The Welcome Home Garden Club (9 page)

It should have felt good to hear all this. Why didn’t it feel good? Instead, Gideon felt only mild surprise. On his deathbed, J. Foster had sought redemption. Now, was he expecting Gideon to get all cozy about dear old Dad just because he’d left him a pile of money? It didn’t change anything. J. Foster had let him grow up without a dad. Had treated him like crap. Had turned his back on Gideon’s mother.

No, Gideon wasn’t the least bit interested in his money. He’d spent the last few years making money hand over fist in the Middle East, and while he might not be rich, he had a very nice nest egg saved up. He didn’t need a damn thing from Goodnight.

“This is bullshit,” Bowie raged. He jumped up and slammed a fist on LaVon’s desk. “Fix this, Lester. I don’t care what you have to do. Just fix it.”

“It was your father’s wishes.”

“The old man was out of his mind with pain.” Bowie shoved a hand through his hair. “He can’t give our money to this . . . this . . . one-armed Mexican.” He said it like it was the vilest insult he could dredge up.

Gideon laughed. It was ridiculous. He didn’t want Goodnight’s money. Didn’t want to be here with his lovely siblings. He’d only come because Moira had convinced him it was the thing to do. Bad move. Bad judgment. A mistake all around. He’d tell her that once he got back.

That’s not the only reason you returned.
There was the matter of Caitlyn. Where did he stand with her?

“Don’t you dare mock me.” Bowie whirled on him, moving across the floor with startling quickness.

But Gideon was a warrior. In a second, he was on his feet, and when Bowie reached him and cocked his arm back to deliver a stinging blow, Gideon caught his wrist, turned his body into Bowie’s, and in one smooth move, put the other man on the ground and rested his boot snugly against Bowie’s throat.

Bowie’s eyes rounded to the size of Oreos. The artery in his neck pounded visibly.

Gideon stared down at his brother, felt absolutely nothing. No love. No hatred. No disgust. Nothing but complete disinterest. “I could crush your windpipe in a nanosecond,” he said. “You’re alive only because I want you to be alive.”

All the color drained from Bowie’s face.

“I don’t want your father’s money or his ranch or anything that belonged to him. I care about a sand flea on my ass more than I care about J. Foster Goodnight and his sons. You keep your daddy’s money.”

“Really?” Crockett said. “You mean it?”

Bowie lay completely still underneath Gideon’s foot. He knew the threat wasn’t idle.

“It’s not that simple,” LaVon said. “There’s paperwork to be filled out, legal procedures to follow them . . .”

Gideon swung his gaze to LaVon but kept his boot to Bowie’s throat. He didn’t want any blindsides. “Then do what you have to do to give my
brothers
what’s coming to them.”

Then with that, he turned and walked away.

Chapter Eight

Traditional meaning of daylily—motherhood.

G
ideon arrived at Caitlyn’s house on Monday evening more nervous than he’d been when he dated her eight years ago. Back then, he’d had to fight Judge Blackthorne’s disapproval. Now, he had to battle his own demons, which were even harder to deal with than Caitlyn’s father. He wanted so much to hope that they could pick up where they’d left off, but he wasn’t dumb enough to believe things hadn’t changed. Eight years was a long time and even if Caitlyn wasn’t different, he certainly was.

But they weren’t exactly dating, were they?

He held a bouquet of daylilies in his hand. Since she was the only florist in town and he hadn’t wanted to give her flowers that he’d bought from her, he’d driven to the next town over. The scent surrounded him, made him feel strangely weighed down, like he was moving through water.

Having chosen not to wear his prosthesis, and suddenly regretting that decision, he kept his left arm behind him, his right hand with the lilies clutched in it.

The friendly smell of meat loaf greeted him before he even pressed his thumb to her doorbell. He was early and he knew it, but he hadn’t been able to wait any longer.

“Just a minute,” Caitlyn called out.

He heard the sound of an oven door springing closed. Becoming a Green Beret had sharpened his senses. He’d learned to listen, really listen, to the sounds beyond the obvious, to smell the complicated layers of a scent, to detect subtle differences in textures and temperatures, to taste with discernment. Heightened sensory skills could keep you alive.

The door flew open and Caitlyn stood there, her hair caught back in a high ponytail, curling tendrils escaping to float around her face. She wore a floral apron over a pair of tailored slacks and a beige silk blouse. What a glorious sight for a hungry soldier’s war-weary eyes.

“Hey,” he said.

“You’re early.”

“Is that a problem?” He inclined his head, grinned. “I could go and come back in ten minutes.”

“Of course not.”

“I brought you some . . .” Feeling nineteen again and as suave as a sand pebble, he thrust the bouquet of daylilies at her. “Here.”

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, but she had a strange expression on her face.

He pressed his palm against the nape of his neck. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“Are you allergic to lilies or something?”

“No, no,” she denied, but she was holding them tentatively.

