The Welcome Home Garden Club (6 page)

Caitlyn.

The woman who haunted his desert dreams.

He gazed at her sweet, strawberry-hued lips and wanted so badly to crush his rough mouth against hers that he could barely breathe. Even after eight years, he still remembered the flavor of her—fresh, innocent, loving. She’d once tasted like salvation, offered promises of redemption to a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Through three tours of duty in the Middle East, he’d hungered to sup from those lips again, but he’d never believed it could happen.

Still couldn’t.

“You . . . it’s not . . . possible . . .” Her face blanched pale of all color and she looked utterly terrified.

Her abject terror was a knife to his gut. He must look as horrific as he suspected. Could she somehow tell about his arm, even though he wore the prosthesis, gloves, and a long-sleeved leather jacket? Torment wrung him out. He should have followed his instincts. He should not have come back.

“You . . . you . . .” Caitlyn stammered.

“Caitlyn,” he murmured.

“No.” She raised her hands warding him off. “It can’t be true.” Then her knees gave way, her eyes rolled back, her body went limp, and she pitched forward.

Just before she hit the ground, Gideon caught her with his good arm and held her tightly to his chest. He could feel the erratic beating of her heart, and he feared that when she’d looked him in the eyes, she’d seen that his soul was black as soot.

C
aitlyn heard the sound of murmured voices and realized she was lying on something cold and hard. The overwhelming smell of flowers washed through her nostrils—the soft, perfect scent of roses, mingled with the whisper of baby’s breath and the bold perfume of stargazer lilies. But underneath it all, she smelled white lilacs.

White lilacs. The flowers Gideon had brought her for their first date.

Her mind felt fuzzy, foggy. She frowned, tried to think, and then it all came rushing back.

Gideon.

She’d seen Gideon standing before her dressed in leather, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. But it couldn’t be Gideon. Her eyes must have been playing tricks on her. Gideon had been dead for eight years.

“Caitlyn?”

The voice calling to her sounded so familiar even though she hadn’t heard it in a very long time. Was she dreaming? Hallucinating? What was happening to her?

Slowly, she pried her eyes open, blinking against the brightness of the sun. Her head was cradled against someone, but her gaze wouldn’t focus.

“Caitlyn, are you all right?”

Noises. People talking excitedly in hushed whispers.

She shook her head. Her vision cleared, and she saw him all over again, peering down into her face. Her head was in his lap.

Gideon!

Eight years fell away. Her heart caught fire. Her stomach churned. Head reeled. How was this possible? Gideon was alive and cradling her in his lap.

Unless . . . unless . . . unless she’d just died of a brain aneurysm at J. Foster’s funeral. Was she dead? Was that what had happened? Had she been felled by the condition that plagued her family history? Was she dead and in heaven with Gideon?

The thought brought instant joy, but then she thought of Danny. No! She could not be dead. She refused to be dead. She would not leave her baby boy to grow up an orphan. Her father would get custody. Judge Blackthorne raising her son with his iron fist.

Caitlyn bolted upright. “No!”

Every head at the pavilion swiveled to stare at her. Her temple throbbed and she reached a hand up to rub the tender spot. Then she looked over to see the man in leather kneeling on the floor of the van beside her. A tingle of emotion rushed through her as their gazes met again.

Gideon. It
was
Gideon. But he did not look the same. Had he carried her to the van?

Caitlyn stared into the face of the boy she’d once loved. He stared back, scalding her with his eyes. A boy no more, fully a man. No, not just a man but a warrior, hardened and battle-weary, but his inky black hair was as wild as it had always been. No buzz cut, no control, finger-combed off his forehead in a regal mane.

Their gaze was a chain, linking them together.

Gone was the roundness of his youthful face. In maturity, his jaw had strengthened and his cheeks had thinned out. Fear passed through her. Was he really here? Or was she seeing a ghost? She got out of the van, where Gideon had apparently carried her, staggered to her feet, and squinted in the glare of bright sunlight.

