right hand, interlaced her slender fingers with his thick ones, and led him back to the bed.

“Sit,” she murmured.

He obeyed. She stepped between his knees, cradled his chin in her palm, and tilted his face up to meet her gaze.

The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. Something wasn’t right.

“How are the nightmares?”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

“Don’t lie to me, Gid.”

“I’m not. They’re down to once or twice a week.”

Moira sighed. Her eyes softened at the same time her mouth tightened into a straight-across slit. Her expression made him feel suddenly bleak.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I have bad news.”

Here it comes.
She was giving him the heave. He forced a smile. She was a good woman—warmhearted, altruistic, kind. He didn’t want her to feel badly about dumping him. He’d known it would happen eventually.

“Whatever you have to tell me, it’s okay.” He reached up to run his palm over her shoulder.

She looked at him with such pity that his gut kicked.

“Just say it,” he said. “I’m a rip-the-Band-Aid-off kinda guy. Not a fan of the slow pull. End the torture with one clean, sharp yank.”

“I know, but some news should be broken gently.”

A sudden thought occurred to him and he gulped. “You’re not . . . are you . . . pregnant?”

How could she be pregnant? They’d been very careful. She took the pill, he always wore condoms.

She laughed. “No, Gideon, I’m not pregnant.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s about your father.” She paused. Wet her lips. Gentled her voice to a whisper. “I’m afraid he passed on to the other side.”

It wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. He just sat there, not processing. “Passed onto the other side?”

“A call for you came in from some lawyer named LaVon. He didn’t know how else to reach ya and hoped we could get the word out.”

Gideon hauled in a deep breath. So it really was true.

She lowered herself to her knees, her shoulders between his thighs, and met him face-to-face. Her eyes darkened with concern. “Gid? Are ya all right?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.

Moira wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her head on his chest, and squeezed him tightly. “I’m so, so sorry.”

His throat burned and his muscles hardened to stone. Her words held no meaning. It was as if she was speaking in a foreign tongue he had not perfected.

“I know it’s shockin’,” she cooed, walking her hands up to the back of his neck. She rested her forehead against his and gazed into his eyes. “I remember how awful it was when I heard my da had died. I fell to my knees sobbing. Ya don’t have to hold it in, Gid. I’m here. You’re safe.” She hugged him tighter. He could smell her familiar earthy scent.

Gideon said nothing.

“Did ya hear what I said?” she whispered after a long silence.

“I heard you.”

“He died of pancreatic cancer in the wee hours of the mornin’. His funeral is on Saturday. That’ll just give ya time to get back to the States.”

J. Foster Goodnight, the man who sired him and tossed him aside, the man he’d resented his entire life, was dead, and yet Gideon felt . . .
absolutely nothing
.

Gently, he untangled Moira’s arms from around his neck, slipped from her embrace, set her aside, got to his feet. “Thanks for telling me, but I’m not going to his funeral.”

In the silence of the small hut, Moira’s sharp intake of breath echoed loudly. “Ya don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“Trust me on this, no matter what your relationship with your da was, ya need closure.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’ve never asked ya any questions about the past and I’ve respected those boundaries because I don’t want to speak of mine,” Moira said. “But would ya care to say what you’re feeling?”

Empty. That’s all he felt. Empty and hollow. The old anger was gone. So was the regret. In its place, nothing. The nothingness of it made him feel not there. And that caused him to feel very far away from Moira and her sympathetic eyes.

He reached his hand to the button of her shirt. “I’d rather just make love to you.”

Moira wrapped her hand around his. “You tell me something about yourself and I’ll let you have a button.”

Her skin was so soft, so warm. He’d been sleeping alone on the ground for many weeks. “You drive a hard bargain, Moira Simon.”

“Your father?”

“He never acknowledged he was my father. There’s no reason to mourn him.”

She let him undo the top button. “That sounds like reason enough to me. Look at what he missed out on. Getting to know a wonderful man like you.”

He ignored the compliment and went for the second button.

“Ach, no. Secret first.”

“My father was already married when he got my mother pregnant,” he said, not wanting to talk about any of this, but hungry to press his lips against Moira’s heated flesh. “She worked as a maid in his house. Give me another button.”

She held her fist closed over the second button. “Your da was rich?”

“The wealthiest man in my hometown. Meanwhile I grew up in poverty.”

“Poor pet.” She let him have the second button.

He could see her cleavage. Sweet peaches. He focused on those enticing breasts. Who cared about J. Foster?

“That must’ve been so hard on ya.”