Then he remembered that she’d once told him that flowers had hidden meanings. He gulped, wondering what in the hell covert meaning people attached to daylilies. Obviously, from the way she was acting, it wasn’t something all that good.

“C’mon in.” She ushered him inside. “I’ll just put these in water. They’ll make a lovely centerpiece for the table.”

He followed her inside and she closed the door behind him. He cast a glance around the room, checking out his surroundings, noticing everything. The denim sofa that had seen better days, the hand-knitted afghan thrown across the back, the oak hardwood floors covered by a floral-patterned rug, the small television set in the corner opposite a desk playing host to a notebook computer, and next to that a bookcase overflowing with books. It was a small room, comfortable and cozy.

The delicious aroma of meat loaf was even stronger in here. Underneath it, he picked up the scent of buttery mashed potatoes, rustic carrots, and yeast rolls. Awkwardness stole over them.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

She pushed a tendril of hair back from her face, her cheeks pinked, and she glanced away. She’d never been comfortable with compliments. Had never considered herself beautiful. She might not be a classic beauty, but in Gideon’s eyes she was a goddess. She had the smoothest skin, and he knew she was diligent about using sunscreen. Some might consider her nose a bit too strong for a woman’s face, but he thought it kept her features from being too soft and gave her a sense of purpose.

“Let’s go into the kitchen,” she invited. “You can toss a salad.”

“Putting me to work already, huh?”

“Yes.” She took the salad bowl from the refrigerator pinned with kitschy magnets that held childish crayon drawings in place. And he couldn’t help wondering who’d drawn them. She set the bowl on the cabinet along with a pair of tongs and a bottle of Italian dressing. “Toss away.”

It had been a very long time since he’d been in a civilized kitchen, helping a woman cook. It felt as alien to him as sleeping on the ground in a desert mountain range would feel to her. Gideon did as she asked, pouring a moderate amount of dressing onto the salad and tossing it.

Caitlyn bent to pull the yeast rolls from the oven, and he couldn’t help casting a surreptitious glance at her butt.

Man, she still had a world-class ass. That had not changed one bit.

She raised her head, caught him staring at her rump. Quickly, he returned his attention to the salad tossing.

A fresh silence fell between them, as uncomfortable as the first one. He wished this were easier, that things felt more natural between them. But that’s not how it was.

Was this a bad omen?

“So,” Caitlyn said as she buttered the rolls. “How did the reading of the will go?”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

“He left you a chunk of the ranch,” she guessed.

“He left me all of it.”

“What?” She laid down the butter knife, turned to stare at him.

“And eleven million dollars.”

“Gideon!”

“I’m not accepting it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want anything that belonged to J. Foster.”

“That’s some grudge holding.”

“Maybe.”

“Does this mean you won’t be staying in Twilight?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I’m still getting accustomed to America all over again.”

“Oh,” she said. Did she sound sad or was it just his imagination? “It must feel very different, coming home.”

“You have no idea.”

She put the rolls and the salad on the table, then turned back to him. “What was it like over there?”

He shrugged. “You couldn’t imagine it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

He laughed.

“You don’t think I’m capable of understanding?”

“Your life here”—he paused, swept his hand at her kitchen—“is the opposite of my life in Afghanistan.”

“In what way?”

“In every way imaginable.” It made him aware of just how different they were. How isolated he was.

“May I ask you something personal?”

He tensed, not knowing what to expect. “As long as I have the option of not answering.”

“All right.”

He stepped closer, loomed over her to see if he could stem the tide of nosy questions. “Then fire away.”

She didn’t back up. In fact, she raised her chin in a determined gesture. “Why didn’t you come home after you were discharged? After . . .” She glanced at his missing hand.

How could he begin to explain that one? People talked easily of duty and honor and freedom, but few understood the real price that servicemen and women paid so those on the home front could live free. Gideon tightened his jaw, felt everything tighten inside him, but he didn’t step back, just stayed there, standing close, inhaling her sweet scent that smelled of lavender and fresh-baked bread.

How did you wash the ugliness from your soul? Was it even possible? He’d been trained to kill. How did a man return to a quiet life filled with lavender and homemade bread? It seemed so beyond his reach. Such sweet peace.

And yet, when he looked in Caitlyn’s eyes and saw the caring and acceptance shimmering there, he wanted so badly to believe in possibilities. In happily-ever-after miracles.

But he knew better.

How he wished that he could undo the past, unsee the things he’d seen; undo the things he’d done. But no matter how he wished it, the stain on his soul could not be washed clean. It struck him then that he was too damaged for her, his mangled arm just an outward manifestation of the emptiness inside him. There were things he simply could not tell her. Things he desperately wanted to protect her from. Like the ugly world lurking beyond the protective boundaries of Twilight, Texas. She had no clue what was out there. Nor did he ever want her to know. He would carry that burden forever, never let her shoulder it with him. It was the price he paid as a Green Beret.

“Caitlyn,” he whispered, “I can’t do this.”

“Do what?” She appeared genuinely confused. Was he that baffling?

“Be normal.”

