The One Worth Waiting For

by Alicia Scott

  If Suzanne was possessive about her garden, she had a right to be. The broad expanse took up most of her backyard and was a delightful mix of beautiful roses and fruits and vegetables. A brick wall ran along the back, covered now by the pink American Pillar climbing rose. The left border was a carefully cultivated mix of cream-colored Alba Maxima roses and the deep crimson Tuscany Superb. Last year, the Tuscany had won grand prize at the Maddensfield Fair. Lower-growing roses such as the Gallica rose, Complicata, surrounded the base of her blueberry bushes, and the far right border unveiled loose, fragrant clusters of red, pink and white Autumn Damasks.

  In the middle of the floral explosion, she’d laid out neat, orderly rows of strawberries, asparagus, carrots and squash. Next to the blueberry trees, wire frames supported the raspberry bushes’ climb toward freedom. She’d splurged heavily on the garden, importing rich soil to support her efforts, and rewarding the soil with carefully considered blends of chemicals and natural fertilizers such as ash and compost.

  When her mother had been dying in the hospital, her stomach swollen, her skin loose and yellowish green, Suzanne had also fertilized the roses with her tears.

  “You have a beautiful garden,” Garret said behind her.

  “I like fresh fruit.”

  She led him over to the raspberries and tried not to think about his eyes on her back. For a while she left him at the raspberries with a pail and wandered alone among her roses. She clipped off dead blossoms with a practiced hand, testing the soil for moisture. She liked the way roses smelled, fresh and sweet and delicate. Sometimes she would come out here and close her eyes and dream she was in some faraway garden like the Empress Josephine or the Princess of Wales. In the early morning hours, she would watch the blossoms open, shimmering and moist with dew, and allow herself to marvel in their simple beauty.

  There were parts of her life she didn’t like to dwell on. But in her roses, as with her dolls, she’d at least found some measure of contentment.

  “Hey, I didn’t know I was a one-man crew.”

  She turned toward Garret’s plaintive words, finding him watching her with speculative eyes. She summoned a smile to her face and crossed back over to the raspberries.

  “The roses must take up a lot of time,” he said, his eyes still steady upon her face.

  She nodded. “They’re coming along well this year.”

  “When did you start the garden?”

  She just shrugged. “Oh, years back, I suppose. Dotti actually gave me the idea.”

  Garret nodded at the reference to his mother and pulled a ripe raspberry off the vine. “I think your garden has surpassed her efforts, though.”

  Again, Suzanne shrugged. “I have more time, I think.” Her efficient fingers rippled through the vine, plucking the soft berries with practiced precision. From time to time, she’d squeeze a little too tightly, and the sweet, warm juice would stain her fingers. She moved on, not noticing.

  But her sharp eyes did catch Garret surreptitiously popping a quick berry into his mouth. At the last minute, he caught her look and grinned boyishly.

  “They’re best fresh,” he mumbled through a full mouth.

  She arched a fine eyebrow. “I have kindergarten pupils who exercise more self-control.”

  “Yeah, well, we all have our talents.”

  He popped another berry, but this time she was faster. With quick reflexes honed by outwitting exuberant five-year-olds, she snatched the berry from his lips.

  “Mine,” she declared triumphantly. But before she could chortle further, his hand snapped around her wrist like a steel vise. Just as her eyes were opening round with the shock, he seized the warm raspberry from her fingertips with his mouth, licking the juice from her fingers at the same time.

  “Mine,” he corrected huskily.

  Her hazel eyes turned gold, her mouth parting from the tingling impact of his tongue on her fingertips. His dark gaze followed the movement of her lips, then swept up to challenge her openly.

  “Are we back to need, Suzanne?”

  Mutely, she shook her head, but her golden eyes remained on his lips. He bowed his head and trailed his tongue slowly up her index finger. Her breath came out in a little gasp, and he closed his mouth upon her finger fully, sucking it with sweet, sensuous promise.

  “We’re definitely back to need, Suzanne.”