Before she had time to fully assess what was going on, she was surrounded by a crush of people. Dotty Mae, Patsy, Raylene, Emma, Sarah, Flynn, Belinda, Marva, Terri, Christine. Everyone was talking at once. Caitlyn heard a high humming in her ears, and she couldn’t take her eyes off Gideon.

Her words stacked up, a logjam in her throat, so many coming at once she couldn’t get any of them out. Questions. So many questions.

Gideon was alive.

But how? And why hadn’t he come home before now? Why hadn’t he ever contacted her?

“Is it really you?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, his lips pulling tight. “It’s me.”

He did not seem happy to see her. She stared, incredulous, not really believing this was happening. She had to be dreaming. In real life, people did not come back from the dead.

She wanted to say more, but got no further, because he abruptly slid from the back of the van and left her standing there. Her friends were talking at once, while at the same time the funeral director was trying to return everyone’s attention to the ceremony in progress. Gideon walked over to the coffin and stood there for the longest time just staring down at what was left of his father.

In her dreams, whenever Caitlyn imagined that Gideon had lived, she fantasized about the life they would have had together with their son. But she’d never, ever expected to see him again. She’d wanted it, prayed for it, dreamed and dreamed and dreamed about it, but she’d understood that hoping and wishing and praying didn’t make a thing so. She’d learned that well enough from the loss of her mother.

But now here was the impossible suddenly made possible. Even though her entire body was trembling from her big toes to the very hairs on her head, she moved toward him, her friends trailing behind her as if to be there to catch her when she fell. They were saying things, but none of their words registered. Nothing registered. She could not get over the profound knowledge that Gideon was not dead. How could she ever have believed it was so?

She felt the old, familiar pain grip her. Gideon had lost out on so much. He’d died never even knowing he had a son. Caitlyn swallowed, strengthening herself against the tears that hovered behind her eyelids whenever she thought too long about Gideon.

It had been eight years, but at times, the grief was just as fresh as if it had just happened. She could still remember that awful day when Hiram Malone, the private eye she’d hired to find Gideon, met her in the park with the file folder in his hand. She’d known before he’d ever said a word. He’d sat down in the park swing beside her. She’d been eighteen by then and four months pregnant, wearing blousy tops to hide her growing midriff from her father, knowing that soon he would guess the truth.

“It’s bad news, isn’t it?” she’d whispered, bracing herself.

But there was no bracing for the words that robbed her of all hope. Malone spoke softly. She barely heard him over the creaking of her swing. She was rocking, back and forth, back and forth. Knowing, dreading, fearing.

“Gideon Garza died in battle serving his country,” Malone had said. “He was a brave and honorable man.”

She’d sat there for a moment, praying she’d heard wrong. “No.”

“Yes.” He’d opened the folders, pulled out papers.

It couldn’t be. How could it be? Gideon had been her destiny. Her soul mate. Her one true love. If he was dead, then she was dead. Her life was over. She wanted to die.

And then for the first time, she’d felt Danny move. A fluttering inside her belly. Soft, but distinct. Movement. Gideon’s son. A piece of him was living on inside her.

The moment was so surreal she could not absorb it all. Emotions of every kind and facet poked and prodded her. Anger, hope, regret, joy, fear, sadness, exhilaration. It was a mad jumble that set her pulse to jumping and her stomach rocking.

She stood on the precipice. Her inner urge was to fling herself into Gideon’s arms, but he looked so changed. It had been eight long years, and she no longer had any idea who he was. And if he wasn’t dead, why hadn’t he come home before now?

He swiveled his head, cast a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to finger his jacket, but he jerked back.

“Don’t,” he snapped.

Hurt, she dropped her arm.

His eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened, but his tone softened. “Just don’t.”

Pain at his rejection cut deep. What was wrong with him? What had happened to make him so hard? It must have been something terrible. She didn’t know what to do. It was all too much. Seeking the only thing she knew that could ground her, she pivoted and went back to the van.
Danny.
She had to get to her son.

Caitlyn slammed the back doors closed, climbed into the front seat, and with fingers so numb she couldn’t feel the keys, she started the engine and drove away.

Chapter Five

Traditional meaning of almond blossom—hope and watchfulness.

