by Lori Wilde
Almost every night since they’d filed the paperwork with the state to be entered into the contest, she worked well until after midnight, long after Danny had been in bed. On paper and in her mind, the garden had bloomed, a testament to her dedication to the project.
And to Gideon.
But that had been when she’d thought he was dead. The garden had been a memorial. Yes, it was supposed to represent all the servicemen and women who’d served for Twilight, but in her mind, she’d been thinking only of Gideon.
“My gosh, Caitlyn, that’s beautiful,” Marva said.
“If you can plant the way you can draw,” Terri said, “we’re hands down going to win.”
The carousel was the showstopper. Blaze featured front and center on her illustration, his beautiful head reattached, the poppies in his mane freshly painted, his eyes flashing as he jumped high on the shiny brass pole. It was how she remembered him. Before the aneurysm stole her mother from her. Before her father decapitated him with an axe.
All around the carousel were the flowers: taller ones in the back, shorter ones in the front. She planned a variety of plants to attract butterflies for all their stages of life—milkweed, violets, phlox, gaillardia, tuberosa, blazing stars, purple coneflowers, black-eyed Susans, bee balm. She picked other flowers for their vibrant colors or intriguing petal pattern and orchestrated their combination for the most dramatic effect—caladium, cosmos, hibiscus, impatiens, roses, salvia, red begonias, zinnias, and sunflowers.
Particularly sunflowers. They stood for homage, just as the garden did. The plants would flourish by early June, just in time for the contest judging.
“We’ll have benches between the four circular gardens,” Caitlyn explained, using the laser pointer on her key chain to illustrate. “And a few birdbaths scattered throughout, along with wind chimes and gazing balls and a sundial.”
“Wonderful idea,” Belinda said.
“The second section will contain herbs and spices,” Caitlyn went on. “Rosemary, lavender, lemon balm, basil, comfrey, oregano, sage, mint, thyme, dill, allspice.”
“It’s going to smell like my grandmother’s pantry,” Marva said. “I can’t wait.”
“Third tier will be fruit—strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, rhubarb. Fourth tier, and largest, is for the vegetables; yellow squash and zucchini, bell peppers and tomatoes, onions and potatoes, carrots and Swiss chard, cucumbers and radishes, pole beans and black-eyed peas, spinach and beets.”
“We’re a shoe-in for Most Romantic garden in the state of Texas.” Belinda breathed dreamily. “I can’t wait to get started.”
“That’s good because we need to get a move on fast,” Caitlyn said.
“I’ve talked to the high school ag teacher and he’s giving extra credit to the kids who help out in the garden. I should have a roster to you by the end of the week,” Marva said.
“I’ve also got a list of local churches who have eager volunteers,” Patsy added. “This is a community project. Your main role, Caitlyn, will be to oversee it all.”
Newt stepped up to examine her flip chart. “I don’t know why you ladies asked me here. Caitlyn knows exactly what kind of plants will do well in North Central Texas in the summer, and she’s incorporated them into an eye-pleasing design that really works.”
Caitlyn’s cheeks heated at his compliment. “We need you because I’m not a soil expert, nor do I know everything there is to know about organic gardening. And since that ground has been lying fallow underneath the old Twilight Theatre since 1875, it’s going to need a lot of TLC to get this garden to grow. Can you tell us where to start?”
Newt took the podium and Caitlyn sat down. He launched into what they’d need to do to prep the soil. She busily took notes while her fellow garden club members asked lots of questions.
When he finished, Patsy Cross took over. “Okay, Caitlyn’s got the design in place and we all agree it’s beautiful, but to follow Robert’s Rules of Order, let’s vote on it. All for using Caitlyn’s plan, raise your hands.”
Ten hands shot into the air.