  This time, she simply nodded.

  “So what is it you need? Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you want.”

  Peace, sanity, safety and security. Long, lonely nights with her beautiful dolls and classic black and whites.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  He smiled, slow and promising. “With pleasure, sweetheart.”

  Even as his lips were descending, her arms tangled around his neck. Suddenly, she didn’t want prim or proper. She wanted his lips, full and masculine, tasting of stolen raspberries and the hot July sun. She wanted his body, hard and demanding, pressed against her own. She wanted his tongue, skillful and sure, plundering her mouth and stirring sensations she hadn’t known existed.

  And she needed. She needed his hands, smoothing down her back, cupping the curve of her buttocks. She needed his palm, rubbing against her breast, making her breath come in hot, urgent gasps.

  Her hat fell back, revealing her skin to the caressing sun, but she only arched her neck farther back without protest. She opened her mouth wider, welcoming him in, finding and dueling with his tongue as he’d taught her just two nights before. He tried to go slowly, but she gripped him all the tighter and made him go faster.

  In the fragrant heat of her garden, he was hard and callused and male. His cheeks rasped with twenty-four hours of beard, his fingers and lips sticky with raspberries and forceful with desire.

  She needed his touch and his taste, until the very force of the need burned her eyes, and then she was dragging him down to the soft, rich ground while his tongue plundered her mouth.

  He grazed his teeth down her neck, finding her earlobe and nipping sharply while she gasped beneath him. He buried his face between the valley of her breasts, rubbing his cheek against her soft curves while her hands tangled in his hair. Nuzzling aside her shirt, his fingers found the first few buttons and released them with a deft touch. He exposed the white cotton of her bra with its simple pattern of pink-tipped roses and peeled back the thin material to find her ripe breast. He closed his lips over her nipple. She arched back against the rich soil, moaning her compliance as he feasted on her sensitive, swollen flesh, his lips strong and sucking.

  “Miss Montgomery. Oh, Miss Montgomery…”

  The call penetrated the warm haze, a harsh splash of cold water. One moment, Garret’s mouth was warm and moist on her breast, the next, he was simply gone, bolting up like an arrow while his eyes quickly scoured the backyard.

  “Miss Montgomery,” called the voice, now from the side of the house.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Garret said. He reached down and quickly redid the top buttons of her pale yellow shirt while she frantically brushed the dirt from her hair.

  The footsteps sounded closer.

  “What do we do?” Suzanne demanded to know, her face shell-shocked, her hands still trembling with raw desire and sudden fear.

  “The shed,” Garret said immediately. He took a step forward, then realized the person was walking down that side of the house.

  “The roses,” Suzanne breathlessly corrected. She grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the thickly blooming Alba Maxima and Tuscany Superb. “Duck,” she squeaked, and practically pushed him through the thick bushes. He hissed sharply, then rolled through to the other side.

  “Miss Montgomery, there you are.” She whirled sharply, pasting a smile on her face while her left hand tried to pick the last few twigs out of her hair.

  “Deputy Davey,” she called back, her voice a couple of octaves higher than usual. “What brings you here?”

  The young deputy strode strongly toward the garden. Belatedly, she smooth
ed her shirt and moved to cut him off. “I’m looking for Sheriff Cagney, ma’am. I was told he was on his way here. Have you seen him?”

  Suzanne shook her head, retrieving her hat at the last moment and plopping it unceremoniously on her head. Perhaps it would at least partly cover her flaming cheeks. “Why, no, I haven’t. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. Sorry to interrupt your gardening and all. It’s just he’s asked us to watch his parents’ house, and last night someone broke in.”

  Suzanne faltered, and behind her she was certain she heard a muttered curse.

  “Why don’t you come inside?” she said quickly. “I’ll fix you a nice glass of iced tea and I’m sure in another minute or two Cagney will arrive.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am.”

  She managed another smile and wondered if Deputy Davey could hear the loud, guilty beats of her thundering heart. He simply followed her into the house, his young face its normal benign self.