W
edding ring. On the third finger of her left hand. Simple gold band. The realization solidified in Gideon’s mind like cement.

Caitlyn was married.

Feeling like he’d lost the last hope worth living for, Gideon stared after the retreating van, as did everyone else in the pavilion. After Caitlyn disappeared from sight down the winding road, people converged, peppering him with questions.

“Where have you been?”

“We heard you were dead.”

“Why haven’t you come home before now?”

“Goodness, Gideon, you’re better-looking than ever.”

In the past, he might have enjoyed the attention, but not anymore.

He raised his palm, growled. “I came to see J. Foster Goodnight put into the ground. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me in peace until that task is accomplished.”

But of course, it wasn’t going to be that easy.

His older half brother, Bowie Goodnight, stalked over and shoved his face into Gideon’s. He smelled like a distillery and wore an expensive black suit with a fat paisley blue tie that made him look like a 1970s undertaker.

“You’re not wanted here,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “Leave.”

“Actually,” Gideon said coolly, “I’m afraid to burst your bubble. But our old man invited me.”

“Bullshit!” Bowie curled his hands into fists, leaned inward, crowding Gideon’s personal space. “And you’re
not
my brother.”

Gideon cocked his head at Lester LaVon, who was hovering at the fringe of the crowd. “Tell him, LaVon.”

Lester nodded, his balding head shining sweatily in the sun. “It’s true. Your father sent me to Afghanistan last month to find him.”

Bowie looked like a wasp had flown up his nose. “But why?”

Lester shifted, tugged at his tie. “Because Gideon is his youngest son, and J. Foster named him in the will.”

The words Lester spoke didn’t really register with Gideon, but they had a powerful effect on Bowie and Crockett. They were yelling at once, throwing a tantrum right there at their daddy’s funeral.

“This is outrageous,” Bowie shouted. “Not to be tolerated.”

“I’ll sue! I’ll sue!” Crockett waved his hands. “He’s not getting one red cent of our inheritance.”

Gideon stared at the coffin.
Was this what you intended, you ornery old coot? To have your three sons at each other’s throats? Are you and Satan sharing a snout full of whiskey and laughing your asses off?

“Settle down.” LaVon pushed his palm down in a calming motion and looked chagrined at the stupidity of his mistake in announcing details of the will at the graveside.

Gideon could have taken a moment to bask in the sweet irony of the situation, but Bowie was red-faced and spewing spittle as he repeatedly shouted, “Leave, leave, leave.” He could stay put and fight with high-octane Bowie, or he could get on his motorcycle and go after Caitlyn.

Because one look in her eyes and he’d been jettisoned back to the past. All the old feelings had swarmed back, stronger than ever, and he hated it. He’d sworn never again to be that vulnerable, never again to open himself up to such heartache.

God, why had he returned? He didn’t give a damn about the contents of Goodnight’s will. And he’d mentally cut his ties to Caitlyn years ago. He’d been happy enough in Afghanistan. Why had he mucked it up? Moira had been so wrong. Closure was the last thing he’d found in Twilight. All he’d done was split open a raw and achy wound, only to discover it was abscessed to the bone.

He shouldered Bowie aside and headed for his motorcycle, but he’d taken only a few steps when an old man stood up from the last pew.

“Garza,” the man called.

Judge Blackthorne’s hair was grayer, his jowls thicker, his shoulders sloped, but his eyes remained eagle sharp.

All the old fury—and the need to prove himself to this town and this man—came whipping back. His good hand curled into a fist. He’d lost his other hand in a large part thanks to Judge Blackthorne, who’d backed him into a corner. He wasn’t blaming Blackthorne for his actions. Gideon
had
set that barn fire. But Blackthorne had given him no wiggle room, made no allowances for Gideon’s extenuating circumstances. He met the old man’s eyes with a dagger-sharp gaze.

Blackthorne did not flinch. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from my daughter,” he barked. “Get out of town now.”

Gideon had an urge to brush up against him hard. Slam his shoulder into the old man with enough impact to spin him on his ass. But if nothing else, the army had taught him impulse control. A lesson he’d sorely needed.

