The Welcome Home Garden Club (5 page)

Moira shook her head. “Stubborn man.”

“I don’t grovel. If a woman doesn’t want to be with me, I’m not going to chase after her like a lapdog hungry for affection.” He clenched his jaw.

“You love her still.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Maybe not,” Moira said, “but still she has a hold on ya. You’re never going to loosen that grip until you face her again.”

He shrugged, but in his heart, he knew Moira was right.

O
ver two weeks had passed since Caitlyn’s father had promised to have the carousel delivered to her house. She’d accepted the job of designing and overseeing the victory garden. The contest entry paperwork had been filled out and sent in. Supplies and seeds had been ordered, but still no carousel.

Like it or not, she was going to have to confront her father again, and she’d been stewing all morning over the best way to go about it.

Caitlyn was in the back of the shop snipping stems off some roses when she heard the bell over the door tinkle. She set down the flowers, smoothed her damp hands over her smock, and stepped to the front of the building.

Crockett Goodnight was standing there looking like he’d been kicked in the teeth. His hair was disheveled, his face was the color of cookie dough, a day’s growth of beard ringed his jaw. His shirt was untucked and wrinkled, his stare vacant.

“Crockett?” She walked toward him. “What’s wrong?”

The expression in his eyes broke her heart. “My . . . my dad just died.”

“Oh,” she said, and put a supportive arm around his shoulders. He wobbled on his feet. She might have hated J. Foster Goodnight’s guts, but a death in the family was a death in the family. “Here, sit down.”

Caitlyn took Crockett’s arm and guided him to a wrought-iron patio chair. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m good, I’m okay.” He nodded, shoved his fingers through his disheveled hair. “I’m a mess.”

“You can talk to me.”

“Can I, Caitlyn? Can I really?”

Did she truly want this intimacy with him? They’d been dancing around a flirtation for weeks, Crockett was funny and handsome and he knew how to have a good time. He was exciting to be around, but there was something about him—and not just the fact that he was J. Foster’s son and Gideon’s half brother—that held her back. He was too fun-loving, too exciting, too handsome. And then there were those rare dark moods when he’d come over to her shop, full of doom and gloom and despair, talking about what an awful place the world was. It didn’t happen often. Just a few times in all the years she’d known him, but it did make her wonder.

She should step back, murmur words of sympathy, and send him on his way. Instead, she said, “I’m listening.”

“I wasn’t there when he died.” Crockett fisted his hands against his knees. “I was out drinking with my buddies. I should have been there, but I wasn’t there.”

“You couldn’t have known.” She stood beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and felt odd about it.

“I did know. The nurses told us not to leave. Bowie stayed. But I . . . I couldn’t deal with it, Caitlyn. You know what I mean? It was just too much.” He leaned into her, his head resting against her breasts. He wrapped an arm around her waist, and a soft sob escaped his lips.

Caitlyn stiffened, uncomfortable with the familiarity, but not knowing how to extricate herself. She’d invited him to talk. She was stuck with the consequences.

“I’m a terrible son.”

“You’re not a terrible son,” she felt obligated to say. She didn’t know. Maybe he had been a terrible son. Then again, from what she’d seen, J. Foster had been a terrible father.

“I want you to handle the flowers for the funeral. We want lots of flowers. Red, white, and blue. My dad fought for his country. He deserves a military sendoff. And begonias. Can you plant red begonias in his honor in that victory garden you’re planning? My daddy loved red begonias.”

Red begonias? Why not? They were attractive, hardy plants strong enough to endure the sweltering Texas summers. Considering, that was, there would be a victory garden. Through the plate-glass window, she cast a quick glance at the courthouse.

“Sure, sure,” she said. “I can do that.”

“You’re very special, Caitlyn,” Crockett murmured. Somehow his hand had migrated from her waist to her rump. “Very, very special.”