  She’d no sooner poured two glasses of iced tea than the sound of an approaching car filled the air. Standing at attention, Davey solemnly debriefed Cagney the minute he walked in, then handed him a note that had been left on the dining room table of Dotti and Henry Guiness’s house. The note was addressed to Garret.

  “Mom saw this?” Cage quizzed the young man.

  “Yes, sir. She gave it to us, sir. Said she reckoned you would know what to do with it.”

  Cagney swore softly under his breath. Knowing his parents, he figured they’d cottoned on to the fact that the deputy was watching their house after the first five minutes. At least they were familiar enough with their children’s life-styles by now not to ask too many questions.

  “I’ll take care of it from here, Deputy,” Cagney said at last. “Any chance of prints?”

  “No prints, sir. The window was forced open in the back. Not very professional, sir.”

  That was interesting. “Anything stolen?”

  “No, sir. At least nothing has been reported missing yet. Just this note was left on the table.”

  Cagney’s scowl deepened, then he abruptly released his pent-up breath with a sigh. “You did well, Davey. I want you to keep an eye out for a few more days, just to make sure nothing else happens. Keep me informed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Davey headed for the door, turning at the last minute as if he wanted to ask a question. One look at Cagney’s steely gaze, however, and the young deputy snapped his mouth shut and marched smartly through the door.

  Cagney watched him go, shaking his head. “A sheriff shouldn’t have to lie to his own deputies,” he muttered under his breath. Then his sharp eyes took in Suzanne. “So where did you hide him?”

  “Behind the roses.”

  She turned and led him down the hall, her shoulders finally beginning to relax even as her mind raced through this new turn of events.

  “Suzanne, there’s dirt all down your back.”

  “Gardening’s dirty work,” she called back over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, I bet,” he replied, his tone ironic.

  This time, however, she couldn’t quite stop the secretive smile that touched her lips.

  Garret emerged the minute she and Cagney appeared on the back porch, his expression intense. “What happened?” he demanded to know instantly.

  Without speaking, Cagney held out the folded slip of white paper. For a moment, Garret just stared at it. Then slowly, he reached out and took it from his brother’s grasp.

  In the hot sun, he unfolded the paper and read the two simple lines scrawled in pencil.

  The waters of Miljaka still flow red. The river remembers, prijatelj, and so do I.

  And suddenly, he was back in the ruins of his mind.

  He was walking, and men were around him. They were all covered with soot, and some still moaned with the fresh pain and old weariness. The ax rested in his hands, the blade fire-seared and bloodstained. They had been gone from the camp for longer than planned, days and nights of fire without end as the Olympic stadium had burned before their eyes. Now, their stomachs rumbled with hunger, and fresh wounds sharpened their rage.

  Above him, the birds circled, and even as his exhausted eyes took in the motion, he did not understand.

  They came over the hill, and then they all stopped.

  Bodies. Everywhere. Bodies and the smoldering tents of a ravaged camp. Not even the smoke could cover the sweet, putrid odor of death.

  Behind him, the first man fell to his knees and began to moan.

  Like a man in a nightmare, Garret walked into the ruins of the camp that had once been formed by the survivors of a small rural village. Though the village had been mostly Croatian, there had been Serbs, as well, people who had married into the village or simply settled there. Before the war, no one had really cared. And even after the war had begun, they had still stuck together, drawing upon ties of marriage and community once politics had gone insane. Now the Serb and Croatian women lay abandoned with equal disregard.

  He walked through the remains, and soundless tears traced through his soot-covered cheeks.

  To the last tent he walked, the toppled canvas already smoldering with flames of despair. There, he came to the final unbearable sight, and his eyes would not look away.

  Zenaisa. Oh, God, not Zenaisa.

  Garret closed his eyes, but it didn’t help.