“It passes. We approve Caitlyn’s design. Now,” Patsy said. “There’s the not so small matter of the carousel. Restoration is not going to be easy and we have a tight timetable to stick to. First order of business is to hire someone to refurbish the carousel. I know Marva can round up some of the high school kids from the woodworking and engine repair classes to help with the grunt work, but we need someone in charge. Someone with exemplary carpentry skills. Any suggestions?”
Caitlyn stood up. “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds, but since you put me in charge of the garden, I’ve already hired someone.”
“Oh?” Patsy said. “And who is that?”
“Gideon Garza.”
The group gaped at her.
“Gideon?” Dotty Mae asked. “Is he even staying in Twilight?”
“I doubt it,” Raylene said. “He turned down his inheritance. I’m surprised he hasn’t left town already.”
“He’s changed his mind,” Caitlyn said. “He’s staying and he’s accepting his inheritance.”
“Whew,” Flynn said. “That’s going to have some repercussions.”
Caitlyn didn’t comment on that. “Gideon is masterful with his hands. He’s got mad woodworking skills. You’ve all seen that intricately carved jewelry box he made for me.”
“Gideon might have been good with his hands once,” Patsy said, “but that was a long time ago. And now he’s only got one hand. We need someone with two good hands for this project.”
Anger flared through her. “That’s discrimination. Just because he’s disabled doesn’t mean he can’t do the job.”
“We’re talking about a job that requires working with your hands and he’s only got one.”
“I’m for giving him a chance,” Belinda said.
“As someone in the disabled camp herself,” Christine threw in, “I’m backing Gideon. He can do anything a two-handed guy could do. It might take him longer, but we can recruit Marva’s students to help.”
“And what if he fails to live up to our expectations?” Patsy asked.
Caitlyn lifted her chin. “Then it’s on me.”
Patsy shrugged. “All right.” She met Caitlyn’s eye. “All in favor of hiring Gideon to take the job of refurbishing the carousel, raise your hands.”
The motion passed with only Patsy voting against him.
It was official. Caitlyn and Gideon would be working side by side in the victory garden.
While the garden club was meeting, Richard Blackthorne was taking his supper at Froggy’s Marina Bar and Grill on the Brazos River. It was Greta’s night off and he had a coupon for a half-priced fried chicken dinner. The dining room was packed, and because he hadn’t wanted to wait—he was accustomed to taking his evening meal precisely at seven—he’d agreed to be seated in the bar area.
Crockett Goodnight was sitting at the bar nursing a long-necked Miller, one eye on the preseason baseball game playing out on the television monitor mounted over the bar. He wore khaki pants and a button-down crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking collegiate casual. He’d gone to the University of Texas on a baseball scholarship and then come back home to open his own business selling baseball memorabilia. This was the Goodnight brother Caitlyn should have gone for. Not that rascal Garza who’d dragged her down to his level.
“Hello, Judge.” Crockett smiled.
Richard put a hand on his shoulder. “How you boys holding up?”
“As well as could be expected.”
He wasn’t good at the sympathy stuff. So he just grunted and said, “Give it time.”
The waitress seated Richard at a table for two positioned behind Crockett. Richard had just given her his order when Bowie came loping in to join his brother at the bar. He didn’t look over at Richard. His shoulders were tense, his dark hair disheveled, a deep scowl carved into his brow. He didn’t even glance Richard’s way as he took the seat next
to Crockett.
“So what the hell is up with Lester?” Bowie asked his brother. “Why did he ask us to meet him here?”
Crockett shrugged and pushed a bowl of peanuts toward his brother. “He said he’s got news about Garza. Peanut?”
His curiosity piqued, Richard found himself eavesdropping.
“No.” Bowie snorted. “I hope it’s good news. Like Garza is on his way out of town, never to return.”
Richard had to agree. He wanted Garza gone as much as the Goodnight boys did. At a time when he and Caitlyn had started to make forward progress in their relationship—she’d come to his house, after all, for the first time in eight years and asked for the carousel—Garza had shown up to set it back to square one.