She shook her head, shook off the compliment. Not because she didn’t like it, but because she did. She wasn’t giving in to Crockett’s smooth flattery. Even if he wasn’t Gideon’s half brother, there were a hundred other reasons not to get involved with him—his reputation, for one thing, and the fact that Danny adored him, for another. If she got involved with him and it didn’t work out, her son would be devastated.

His thumb was kneading the small of her back. She reached around to grab his wrist. “Crockett, please,” she protested.

But she got no further. The next thing she knew, he had tugged her into his lap and he was gazing into her eyes.

“Crock—”

His mouth cut off her words.

As kisses went, it wasn’t bad. Nothing like the wild, passionate kisses she’d shared with Gideon, but far superior to Kevin’s gentle pecks. Firm, moist, teasing. He tasted like whiskey and that was a turn-off, but his father had just died. Tossing back a shot or two, even in the early morning, wasn’t that shocking.

What did shock Caitlyn was that for a fraction of a second she simply gave in to the pleasure. To the warmth and comfort of human connection.

Get up!

She struggled to get off his lap at the same time he tried to deepen the kiss, parting his mouth, letting his tongue trace over her lips. His arm tightened around her waist, pressing her into his lap, and she could feel the unmistakable bulge of his erection.

Okay, she’d heard that grief could manifest in a lifeward drive, but he’d just crossed the line. They were in her shop, for heaven’s sake, in broad daylight, and even if they weren’t, she didn’t want this. She pushed her palm against his chest and turned her head, wrenching her lips from his.

At that same moment, the bell over the door tinkled.

“What the hell!” a man exclaimed.

The next thing she knew, someone had Crockett by the scruff of the neck, yanking him up and spilling Caitlyn from his lap. Her butt hit the floor, but she sprang to her feet, twisting her head around to see what was happening.

“What are you doing?” Bowie Goodnight roared. While blond, fine-boned Crockett had taken after his mother’s side of the family, Bowie was dark-haired and rough-hewn like J. Foster—hulking shoulders, hawkish nose, eyes black as pitch. He had a good four inches of height on his brother. He held the back of Crockett’s collar fisted in his hand, and looked like he wanted to kill him. “Our father hasn’t been dead six hours and you’re kissing some slut.”

“Caitlyn’s not a slut!” Crockett’s nostrils flared. Arms windmilling, fists knotted, he swung at Bowie, but his blows fell on empty air.

Bowie shook him like a vicious dog shaking a dead cat. His eyes held a scary, empty expression, as if he’d lost all power of reason. Mental illness ran in their family. Their mother had been confined in a top-notch mental health facility for years. Some claimed that J. Foster had driven her there with his drinking and whoring and gambling. But the official word was that Charlotte Goodnight had a severe bipolar disorder poorly controlled by medication.

Hand to her throat, Caitlyn stepped behind the counter.

“Take it back!” Crockett demanded, kicking and flailing.

“You’re a male whore,” Bowie said. “Just like Dad. Going from slut to slut.”

“I’m not like Dad,” the younger Goodnight howled. “I’m nothing like him.”

Caitlyn had grown up an only child in a quiet household. Kevin had been a soft-spoken man. Danny was an only child. She had no experience with sibling rivalry, but she could tell this fight had nothing to do with her and everything to do with age-old conflicts between these two brothers.

Crockett let out a string of vile curse words and connected a fist to Bowie’s jaw.

The fight was on.

They grabbed each other around the throats and went down on the ground, knocking over flower stands, smashing planter boxes, breaking clay pots. They were grunting and slinging accusations.

“You gutless coward, you couldn’t even stand by his bedside while he took his last breath,” Bowie howled in the midst of the punching.

“Why should I stand by him?” Crockett gasped. “He was never there for me. Never came to a single Little League game. Didn’t even congratulate me when I took Twilight High to State.”

“So you can swing a bat.” Bowie punched. “Big effing deal. What do you want? A freakin’ medal? You never took any interest in the ranch.”

“How could I?” Crockett gouged. “You had your nose three feet up his ass.”