  He heard the footsteps behind him, and even as he moved to shield her from Zlatko’s sight, he knew he was too late. The lumbering man behind him staggered, then like a giant oak, he toppled to his knees. His massive, scarred hands rose to his head and he gripped his temples as he fought to block out the sight. And he began to rock back and forth on his knees, wailing the pure, keening cry of a man’s anguish, the howl of the desert wind and the baying wolf, the cry of toppling mountains and receding seas.

  Garret tried to reach out a hand to his friend, but his muscles would no longer move.

  “Garret. Garret, sweetheart.” Suzanne cupped his cheeks, tilting his head up until he looked at her with shocked, horrified eyes. Then he caught her hands on his face, clutching her wrists as if she was his last anchor in a violent storm. “Garret?” she whispered shakily. “Garret, are you all right?”

  He relinquished his grip abruptly, turning his head away because he couldn’t stand the sight of so much compassion in her eyes. He fought to breathe, he fought to function and he fought to pull himself back to reality and away from the scene he could no longer salvage.

  “I need to be alone,” he said hoarsely.

  “Garret—”

  She reached out again, but he batted her hand away.

  “No!” His body was racked by a deep, shuddering breath, then he looked at her, his eyes pleading. “Please,” he whispered. “Please just give me some time.”

  He started walking for the shed and didn’t look back.

  Suzanne and Cagney let him go, standing behind him in the sun and exchanging worried glances.

  “I’m scared,” Suzanne murmured softly, turning to Cagney with pensive eyes.

  “Yeah,” he told her honestly, still staring at the retreating figure of his older brother, “so am I.”

  Chapter 7

  When Suzanne returned from her parade committee meeting late that afternoon, Garret still had not returned, to the house from the shed. With pursed lips, she set down the pile of mailings she was now in charge of getting out, and contemplated what to do.

  Cagney had tried to talk to Garret before going and had met nothing but angry resistance. In the end, Cagney had stormed out of the shed muttering uncomplimentary things under his breath, and Suzanne had decided maybe it was best just to leave Garret alone.

  But it was four now. And seven hours in that shed should be too much for a man still recovering from a bullet wound. With a resolute set of her shoulders, she poured two glasses of iced tea as a peace offering and walked outside.

  She could hear the sharp buzzing of the table saw as
she approached, the high-pitched squeal sending shivers down her spine. There was something about the noise she’d never learned to like. Taking a deep breath, she waited for a moment of intermission, then banged on the weathered door with one of the glasses.

  “Garret. It’s Suzanne. I thought you might like something to drink.” There was another moment of silence, and she found herself holding her breath. Then slowly, the old wooden door creaked open. She had to blink several times to adjust to the darker interior, then her eyes focused on the man before her.

  He had stripped to the waist, his chest sweaty from the un-air-conditioned room and dusted with fresh, tangy sawdust. An old white rag was tied around his forehead, giving him a renegade look that suited the grim, unrelenting lines of his face. She managed to keep her hand from shaking as she held out the tall, wet glass.

  “Iced tea?”

  He took it from her with just a nod, his eyes, completely unreadable, scouring her face. After the past week in his presence, however, she could read his tension in the corded muscles of his neck, the stiff set of his shoulders and the renewed forcefulness of his stance. As she watched, he arched his head back and drank down the entire glass of rosecinnamon tea in one gulp. Moisture beaded at the bottom of the glass, one cold drop jumping boldly onto his chest and sliding recklessly down his washboard stomach. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “May I come in?” she finally asked, her voice slightly breathless. “Just for a minute or two,” she thought to add.

  He studied her with dark eyes. Then finally, he stepped aside. Even so, her shoulders brushed his bare chest as she stepped into the cramped corners of what was meant to be a storage shed.

  Given the short notice, he and Cagney had done a good job. The table saw rested in the middle of the shed, while the walls held the additional tools. Overhead, they’d strung three extension lights up on nails. While they didn’t give off the strongest illumination, they could easily be moved to focus on whatever particular tool he’d selected. Everything was powered through heavy-duty extension cords running to the outside outlets of the house.