Instead, he simply narrowed his eyes, drilled a hole straight through the judge, and dared, “Or what?”

C
aitlyn paced her kitchen and wrung her hands. Not knowing where else to go or what else to do, she’d raced home from the funeral, leaving the van parked haphazardly at the curb in front of her house. She hadn’t even stopped at the babysitter’s to pick up Danny. She needed time to process what was happening. To get her head straight. To calm her racing pulse.

Gideon was alive!

How could he be alive? She’d hired a PI. He’s shown her the paper trail. Gideon was dead.

Except that had been no dead man cradling her head in his lap in the back of her van. He’d been warm and strong and very much alive.

Her heart soared, wanting desperately but very afraid to believe in this fragile dream. How many people who’d lost loved ones had dreamed dreams like this? Their beloved returned to them, whole and safe. She bit down on her lip, felt both exquisite joy and intense anxiety threading through her.

Gideon was alive.

The first rush of questions hit her. But what did this mean? Where had he been? Why had the PI lied? Had it been some kind of mistake? Or was her father somehow behind it? Then the second wave of questions crashed. What about Danny? How did she tell Gideon about Danny? How did she tell Danny about his father? Everyone in Twilight believed that Kevin was her son’s father. To protect him, she’d let Danny believe it too, planning, one day, when he was old enough and the time was right, to tell him the truth about his real father. What was she going to do about this?

The thought made her feel liquid and jittery.

The magnitude of what had happened hit her in fresh waves. She stopped pacing, wrapped her arms around her waist, sank her spine down the length of the counter cabinet until her butt touched the cool tile floor.

Gideon was alive.

Memories tumbled through her. Their first date: a canoe ride on the river followed by a picnic of bologna sandwiches and fresh-picked pears. Their first kiss shared underneath the Ruby Street viaduct. The time they’d conceived Danny in the wee hours of the morning on a blanket in Sweetheart Park.

How was she supposed to handle this? She didn’t even know who Gideon was anymore. At the cemetery, he’d looked so imposing. Like a warrior straight off the battlefield. Emotionless, detached. Had he lost his humanity? Was he still in the military? Where had he been? How long was he staying?

It was all too much to absorb.

She pulled her knees to her chest, pressed her forehead to her knees. Her emotions ran the gamut from giddy joy, to tentative hopefulness, to abject fear, to downright panic. What if Gideon wanted to take Danny away from her?

Don’t let your imagination run away with you. He doesn’t even know about Danny
.

No, but someone in Twilight was bound to tell him soon enough. She needed to do it first. Except how did you tell someone something like that? Someone you thought dead and buried for eight years?

Good to see you again, glad to know you’re not dead. Oh yeah, and by the way, you have a seven-and-a-half-year-old son who has no idea you’re his father.

But in the midst of her panic, a small inner voice whispered,
What if Gideon still loves you? What if he’s happy about Danny? What if he wants to be a family?

How beautiful, that what-if scenario! She wanted to believe it was a possibility, but she couldn’t afford to kid herself or assume anything. They’d both grown and changed. Neither of them were the kids they used to be. Becoming a mother had altered her in fundamental ways, and she was certain that being a soldier had changed him.

Without warning, the tears were upon her. Tears of sadness and hope. Tears of relief that he was alive. Even if they couldn’t pick up where they’d left off, she was so happy that he wasn’t dead.

She wished she hadn’t been so shocked and run away. She wished she’d gone against her innately cautious nature and just flung herself into his arms, and told him how much she’d missed him, how she’d loved him. But she hadn’t done that and there was no chance to redo their first meeting since he’d risen from the dead. It was already set in stone, her reaction.

He can’t blame you for that. He had to know how much it would rattle you, his showing up for J. Foster’s funeral dressed like that.

He
had
presented an unsettling image. He should have given her some warning. Written a letter, picked up a phone. She was listed in the phone book. Not that hard to find.

You’re listed as Caitlyn Marsh, not Caitlyn Blackthorne. He doesn’t know you’re married.

Maybe he did know she was married. Maybe that was why he hadn’t called. Maybe he did know she was married and hadn’t heard that Kevin had died. And where had he been for eight years? Why hadn’t he come home before now? Why hadn’t he tried to contact her?