“He loved you best.” Bowie delivered a punishing smack to Crockett’s temple. “I could never measure up to perfect little Crockett.”

“Are you insane? He was always telling me to be more like you.” Crockett sank his teeth into his brother’s wrist.

Bowie howled and kicked Crockett halfway across the room. A rubber tree plant imploded upon contact.

“Stop it!” Caitlyn commanded. “Stop it right now!”

Completely focused on each other and the rage they’d been holding on to for decades, they ignored her.

They grunted and hit. Groaned and jabbed.

“Fine. I’m calling the sheriff and letting him sort you two out.” Caitlyn went for the phone, called Hondo Crouch’s office, and then quickly told the dispatcher what was happening.

“I’ll send him right over,” the dispatcher said.

Caitlyn hung up, spun back to the altercation. Part of her just wanted to slip out the back door and let the two of them have at each other, but this was her shop and she was standing her ground. “Hondo’s on his way over,” she warned, but she might as well have been whistling the “Star Spangled Banner” for all the notice they took of her.

“Dad was a total asshole,” Crockett yowled as Bowie methodically punched him in the eye.

“A complete prick,” Bowie agreed, and then let out an
ooph
as Crockett belted him in the stomach.

“He cheated on Mom with that Mexican whore.” Crockett spit out a stream of blood.

That statement caused Caitlyn’s stomach to clench. They were talking about Gideon’s mother, Linda Garza. Caitlyn did not want to hear this. Both Gideon and Linda were long dead, but they were talking about Danny’s grandmother.

“He used to whip us for being too loud.” Bowie had Crockett in a chokehold.

But just when she thought the older brother had bested the younger, from seemingly out of nowhere, a switchblade knife flashed in Crockett’s hand. A metallic snapping sound slit the air as the blade sprang from the hilt.

Crockett laid the blade against his brother’s throat.

Caitlyn gasped.

Sheriff Hondo Crouch came barreling through the door like John Wayne, hand resting on the butt of the duty weapon holstered at his hip.

“Stop it right there, you fools.”

Bowie released his brother. Crockett pushed a button and the blade disappeared into the handle of the knife. They rolled over, sat in the middle of the floor huffing and puffing and bleeding while Hondo confiscated the switchblade.

Her shop was in shambles. Bodies of plants and flowers lay sprawled in spilled dirt and shattered pot fragments. Twisted roots stuck out at odd angles. Petals lay crushed. Leaves scattered. Her precious foliage was naked and damaged.

“My flowers,” she whispered, and sank down in the wrought-iron chair.

Bowie and Crockett exchanged sheepish glances. Hondo cleared his throat. He held out a hand, helped first Crockett, and then Bowie to his feet. “I know you boys just lost your daddy, but there’s no excuse for this. Unless you want to go to jail, here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to clean this place up and then you’re going to pay Mrs. Marsh for damages.” He shifted his gaze to Caitlyn.

Glowering, Bowie pulled a wad of one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and peeled off several. Caitlyn stared in surprise. Who walked around with that much cash tucked into his pocket?

“Mrs. Marsh,” Hondo said, “why don’t you take an early lunch? I’m gonna sit right here and supervise the cleanup.”

Not knowing what else to do, Caitlyn nodded, tucked the money into her purse, and headed out the door for the bank. Her hands were shaking and her breath came in shallow gasps, and although she couldn’t articulate what she was feeling, she couldn’t help thinking that with J. Foster’s death, big changes were in store for Twilight.

Chapter Four

Traditional meaning of white lilac—my first dream of love.

R
iding the motorcycle—which had been in a storage pod at DFW airport for eight years—down Highway 51 on that Saturday morning in early March, Gideon drove through the low fog squatting over the Brazos River Bridge that joined Parker County to Hood. In an instant, he was enveloped in a gray mist so thick he couldn’t see more than a foot ahead of him. Moisture clouds swirled into his lungs along with the scent of the river.

