The Welcome Home Garden Club (8 page)

“I always knew you were a hard man, but this, this . . .” She swept her arm, clearly at a loss for words.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied.

“Even for you. Low. So low.”

He felt his internal boxing gloves go up, desperate to defend himself and the things he’d done. Aggressive now that his secret manipulations were coming out. He knew. The minute he’d seen Gideon Garza pull up on that motorcycle, Richard knew he’d lost all hope of redemption.

Eight years ago, he’d crossed a very big line. He’d lost control of his own righteous indignation. He’d forced Garza into the army. Tried to force Caitlyn into a home for unwed mothers who were giving their babies up for adoption. It had all been for her own good. That had been his justification and he’d stuck to it.

“You paid that PI to lie, to forge documents so that I’d believe Gideon had died.”

“He was badly wounded in a bombing. He had amnesia. No one thought he would live,” he admitted.

“You were counting on him not getting his memory back. You were sure you were going to get away with your deception.”

He had been at that.

Caitlyn snorted, shook her head. “And when he wrote to me, you sent his letters back to him, making him think I didn’t care. How could you have been so cruel?”

“Sometimes,” he said, “the end justifies the means.”

Her face flushed red and she sank her hands on her hips. “You’re a hypocrite. You’re always talking about what’s right and doing the right thing and not compromising your principles, and look, just look what you’ve done. You’ve violated everything you stand for.”

She was right. Every word out of her mouth was the truth.

“I just . . . I just . . .” He couldn’t speak, couldn’t push air through his vocal cords.

Caitlyn razored him with a hard-edged glare. “You just what, Father? Realized that for all your condemning of others, you are no better than anyone else? Full of faults and flaws.”

Agony fisted his chest. He was bad, defective, broken. He wanted so badly to be good, to be an example for the community, to do everything the right way. He was an abject failure, as a father and as a man. But he couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud. Couldn’t ask her to forgive him. To do so would mean utter annihilation of who he was at his core. An upright man. A pillar of the community. A model citizen.

“An apology would be nice,” she said. “But I can see that’s too damn much to hope for. You don’t even care that you cheated Gideon and Danny and me out of a life together.”

“I just wanted to stop you from ruining your life.” Why couldn’t she see that? Why couldn’t she understand his position?

“What’s wrong with the life I have? I have a job I love. A healthy son. Friends and neighbors I can count on. What’s so bad about that?”

“You could have had—could have been—so much more, Caitlyn. I—”

“No.” She raised her palm. “You know what? You don’t get to pass judgment on my life. Not anymore. I’m done fretting about what you think of me. You’ve made your bed, Judge. I hope you’re happy with
your
life.”

Then she turned and left Richard standing there feeling more lonely and ashamed than he’d ever felt in his life.

G
ideon took a room at the Merry Cherub, a popular bed-and-breakfast not far from the lake. He’d enjoyed sleeping on soft clean sheets again, eating down-home cooking. Both were a far cry from what he was accustomed to. It felt odd, being back in the States, but nice in a way he hadn’t expected.

On Sunday, he’d rented a boat and spent the entire day on the river, trying to reorient himself to his surroundings, make sense of his feelings for Caitlyn, and prep himself for the reading of J. Foster’s will.

“Mornin’, Gideon!” Patsy Cross called out to him as he walked past her store, the Teal Peacock, on Monday morning.

That took him aback. When he was a teenager, she’d reported him to the sheriff for having too loud a muffler on his motorcycle, now she was all smiles.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cross.”

“It’s so nice to have you home.”

“Thank you.”

He’d walked only a few steps when another shop owner warmly welcomed him home and then another and another. People clapped him on the shoulder, shook his hand, told him how much they appreciated his sacrifice for their freedom.

It felt odd to be “in” with the folks of Twilight, instead of on the outs as before. He probably should have expected the accolades. People loved a wounded war hero, but he hadn’t been prepared for how their admiration would make him feel.

In the past, he’d felt like a foreigner in his hometown, the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, the one who didn’t fit. He’d dreamed of someday doing something impressive to earn the respect of those who’d turned up their noses, turned their backs.

Now that he was something of a celebrity, everyone wanted to snag his attention, sing his praises. Embarrassment settled on him as on a scolded dog. He didn’t like the spotlight. He was being thanked for doing dark things and it felt wrong.

Once he hit the town square, he was surprised at the number of tourists crowding the streets and then he remembered it was spring break in Texas. In country, too busy worrying about staying alive, a solider forgot about the way things were back home.

Home.

The smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls curled under his nose. He could almost taste the sweet, spice-infused yeast dough. The cool breeze sighed past his ears, sending the wind chimes in the chinaberry tree on the courthouse lawn singing. Colorful flowers bloomed in window boxes and baskets hanging from lampposts. Hummingbirds whirled and bickered over honeyed blossoms.

On the corner sat Marsh’s Flower Shop; he had to walk by it to get to the courthouse. He pulled in a deep breath and ambled past the window. He really hadn’t intended on turning his head, peering in, but a force he couldn’t control compelled him to peer inside past the display of roses and lilies and chrysanthemums.

There she was sitting on a small wrought-iron bistro table, arranging flowers in a vase. Beside her sat a woman about Caitlyn’s own age. Caitlyn raised her head and their eyes met, pinning Gideon’s boots to the sidewalk.

She had on a purple top that clung to the curve of her breasts. Bedazzled, he stood there with his mouth half open.

Eight years had only added fuel to the fire. He wanted her even more than he’d wanted her back then, and that was saying something monumental. The heat of Caitlyn’s gaze had him standing taller, thrusting out his chest, posturing like a damn peacock.

He couldn’t wrap his head around the notion that he’d made it back to Twilight, that she hadn’t rejected him as he’d imagined. That she’d thought he was dead. But how could he just slip back into a quiet life in a quiet town? He’d been on dangerous missions, had walked among the enemy, had learned their language, become enmeshed in a culture so foreign to this one that there was no way he could even express the differences.

Hope filled him. Hope and longing and greedy need.

The morning sun filtered into Caitlyn’s shop, lighting up the flowers surrounding her, bathing her in a rosy romantic glow. She rocked his world with thoughts of what-if.

Her gaze burned into his, her eyes as searing as lasers. Hell if she didn’t look as hot and bothered as he felt. Impulse, the thing that had gotten him into so much trouble as a young man, had him aching to stalk right into that flower shop, pull her into his arms, and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

Gideon’s head reeled. His gut clenched. And a certain part of his anatomy heated up in a thoroughly enjoyable way.

But he’d learned a lot in eight years, primarily self-control. He no longer acted on impulse. He’d been schooled in how to wait patiently and weigh all the pros and cons before taking action. The lessons had saved his life on more than one occasion. Yet the impulses still lingered, still welled up to fill him with so much longing he had to do an epic battle with himself to merely give her a smile and a mocking salute.

And then Caitlyn did the damnedest thing.

She raised her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss.

“C
aitlyn?” Sarah Collier’s voice broke through the trance that had settled over her after she’d seen Gideon on the street outside her window and blown him a kiss. She had no idea why she’d done it. She wasn’t given to frivolous impulse.

Caitlyn blinked at her friend. “Uh-huh?”

“I think I’ve found the perfect flowers for my wedding,” Sarah said, tapping the floral catalogue spread out on the bistro table in front of them.

Caitlyn studied the picture, shook her head. “No, not aconite. Not for a wedding.”

“But I love the hooded shape of the petals, and my wedding colors are purple and white.”

“Aconite stands for misanthropy and poisonous words.”

Sarah wrinkled her brow. “Isn’t that a bit superstitious?”

“Do you want to take a chance on your wedding day?”

Sarah gave that some thought. “No, you’re right.”

“How about orchids instead? They’re classic.”

“What’s the meaning of orchids?”

“Magnificent love.”

“Well, I guess that settles it then. How did you ever learn so much about flowers?”

Caitlyn shrugged. “I’ve always been fascinated by them.”

“Was that part of what attracted you to Kevin? Your shared interest in flowers?”

She had to admit that it was, and the fact that Kevin had first offered her a job and a place to stay and then later offered to marry her and become a surrogate father to her son. She’d needed a safe haven, and Kevin had needed someone to nurture.

“Hey,” Sarah said. “You stopped wearing your wedding ring.”

Caitlyn’s thumb went to the bare ring finger on her left hand. She’d taken it off after Gideon had come back to town.

“Does this have anything to do with the devastating, good-looking stranger who had you fainting at J. Foster’s funeral?” Sarah hadn’t lived in Twilight when Caitlyn and Gideon had been an item.

“What have you heard?”

“The gossip is flying,” Sarah admitted. “Gideon is your first love and you thought he was dead?”

Caitlyn nodded.

Sarah admired her own engagement ring and sighed softly. “I have to say it’s been my experience that there’s no other love like that first one.”

“This town is founded on that supposition,” Caitlyn murmured.

“So what’s holding you back from a heartfelt reunion?”

“Eight long years. A war between us. He’s changed a lot. And I have a son to raise.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to find your way back to each other?” Sarah asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know. Both of us are so different now.”

