The Welcome Home Garden Club

by Lori Wilde

  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.’ ”

  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.

  Gideon 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.