For a moment, he could not breathe, suffocated by the past behind him and the uncertain future stretching ahead. For that whisper of a second, he was suspended in frosty animation, the water vapor weighting him down, holding him trapped. Then just as quickly as he was doused, the clouds vanished and he broke through to the other side.

And there it was before him. The town he’d fought so hard to forget.

A canopy of pecan trees formed a tunnel, ushering him past the “Welcome to Twilight, Friendliest Hometown in Texas” billboard. He guided his Indian Chief over the train tracks past the old train depot restored to its former 1870s glory. The depot now housed the Twilight Visitors Bureau. A mile beyond that lay the town square.

The entire town square, which had been listed on the National Register in the 1970s, was a portal into Texas history. All the buildings were the original limestone structures that had been lovingly restored and turned into shops and restaurants catering to the tourist trade. He could almost see cowboys tying their horses to hitching posts, or gunslingers drawing off on each other in the middle of the street.

On the other side of the square sat Sweetheart Park, so christened in honor of the town founders, Jon Grant and Rebekka Nash. Caitlyn’s ancestors. In the center of the park was a fountain statue of two lovers embracing. A tributary of the Brazos ran through the park, dotted with wooden footbridges, lush gardens, and a big white gazebo.

The town made happily-ever-after promises it couldn’t keep. It was rife with true-love legends. Throw a penny into the town fountain and you’d be reunited with your high school sweetheart. Carve your name into the Sweetheart Tree and you’ll be together forever. For one stupid moment, he considered stopping and tossing a coin into the fountain, but he’d never been whimsical or superstitious and he wasn’t about to start now.

Gideon was surprised to note that the place hadn’t changed much in eight years. The only obvious alteration was that the old Twilight Theatre was gone. A vacant lot, gaping like a missing tooth, stretched out between an insurance office on one side and a hair salon on the other.

Most of the establishments were still the same. The Funny Farm restaurant, Rinky-Tink’s Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor, Marsh’s Flower Shop, Ye Olde Book Nook. He drove on past the square, took the road that led to Shady Rest Funeral Home, and saw posted on the marquee that his father’s funeral was scheduled for eleven
A.M.

He felt nothing. Until he reached his ultimate destination.

The Twilight Cemetery.

His mother’s grave was overgrown with weeds. It saddened Gideon to realize Linda Garza’s death had been just as lacking as her life. He ran his fingers over his mother’s tombstone etched with the dates of her birth and her death and the simple words:
Loving Mother to Gideon
.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he muttered, grabbed a handful of weeds, and started pulling.

He’d dressed all in black leather, his motorcycle helmet on the ground beside him. He’d come back after all, drawn by shame and regret and sorrow. So much damn sorrow.

And J. Foster Goodnight was the cause of most of it.

Anger seethed inside him. Moira had been wrong. He would find no closure here. Only more questions waited for him here. He grabbed another fistful of weeds and yanked.

Gideon thought of the day he’d discovered who his real father was. At the time, it had been the worst day of his life. It still ranked up there in the top three. His mother had died in his arms, a victim of liver failure. A consequence of the hepatitis C she’d contracted. As she drew her last breath, she’d whispered J. Foster’s name.

It was the last thing she ever said to him.

His mother might not have walked the straight and narrow. She had made a lot of mistakes in her life, but she’d been a damn good mother. She’d been kind and patient and understanding. She’d never raised her voice. Yes, she’d run with the wrong crowd. She’d drunk too much, perhaps done other things she shouldn’t have done, but she’d never neglected him. He’d always come first.

Then when he was going through her things, getting ready for the funeral, he’d found that letter. She’d written it years before, sealed it in an envelope, left it in the lockbox tucked under the foot of her bed. The letter had been short and succinct. She’d told him how much she loved him. Praised him for being a good son. And then she’d dropped the bomb that forever altered the course of his life. She’d confessed that when she worked at the Goodnight ranch, she’d had a torrid affair with J. Foster, and Gideon was the result of that encounter.