“You’re afraid to get your hopes up, huh?”

“Yes,” Caitlyn admitted.

“He hurt you once and you’re afraid he’ll do it again.”

“Something like that.”

“It was touch and go with Travis and me for a while there,” Sarah said. “The past can complicate things if you let it, and I know from Travis that things aren’t so cut-and-dried when you have a child to consider.”

“That’s true,” Caitlyn agreed. She still hadn’t figured out the best way to break the news about Danny to Gideon, and he was coming to dinner tonight.

Sarah reached across the table and laid her hand on Caitlyn’s. “Well, whether it’s with Gideon or someone else, I hope you get your happily-ever-after. You’ve been through so much. You deserve it.”

Caitlyn smiled, touched by Sarah’s heartfelt statement, but not wanting to dwell on it. Sarah was right, she was afraid to hope for happily-ever-after. “So are you ready for me to order those orchids?”

Chapter Seven

Traditional meaning of mimosa—sensitivity.

L
ester LaVon’s office was located in the Twilight courthouse. The last time Gideon had been in this building, he’d been in handcuffs, brought up before Judge Blackthorne on charges of burning down his father’s barn.

It smelled the same. Musty as the old white stone walls. The hardwood floors creaked beneath his feet, the sound echoing in his ears full of ugly memories. He could still remember how fast and hard his heart had pounded. How the metal handcuffs had bitten into his skin.

Oddly, his phantom limb ached. Funny, how his wrist still hurt even years after it was gone. Pain. It was an odd thing all around. Unpleasant, miserable, but at least when you were hurting you knew you were alive. He thought of those dark days after the bombing, when he’d lain writhing in the dark. Then the horrifying realization that his left hand was gone.

He suppressed the shudder that passed through him, kept his face impassive, his head high, shoulders straight in proud military bearing. He was Green Beret. Yes, he was out of the service now, but that identity was the only thing that had saved him from himself, and he leaned on it in times of stress.

The office at the end of the corridor had “Lester LaVon, Attorney at Law” stenciled on it in gold lettering. Gideon paused at the door, his hand on the knob, preparing himself for what was going to happen next. He’d be facing Bowie and Crockett Goodnight.

His half brothers.

When he was a kid, he’d badly wanted siblings. He’d often beg his mother to get married, have more children. She would just laugh and kiss the top of his head and tell him if she had more kids it would take away from the love she could give to him. His heart would light up when she’d say that and he wouldn’t broach the subject again for weeks. Finally, he’d stopped asking. But he’d never stopped wanting brothers and sisters.

Then, after his mother died and he’d discovered he had brothers, he’d been momentarily joyous.

But they hadn’t accepted him. Just as J. Foster had denied Gideon was his son, Bowie and Crockett denied they were his brothers. He didn’t expect that anything had changed in that regard.

Except that on his deathbed, J. Foster had sent his lawyer to Afghanistan to find him. He’d apparently decided to finally recognize Gideon and mention him in his will.

Gideon wasn’t expecting much and he didn’t want anything from J. Foster except the public admission that Gideon was indeed his son.

The door hinges squeaked when he pushed into the office. A plump thirty-something executive assistant sat behind the desk. She smiled and directed him to sit in the lobby.

He didn’t want to sit. Sitting made him feel restless, confined. He was accustomed to traversing mountainous desert terrain. Sleeping in tents, inhaling dust. The niceties of polite society were an encumbrance. He didn’t know how to play the game. He’d been a soldier his entire adult life.

The woman was boldly studying his artificial hand. When most people realized you were missing a limb, they would quickly glance away. He wondered if she was a devotee or merely curious.

Devotees (officially known as acrotomorphiles) got sexually turned on by amputees. He’d gotten involved with a devotee right after he’d lost his hand. Raquel had been a military nurse on his rehab unit. At first, he didn’t realize she was attracted simply because he
was
missing a hand, he’d just known she hadn’t turned away in revulsion. But he quickly realized his attachment to Raquel was getting in the way of his emotional healing.

He’d broken things off with her, but it had made him hypersensitive to that particular sexual predilection. Some amputees were all for devotees. But being valued for simply what he was missing had made Gideon feel like a freak.

“Are you a soldier?” the woman asked.

He really didn’t want to get into a conversation with her. He nodded.

“Middle East?”

He grunted this time, but that only seemed to encourage her.

“My brother’s in Iraq. His second deployment.”

Gideon relaxed. That’s why she’d been staring. “I did one tour in Iraq, two in Afghanistan.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He said nothing. What did you say to someone who thanked you for getting your hand blown off?