Oh, this dithering was getting her nowhere. She needed to talk to him. Caitlyn hauled in a deep breath. Yes, okay, she’d talk to him. But not right now. She needed time to rehearse things in her head, get a plan together for how this was going to go. Get a—

A knock at the back door broke off her thoughts.

She sat frozen.

Another knock.

Get up. Go answer the door.
Reluctantly, she forced herself up off the floor.

A third knock.

She peeked through the blinds, and there he was. Gideon. Standing on her back porch. The sight of him nailed her feet to the floor. Her breath slipped from her lungs. Gooseflesh traveled the length of her forearms, spread across her shoulders and down her back.

How had he found out where she lived?

It was a stupid question. This was Twilight, where everyone knew everyone. It wouldn’t take a black ops agent to find her. All it would take was for him to pop into any store on the town square and call out, “Does anyone know where Caitlyn Blackthorne lives?” He wouldn’t even have to know her married name. Or even
if
she was married. Then again, if he didn’t know she was married, wouldn’t he have just gone to her father’s house? Maybe he did go to her father’s house and Greta had directed him here.

Another knock. “Caitlyn.”

The sound of her name on his lips sent adrenaline shooting through her like a bullet, blood circulating through her veins with a breathtaking ricochet. She wrapped her hand around the knob and wrenched open the door.

He stood there looking down at her. She’d forgotten how tall he was. Six-foot-three, his shoulders as broad as oak tree branches. Unable to meet his gaze, she focused on his chest. Even through the bulk of his unzipped leather jacket, she could tell his chest muscles were honed, chiseled.

“Caitlyn.” His voice was soft as the spring breeze, in sharp contrast to his hard eyes, his hard body, his hard everything. Soft, and yet much deeper than she remembered.

Their past was an electrical current connecting them, surging with a force that was both compelling and utterly terrifying. Her entire world shifted, changed. She drew in a breath and heard his own harsh intake of air.

Slowly, she raised her head. His gaze slammed into hers, more powerful than ever. She inhaled sharply, felt his stare pierce her lungs. They just looked at each other. Neither one making a move. Both hung on the horns of indecision. Him on the outside. Her on the inside.

“You’re not dead,” she said after what seemed like an eternity.

“Neither are you.”

She frowned. “You thought I was dead?”

He shook his head. “I thought all kinds of crazy things when you sent my letters back.”

Misery gripped her. She put a palm to her forehead, let out her breath. He’d written? “You sent letters?”

“You’re telling me you never got them?”

“You sent letters?” she repeated, unable to believe it. Her fingers ached to reach out and touch him, to skim over his face, but she remembered how he’d reacted, how he’d told her not to touch him when she’d tried it at the cemetery, so she held back. In fact, she tucked her fingers into her armpits to keep from touching him.

“I did.”

“I never got any letters.”

Gideon swore darkly. “Your father.”

Caitlyn jumped back at the anger in his tone. He was so big and he was virtually a stranger to her now. Yes, she’d once known him well, but that was a long time ago. She did not know this man standing in front of her. He seemed so changed. The Gideon she remembered had been a lot more emotional, a lot less controlled. He’d been full of passion and dreams and a strong determination to remake the world into a better place. This guy, this guy . . .

His eyes were hooded. His body language guarded. This guy had been remade by the world, not the other way around. An idealistic boy had left Twilight, but a hardened, cynical man had returned. She could see it etched in his face—the ugly things he’d seen, the loss of his innocence, the disturbing new values and beliefs formed by war and heartbreak.

He smelled differently too. Once upon a time, the aroma of his exuberant passions had clung to him. He’d loved tinkering with his motorcycle, woodworking, carving, making things with his hands. The scent of pine and oak and maple, of wood polish and lemon oil had defined him. To Caitlyn, his old fragrance had represented safety, comfort, home.

This new smell spoke of change. It was foreign, strange—almond blossoms and turmeric, cardamom, cumin, caraway, cinnamon, and sticky dates. Scents of the Middle East now owned him—exotic, dangerous, alien.