He could still recall the cold chill that had fallen over him. The denial. Then the rush of hope. In utter foolishness born of naïveté and longing, he’d hopped on his motorcycle and driven to the Goodnight ranch. He hadn’t expected to be welcomed unconditionally. He wasn’t that dumb. But, armed with the letter, he had at least expected J. Foster to admit who he was and do right by him. Maybe pay some of the child support money he’d never paid.

Instead, J. Foster had called his mother horrible names, among them a liar. Gideon had said he was going to get a lawyer and demand a paternity test. J. Foster’s eyes had narrowed and he’d slapped Gideon across the face. Gideon had doubled up his fists, ready to fight back, but J. Foster’s legitimate sons, Bowie and Crockett, had been there to mete out a beating and throw him from the house.

Battered and bruised, he refused to take no for an answer. He’d gone back. They’d beaten him again.

Barely able to stand, he’d gone back a third time with the same results.

At this point it was no longer about getting recognition from J. Foster. Clearly, the man was an asshole of the highest order. Rather, it was about avenging his mother. She’d been in love with J. Foster. Or so she’d told him in the letter. Although Gideon couldn’t imagine how that was possible. Who could love such a coldhearted prick?

He’d waited until dark the next day, then he’d sneaked onto the ranch. Initially, he hadn’t planned to burn down the barn. His intention was merely to keep coming at J. Foster until the man admitted who he was and what he’d done, but somewhere along the way, he’d realized that was not going to happen.

Vengeance had taken complete control of him, and the next thing he knew, he’d released all the horses and was torching the barn. He watched it burn from the shadows. Watched Bowie and Crockett and J. Foster and their ranch hands work frantically to put it out. Watched while the volunteer fire department joined the fray. Then he’d hobbled back to town, drunk an entire bottle of whiskey by himself, and passed out in his bed.

He was awakened later by the sounds of then Sheriff Clinton Trainer knocking on his door.

That had been the beginning of the end for him and Caitlyn.

Gideon bit back the ugly memories. He’d never once thought his grief over losing his mother would end up costing him the love of his life. But it had.

The memory of the second worst day of his life flitted around him.

It was burned into his mind, the way Caitlyn had looked the last time he’d seen her. Standing in the moonlight in Sweetheart Park where they’d rendezvoused, wearing a thin cotton summer dress that showed off every inch of her sexy seventeen-year-old body. Her blond hair, which was normally pulled back into a perky ponytail, hung loose down her shoulders, her pert breasts rising high with each breath she took, her creamy skin gleaming.

God, she’d once meant so much to him. Beautiful, poised, calm on the surface, but underneath she was a deeply passionate woman. He’d been crazy in lust for her, but what he’d felt went much deeper than the hot, physical yearnings of youth. He’d been stone-cold in love.

What did she look like now? Was she still just as beautiful? Still just as reserved, with that fiery inner spark she let very few people see?

He glanced at his watch. A quarter to eleven. He straightened, rose to his feet. His mother was buried in the lowland part of the cemetery, next to the highway, where they interred the people who could not afford the good lots on the hill overlooking the Brazos River.

Willow trees hid the graves from the road, but he could see the cars starting the procession up the winding hillside. He swallowed, tasted the bitterness of loss and hatred. He’d hated J. Foster for so long, it felt odd to lose it now.

He studied the cars as they passed. Cadillacs and Lincolns in the lead. Then came a florist van, a ponytailed woman behind the wheel.

Something struck his heart, made him take a second look.

Caitlyn?

But the van had already passed out of sight. Surely, it wasn’t Caitlyn. He must be seeing things. What would she be doing driving a florist’s van?

Curiosity had him by the short hairs, but he would bide his time. The military had given him the gift of patience he’d sorely lacked. Soon enough, he would arrive on that hill, in a staged entrance, and all hell would break loose.