Gideon shrugged. “I didn’t learn he was my father until after my mother died when I was nineteen.” He went for the third button.

Moira clucked her tongue. “Not yet.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this.”

She buttoned the second button back up. The woman couldn’t be derailed.

“Okay, okay.”

Slanting him a sly smile, she undid the button again. He could feel her warm breath on his skin, he tried to kiss her but she shook her head. “A deal’s a deal.”

“I don’t know why you want to know this.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for you. Don’t keep things bottled up. Let it out.”

“If I tell you the whole sordid story at once, can we go to bed?”

“I’m listening.”

“I confronted him. He denied he was my father. In the way of a stupid punk kid grieving his dead mother, I lashed out, wanting to make him pay, and I set his barn on fire.” Gideon balled up his fist, the dark memory poking him.

For better or worse, his life to date was a consequence of those youthful knee-jerk reactions. He wondered if all people felt this disappointed with themselves, the things they’d done, the irrevocable paths they’d chosen. The minute he’d lit that match, set it to the gasoline, he’d realized he’d forever lost the chance to right himself. That he could spend his whole lifetime trying and never be the man he wanted to be—a man good enough for Caitlyn Blackthorne.

Caitlyn.

The thought of her blew over him like an Arctic breeze.

The man he wanted to be would not have confronted Goodnight in the first place. He would have taken the high road, honored his mother’s memory by letting the past be past. Been noble instead of angry. Been smart instead of driven by vengeance.

Gideon felt like a fraud. In the army, he’d been a Green Beret, held up as the best of the best, and yet he was a lowly bastard, not good enough for the likes of Judge Blackthorne’s daughter. He thought he’d moved beyond it all. Forgotten about the unfortunate circumstances of his birth. He thought he’d let go of Twilight and tucked Caitlyn into the far reaches of his mind.

“What happened?” Moira whispered.

Now that he was telling the tale, he couldn’t seem to stop. “I was arrested, brought up before the judge, who was, surprise, surprise, a golfing buddy of my father’s.” Gideon ran his palm down his face.

“Your hometown is very small?”

“Population six thousand.” The moment was branded into his brain. Him, with his court-appointed lawyer, standing in front of Judge Blackthorne’s bench. “I was given a choice. Join the military or go to jail for arson.”

“So ya joined the army.”

He smiled without mirth, held out his mechanical arm. “And sealed my fate.”

“And you’ve never seen or talked to your da since?”

He shook his head, and then told her about his visit from Lester LaVon.

“Maybe your da left ya some money. Maybe in his old age he felt badly about what he did to ya and he wanted to make amends.”

“Too little, too late.”

A disappointed expression carved a wrinkle in her brow. “That’s not like ya.”

“What?” The woman had no idea what he was really like. They were just bed buddies.

“The bitterness.”

“You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment.”

“Go ahead, lash out, I can take it.” She was rubbing his shoulder, trying to knead out the tension.

“You don’t owe me your understanding.”

“There’s something more, isn’t there?” Moira challenged. “Another reason you’re not going back to Twilight. I mean your da is dead, after all. He can’t do anything more to ya now.”

“Let’s change the subject.” He didn’t want to think about Caitlyn, much less talk about her. He leaned down to kiss Moira. “I came here to see you.” He reached for the last buttons on her shirt.

Moira held her palms up. “I won’t be taking advantage of a vulnerable man.”

“You’re kidding.”

Solemnly, she shook her head. “You’ve held it in too long. Who is she and what did she do to muck ya up so badly?”

The air left his lungs like a thief in the night, sneaking out in a tiptoe swirl, leaving him sucker-punched and breathless. “Who said there’s a she?”

Moira leveled him a knowing glance filled with feminine intuition. “What was her name?”

He sank back on the bed again, all the energy drained from his body. “Caitlyn,” he whispered, realizing it had been years since he’d said her name out loud.

Saying it was like scrubbing salt across a wound once thought healed, only to discover the flesh was still freshly flayed. Hell, they’d been together for only a few months. He should have forgotten all about Caitlyn. But he hadn’t.

He’d seen terrible atrocities in battle. As a warrior, he’d done some dark things himself. But even the moment when his hand had been blown from his arm was not as clearly vivid as when the letters he’d written her, telling her how much he loved her, had all come back unopened and marked “Return to Sender.” Until he’d finally wised up and stopped sending them. That was when he realized he was on his own. That she’d washed her hands of him.

“You loved her very much.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Once.”

“Have you tried to contact her? Reconnect?”

“Hell, no.”