by Lori Wilde
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.
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.
Caitlyn 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.