Car after car passed. It looked like the entire community of six thousand was motoring up the hillside. When they buried the wealthiest man in town, it attracted folks, whether they mourned the deceased or not. Everyone secretly hoping he or she would be mentioned in the will. Gideon had no illusions on that score. Anyway, he didn’t want anything J. Foster had to offer. He was here to make sure the old man was dead, and that was it.

And to see Caitlyn.

It wasn’t something he outwardly acknowledged, but damn him, yeah, he hungered for a look at the woman who’d broken his heart.

A moment later, the hearse came into view. Black, sleek, and moving slowly, and followed by a white limousine. Gideon’s muscles tensed. His gut soured. His father’s last ride.

How many times had he wished things had been different? That J. Foster had been the kind of father who would welcome him into the fold. But the world didn’t work that way. Gideon had discovered that acts of kindness were usually self-motivated. He didn’t deceive himself about human nature. People, by and large, were a worthless lot.

What remained of his left arm throbbed from the riding he’d done. He could have taken off the mechanical arm, but he didn’t want the town to see him as half a man. Not today, anyway. Today was his coup de grâce. He wanted to look like the frickin’ Terminator.

He waited until the last of the cars had trickled past, and then he swung onto his motorcycle and started up the hill, anticipation surging his blood.

The engine vibrated with a steady sound, carrying him closer and closer to his destiny. By the time he reached the top of the hill, a bugler was blowing “Taps.” The limo and hearse were parked in the middle of the circular drive at the stone pavilion.

People dressed mostly in black sat on the stone pews or ringed the outside perimeter. The Patriot Guard stood at attention, flags flying. Looking at the guard tugged at him. Even here, under these circumstances, he was military through and through. Never mind that army had discharged him after he’d lost his arm. The military was the only thing that had saved him from certain ruin. On that score, Judge Blackthorne had been right.

You look pretty damn ruined to me. Blown-off arm. Bad attitude. Where’s the redemption in that?
The voice in his head sounded exactly like J. Foster. Cruel, taunting.

He shoved the voice aside, parked the motorcycle behind the hearse. He saw heads turn as he got off the Indian and then sauntered down the aisle toward the flag-draped coffin.

Gideon wasn’t sure what he expected to feel. Triumph? Spite? Rejoicing, perhaps? But he did not feel any of those things. He stood numb, detached, barely involved in his surroundings.

Murmurs ran through the crowd.

He stopped, turned, and then he saw her standing between a stone column and the coffin, off to the side of the general gathering, not far from where the funeral home director stood.

Caitlyn.

He was hyperaware of her. As attuned to this woman as if he’d just been told that memorizing everything about her was a top secret mission. She glanced up, turned his way. Their eyes met, and his knees went to water.

Caitlyn.

Thinner, but compelling as always. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but she was the most captivating. Once his eyes lighted upon her, it was impossible to peel them off. Her pride was in her regal bearing, the stubborn set to her chin. Her soft blond hair was caught back in an elegant clip. A black skirt fell to the curve of her shapely knee. A light dusting of makeup brightened her cheeks.

He felt simultaneously aroused, self-conscious, and . . .
staggered.

The old magic was still there. Still there? Hell, it was stronger than ever. How was that possible?

Her hands were clenched and he saw the column of her throat move as she swallowed. Gulped? What was she feeling?

He had an overwhelming urge to touch her. Gideon stripped off his helmet and stared into the face of the woman he’d loved since he was nineteen years old, and he felt the earth crumble beneath his feet.

Even though he’d told himself a million times he was over her, he didn’t expect this. If he’d taken bets on his emotions under such circumstances, he would have expected a little anger, some resentment, maybe a pinch of sarcasm—irked, peeved, jaded, wronged. Yeah, any or all of those things.

But what he hadn’t anticipated was the potent rush of homesickness, immediately followed by a strong wallop of stupid, irrational joy. One look in her startled blue-green eyes, and he was intoxicated as surely as if he’d downed an entire bottle of rich, red Cabernet.