He knew it was only a matter of time before Caitlyn figured out he’d paid Malone to lie, to make fake documents that showed Garza had died. If she hadn’t figured it out already. He’d seen Garza’s motorcycle in her driveway yesterday evening when he had gone for his nightly constitutional and walked past her house as he always did.
“Bourbon and branch,” Bowie ordered from the bartender and rubbed his temple. “Better make it a double.” To his brother, he said, “Can you believe Garza? Just giving the ranch back to us?”
“What I can’t believe,” Crockett said, “is that Dad left him the ranch in the first place. What in the hell happened?”
“The old man was hopped up on painkillers. That’s all I can figure.”
“Well, he about gave me a heart attack. Good thing Garza is stupid as a post and too proud to realize it.” Crockett circled a finger around the lip of his beer bottle. “Thank God for that.”
Bowie grunted but said nothing.
“There’s Lester.” Crockett nodded in the direction of the lawyer loping toward them.
LaVon nodded at Richard, Richard nodded back.
“Let’s get a table,” LaVon said, his briefcase tucked under his arm. “So we can talk face-to-face.”
Shoot. Now he wouldn’t be able to overhear their conversation.
But luck was with him. The table behind Richard’s opened up and the waitress seated them there.
“So,” Bowie said, once the waitress had departed. “What’s up?”
Lester took a deep breath. “I’ve got some bad news for you boys.”
Richard got a feeling like a spider crawling down his back.
“What is it?” Bowie asked.
Some fool put money in the jukebox and Willie Nelson started admonishing mothers not to let their sons grow up to be cowboys. Frustrated, Richard was forced to turn his head to the right in order to follow the conversation going on behind him.
“Garza changed his mind,” Lester said.
“What do you mean?” Bowie growled.
“He’s decided he wants to accept his inheritance after all.”
“Son of a bitch,” Bowie exclaimed, and thumped the table with a fist. “I knew it. What happened?”
“He just said he’d given it some thought and he’d changed his mind.”
Bowie swore again.
“Okay,” Crockett said. “What’s our next move?”
“You can take him to court. Hold the will up in probate for months, even years.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bowie said. “That’s what we want to do. Take him to court. Dad wasn’t in his right mind when he signed that will.”
“Honestly, what are our chances of winning?” Crockett asked.
Lavon spread his palms. “Look, boys, your daddy was of sound mind—”
“Not that sound! Giving our inheritance away to some bastard he sired with a Mexican whore,” Bowie exclaimed. “You’ve got to show he didn’t know what he was doing when he made out that will.”
“But he did know,” Lester said. “I can’t lie about that.”
“So what do you suggest we do?”
Lester slanted him a look. “I’m afraid you boys can no longer afford my services. Unless you sell those vehicles or that beach house he left you.”
Bowie’s rage—reliable as a match head against sandpaper—lit like a fuse. Richard could feel his seething a table away.
“It’s not fair! I was at our father’s bedside for the last four months, taking care of him during his final days. Me. I’m the one. I stayed home and helped him out with the ranch when in reality all I ever wanted was to be a pilot. And then this bastard Garza comes and steals away the one thing we have left. The Rocking J.”
“There’s got to be a way around this,” Crockett said. “Do you know for absolute certain that Garza is our half brother?”
“J. Foster admitted it. That’s reason enough. Of course, you’ll demand a paternity test, but I figure it will just prove J. Foster is Gideon’s daddy.” Lester cocked his head, cut a bite-sized chunk from his steak swimming in cream gravy. “But honestly? I’d cut my losses.” He chewed. “Make the most of what your father did leave you.”
“What if we don’t want to do that?”
“It is your right to contest the will,” Lester said.
“But you don’t think we can win?”
“Not likely. But you can tie things up in probate court for a long time. Damn, this is good chicken fried steak. Eat up boys, my treat.”
“That’s our only option?” Crockett snorted.
Lester raised an eyebrow. “You could make nice with Garza, maybe he’ll cut you in.”