The office door opened again and Bowie and Crockett walked in. They stopped dead when they saw him in the lobby. Their eyes narrowed in unison, and he felt the sting of their collective hatred. Coolly, he met their glares. No one said anything.

A tense minute passed.

“You may all go in now.” The executive assistant waved at the closed door.

Gideon stepped forward at the same time Bowie and Crockett did. He didn’t want to walk beside them, so he took a long stride and reached LaVon’s office first. Taking control, he wrenched open the door and stepped inside. LaVon sat behind his desk, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, a stack of papers in front of him. He got to his feet as Crockett and Bowie came in behind Gideon.

“Gentlemen,” LaVon said, coming around the desk to shake their hands. “Thank you for coming.”

Bowie scowled at Gideon.

He had to admit that he looked a lot like the oldest Goodnight brother. They’d both had inherited J. Foster’s thick dark hair, deep brown eyes, heavy five-o’clock shadow, and muscular build. But Gideon was a good two inches taller than Bowie, who stood over six feet. Crockett on the other hand was smaller, wiry, and of average height, five-nine or -ten. If someone who looked at the three of them was told that one of the brothers was a bastard from another mother and was asked to pick him out, he would have instinctively chosen Crockett.

“He’s mentioned in your father’s will,” LaVon said.

LaVon appeared a lot more powerful here in this office where he was king than he had in the Afghan desert with a briefcase sitting on his bald head. Here he was in charge, and Gideon was the one who felt out of place in the world of litigation and law. He was on LaVon’s turf now.

“Please have a seat.” LaVon waved at the Western-style furniture surrounding his desk. A heavy love seat made of mahogany and covered in expensive leather along with matching chairs. The rugs were cowhide. The lamps were constructed of deer antlers. In the corner sat a small wet bar. LaVon crossed over to it. “Anyone want a drink?”

“Bourbon and branch,” Bowie said.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic,” Crockett added.

LaVon looked at Gideon.

Gideon raised his palm. “Nothing for me.”

“You sure you don’t want some fortification?” LaVon asked, telegraphing Gideon a look he didn’t understand.

“I prefer to keep my wits about me.”

“Hear that, Crock?” Bowie said to his brother. “He’s calling us witless.”

So that’s how it was going to be? Gideon chose to ignore the remark and sank down on the love seat on the opposite side of the room from the plush upholstered chairs where Bowie and Crockett landed. He rested his right ankle across his left knee, spread his right arm out over the back of the couch, making himself look bigger, taking up space and carefully settling his mechanical hand onto his left upper thigh. He might be missing a limb, but he wasn’t going to let that be a weakness.

LaVon poured the drinks, came back across the room, passed them out to Bowie and Crockett, and then went to resume his position behind the desk. Ice tinkled in Crockett’s glass as he gulped his drink. Bowie held his in a tight fist.

LaVon cleared his throat. “The will has to go through probate, but here’s how your father wished for his fortune to be divided up.”

Bowie tensed.

Crockett leaned forward.

LaVon adjusted his reading glasses.

Gideon remained perfectly still.

“ ‘To my oldest son, Bowie,’ ” LaVon read, “ ‘I leave all my vehicles. The 2009 Cadillac XLR-V, the Hummer H3 . . .’ ” LaVon kept on, listing the eight cars and trucks J. Foster had owned. “ ‘And one hundred thousand dollars in cash.’ ”

Bowie grinned until LaVon said, “ ‘To my second son—’ ”

“Hey, whoa, wait, hold it,” Bowie interrupted.

“Yes?” LaVon peered at him over the top of his glasses.

“That’s it? He just left me the vehicles and a measly hundred grand?”

“That’s it,” LaVon said.

Bowie looked poleaxed. “No, that can’t be possible. There has to be some mistake. I’m my father’s ranch foreman. I took care of everything. He has to have left me the ranch.”

“He did not.”

Bowie let loose a string of curse words that would have shocked a sailor. He leaped from his seat and reached for the will on LaVon’s desk.

But LaVon was much quicker than he looked. Nimbly, he yanked the will away before Bowie could grab it. “Please return to your seat, Mr. Goodnight.”

“I will not return to my seat. This is an outrage! How could he have left the ranch to that little twerp?” He waved a hand at Crockett. “He doesn’t give a shit about the ranch. All he cares about is getting drunk and chasing women and coaching Little League in a desperate bid to recapture his glory days.”

Crockett was on his feet now. “Screw you and the horse you rode in on, Bowie. Dad lavished you with everything. Finally, he recognized that it was my turn.”

Bowie doubled up his fists, glared at his brother. Crockett stuck out his chin, just daring Bowie to deck him. Children. They were acting like spoiled children.