“It’s not that hard. Just act normal.”

“Fake it?”

“Until you make it. That’s what everyone does.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t begin to explain.” He found himself moving away from her. He was the one who couldn’t handle the proximity, not she.

“Don’t pull away from me. Don’t shut me out.”

Gideon thought about a man he’d been forced to kill up close and personal in hand-to-hand combat. Thought about the look that had come over the man’s face as he’d taken his last breath. He’d looked oddly peaceful, as if he welcomed the escape of death. Such dark thoughts didn’t belong in this cheery yellow kitchen.

“I . . .” He swallowed hard. “I have to. I can’t . . . I’ve got to protect you.”

“So let me get this straight. By denying what you’re feeling, you think you’re somehow protecting me?”

“I know I am because you can’t handle what I am. What I’ve become. I have nightmares—”

“Why don’t you let me decide what I can and can’t handle?”

She was so naïve. He reached out and ran his thumb along her jaw. “You are so sweet. So loving. You have no idea what the world is really like.”

She tilted her head up, met his gaze. “You think I haven’t suffered? You think I haven’t seen loss?”

“You can’t begin to imagine what I’ve gone through.”

“So tell me. Let me help shoulder your burden. Let me in, Gideon.”

He shook his head and turned his back on her, forced out the words in a harsh whisper. “I can’t. It’s too hard to talk about.”

“Gid . . .” The pleading in her voice was a knife to his heart.

“I just can’t . . .” He paused. “Soil you with the dirty details.”

“Soil me?” Caitlyn laughed. “Gideon, I’m not some delicate flower. I’m stronger than you can possibly imagine. I know what I’ve been through here can’t compare to what’s happened to you, but things haven’t been easy for me—”

“You lost your husband.”

“Yes, but that’s not all.” She hitched in her breath. “Sit down. We need to have a talk.”

“What about dinner?”

“It can wait.” She pulled out two chairs from the table and sat.

Gideon sank down opposite her; he felt vaguely nauseous, but had no idea why. He dropped his left arm, hiding his missing hand from her underneath the table. Why the hell had he not worn his prosthesis? On the window ledge, he spied a tiny red Hot Wheels roadster. The crayon drawings on the fridge. The toy car. Of course, why hadn’t he realized it before?

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said. “It may come as something of a shock.”

“You have a child,” he said.

She blinked. “Yes.”

As if on cue, the back door opened and a boy’s voice called, “Mom, Mom, guess what—” The child’s words broke off when he saw Gideon. He looked to his mother as if to say,
Who’s this guy?

“We’ve got company for dinner, Danny,” she said.

The second Gideon stared into the child’s eyes, his head spun and his world upended. His breath scraped across his teeth, coming out wary and weighted. He heard his heartbeat thudding in his ears, felt it hammering at his throat, tasted it surging adrenaline into his mouth.

The boy looked exactly as he had looked at that age. Brown-eyed, black hair with a cowlick that stuck up in the back, ears a little bit too big for his head.

Involuntarily, Gideon reached his hand to the top of his ear, felt his heart stutter in his chest, a battered old pump breaking down. The kid looked to be around seven or eight years old. Gideon did a quick bit of math. It was entirely possible the child was his.

That realization was a heart-stopper.

“Mom?” the boy said. “Why are you crying?”

Caitlyn was crying? Gideon swung his gaze back to Caitlyn. She was swiping at her eyes with both hands. The moment crystallized like a drop of amber preserved forever in time.

The kid notched up his chin as his mother had done earlier. Freckles dusted the bridge of his nose. He got those from his mom too.

Seeing the boy, recognizing for the first time that he was his, hit Gideon like a pile driver. He stared at Danny.

Danny stared back, his small eyebrows lowered in an intense frown, and stepped forward, his little hands knotted into tight fists. “Did you make my mommy cry?”

“No,” Caitlyn said. “I’m not crying. He didn’t make me cry.”

Instantly, Gideon was jettisoned back in time, engulfed by a memory he’d completely forgotten. He’d been a bit younger than this boy was now. Maybe five years old and standing in the kitchen of the trailer house he and his mom had lived in near the train tracks behind the feed store. He could smell the grainy dust of that long-ago air, thick with the odor of hay and oats, corn and cottonseed.

A man had been sitting at the kitchen table, wearing only a white undershirt and boxer shorts; a black cowboy hat perched on the table. His mother had been straddling the guy’s lap, her dress hiked up around her thighs, her arms threaded around the man’s neck. He recognized the memory man he’d long forgotten. J. Foster Goodnight.

Gideon blinked away the memory, met the boy’s stare. He didn’t want any child to feel the way he’d felt in that moment. Like someone was taking his mother away from him. He struggled to figure out what he was feeling, what he was going to say to her, to the kid. He knew what it was like to walk into a room and find your mother looking chummy with a man you didn’t know—a kick to the gut, a stab to the heart.

“Danny,” Caitlyn said, her voice coming out too breathless and high. “I want you to meet Mr. Garza.”