“Fuck that,” Bowie said. “I’ve got another question.”
“Yes?” Lester smacked his lips around a second bite of chicken fried steak.
“What would happen if Gideon was to die before the will was probated? Would the money go to us?”
“According to J. Foster’s will, if Gideon dies before he inherits, the money goes to you boys.”
“Well hell.” Bowie smiled. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“Unless,” Lester said, “he has heirs. Does Garza have any heirs?”
“Not that we know of,” Crockett answered.
There was that spider-crawling feeling scurrying down Richard’s spine, because Gideon did have an heir. A little dark-haired boy named Danny.
Richard’s grandson. And he had the strangest feeling the child had just been threatened.
Chapter Ten
Traditional meaning of Carolina rose—love is dangerous.
For long stretches at a time, Gideon dwelled on thoughts of Caitlyn and the boy. On Saturday night, a week after he’d come back to Twilight, he lay alone on the extra-firm mattress at the Merry Cherub, just a few blocks away from Caitlyn’s house. He imagined her tucking their son into bed, reading him a story, putting a glass of water nearby in case he should wake up thirsty in the middle of the night.
It was not just thoughts of Caitlyn and Danny that kept him awake. Since his return to his hometown, the nightmares had come back in full force. Almost every night, he did battle in his sleep, viciously killing and slaying his enemies, with two good hands, only to wake up in a panic, gasping for air with the fresh realization his hand was gone. It had gotten to the point where he was afraid to sleep.
Anxiety fueled the nightmares. Or so the shrink he’d been forced to see had told him. Control the anxiety; control the dreams. But how could he control the anxiety? He was still adjusting to the fact he was a dad and trying to fit into a place where he’d never belonged.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make himself fit in. It wasn’t that the people weren’t friendly and welcoming in Twilight, because they were. Too welcoming, in fact. Everyone wanted to talk to him, buy him lunch or a cup of coffee or a beer. They wanted to hear his stories. He just didn’t want to tell them.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to try to be part of the community. Rather, it was as if he’d left a part of himself on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan. The good part, the part that knew how to connect, make nice, play the game, be a member of the team. It seemed to be the part of him that had been connected to his left hand.
&nbs
p; Was that where your humanity dwelled? In your left hand? Once it was gone you couldn’t ever really connect again? Did other soldiers feel like this? Or was he unique? Wasn’t he supposed to embrace his homecoming? When a soldier was in country, that’s all he ever thought about. The place he’d left behind. But now he was back, he found himself displaced.
Knock it off. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. She gave no indication that your disfigurement bothered her.
Maybe not, but it bothered him.
He’d tried to drown it out by working. He’d started in on the carousel full throttle. He’d already gotten the mechanics of the carousel working again. The gears and cogs and pulleys had been the easy part. Next week, he and high school volunteers were going to set up the base in the middle of the garden.
Now came the art and the craft of restoring the animals to their former majesty. That was going to take a lot of time.
Gideon threw back the covers and got dressed. It was after eleven, but even on a Saturday night the bed-and-breakfast was silent. He tiptoed from the Merry Cherub, and then walked along the empty streets, breathing in the stimulating night air that smelled heavily of the lake. He had no plans other than to roam, burn off some restless energy, until he came to the town square and saw her.
Caitlyn.
Standing in front of the vacant lot, head tilted, arms on her hips. She wore blue jeans, a pink long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, grubby sneakers, and gardening gloves. A tiller sat off to one side. The lot stretching in front of her had been freshly tilled around where they would set up the carousel base. She looked hot and sweaty and dirty. He had an urge to make her even hotter and sweatier and dirtier.
Oh yeah. Involuntarily, he licked his lips.
She must have heard his approaching footsteps, because she turned toward him, peered into the darkness. “Evening,” she said.
The wind carried her scent to him—womanly, musky, earthy—and his nostrils twitched. He felt like a lone wolf on the hunt. Hard, horny, and ready to mate. “What are you doing out so late?”