LaVon sighed. “Don’t make me call security.”

Gideon just watched. He didn’t have a horse in this race.

“He didn’t leave the ranch to you either, Crockett,” LaVon said.

“What?” Crockett whipped his head around, stared at LaVon, incredulous.

“Sit back down, both of you,” LaVon instructed.

Reluctantly, the brothers returned to their seats, still throwing daggers at each other with their eyes.

Once they were seated and quiet again, LaVon continued reading. “ ‘To my son Crockett, I leave the house on Galveston Island and one hundred thousand in cash.’ ”

“That shithole!” Crockett howled. “It got trashed during Hurricane Ike.”

“It’s worth more than eight damn old cars,” Bowie groused.

“Is that it?” Crockett asked. “The beach house and pocket change?”

“There’s some of his personal items he’s split among you boys,” LaVon said. “His clothes, his tools, his books, his golf trophies.”

“Well, who did he leave the ranch to?” Bowie said. “And the rest of the money? Our old man was worth over thirty million dollars. If he gave it to some goddamn charity, I swear I’ll fight this thing tooth and nail. He can’t buy his way to heaven at this point.”

LaVon’s gaze swung to Gideon.

“Oh, hell no,” Bowie exclaimed.

“ ‘To my youngest son, Gideon, by Linda Garza,’ ” LaVon began.

The hairs on Gideon’s arms prickled. Apprehension folded him in a tight hug.

“ ‘I leave the Rocking J Ranch located on Highway 51 between Twilight and Weatherford, the ranch house, and all the contents thereof, not already allocated to one of my other sons. Along with the ranch house I leave the bulk of my monies.’ ” LaVon paused. “That’s eleven million in cash, stocks, and bonds.”

“No, no, no, no!” Crockett yelled, and jumped to his feet.

“Sit down,” LaVon said, “I’m not finished reading.”

“I won’t sit still and listen to this. That’s our money. Bowie’s and mine.”

“J. Foster thought otherwise.”

“Cancer was eating up his brain,” Crockett said. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Gideon
is
your brother.” Lavon ruffled the papers.

“No he’s not. Dad denied it when
he
”—Crockett drilled Gideon with a hard stare—“showed up at our house years ago.”

“Your father lied.” LaVon pushed his reading glasses up on his head.

“How do we know he’s not lying now?” Bowie said inanely.

Gideon sat there, still as a stone, watchful, primed for anything. His muscles were coiled, ready to spring.

“It’s his last will and testament,” LaVon said.

“Why would he leave everything to this poser?” Crockett grumbled.

Bowie had gone all quiet, and that worried Gideon worse than his outburst. An outburst was a gut reaction, kneejerk. But quiet meant he was thinking. And thinking spelled trouble.

LaVon flipped the glasses back down on his nose and continued to read. “ ‘I realize that the sons of my marriage to Charlotte Van Zandt will not be happy with the distribution of my wealth, and this is the only place I am going to make an explanation. You were born with platinum spoons in your mouths. You had the best of everything. More toys than you could play with. More food than you could eat. You went to the finest colleges that money could buy. You drove fast cars, dated fast women. You ended up with no respect for anything. Crockett, you don’t work the ranch. You idled away your days. You’re shallow as a pie pan and fickle as a butterfly. Bowie, you’re filled with anger, but you have nothing to be mad about. The bitterness has made you hard. But the son I denied. The son I turned away. The son I refused to recognize became one hell of a man. He challenged me and when I sent him away, he bravely took vengeance by burning down my barn. Now, that I respect.’ ”

“Shit,” Crockett drawled, his eyes gleaming with hatred. “I could’ve burned down his barn if that’s what it took to get him to fork over his fortune.”

Gideon was so shocked, he forgot to keep an eye on the seething Bowie. His jaw dropped, his airway constricted. He could feel his toes curl against the soles of his boots, heard the soft whirr of the overhead ceiling fan churning. From his peripheral vision saw a mockingbird settle into the mimosa tree outside LaVon’s window. J. Foster had not only recognized him, but left him almost his entire fortune. Unbelievable. His breath whispered through his lungs. He blinked, shook his head. Wondered if he was dreaming.

LaVon continued. “ ‘I asked my friend Judge Blackthorne to put Gideon between a rock and a hard place. Go to the military or go to jail. Gideon went into the army. He was shipped first to Iraq and then to Afghanistan. He excelled at everything. Discovered he had a knack for languages and became a translator. He had the drive and determination born of poverty and hard circumstances. He became a Ranger and from there, a Green Beret. He served his country well, and for that I am extremely proud. I am also ashamed of myself and the way I treated him.’ ”