The Welcome Home Garden Club Page 14

  “Couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d get some real work done, now that you guys have gotten the mechanics of the carousel up and running. We start planting tomorrow.” She waved at several sacks of seeds and budding containers stacked against the wall of the temporary storage barn that workmen had erected a few days before. The lettering on the side of the plastic wrapping read “Carolina Roses,” along with a picture of a white flower that didn’t look much like a rose to Gideon.

  “Why didn’t you call me? I would have helped.”

  “I don’t have your number.”

  That’s where she was wrong. She had his number a long time ago. “Give me your cell phone,” he commanded.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll put my number on your speed dial. You need it in case something happens with Danny.”

  She took her cell phone from her hip pocket—he couldn’t help following her movements and noticing exactly how nice her fanny looked in those jeans—and passed it to him.

  He flipped it open and with one hand deftly programmed his number in at the top slot on her speed dial, demoting . . . He peered at the screen. Someone named Emma.

  “There you go.” He handed the cell back to her.

  His thumb brushed against her knuckles and he heard her sharp intake of breath. He realized his own breathing was erratic. His body hot and bothered.

  “Where is Danny, by the way?” he asked, staring at her lips.

  “What? You think I left him at home alone?”

  “Don’t get testy.”

  She shot him an irritated glance. “Danny is spending the night with his best friend, Charlie.”

  “You know,” he said, “I don’t even know Danny’s full name.”

  “Daniel Dane.”

  “You gave him my middle name.” A flush of pride rushed through him.

  She nodded. “I wanted to name him Gideon, but figured that was too much of a giveaway.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  That was hard to accept. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know he was Danny’s real father. In a way, he understood. It was easier for her to let everyone believe Kevin Marsh was his Danny’s dad, but understanding her motives didn’t stop him from hating them.

  A moment of silence passed between them.

  “Caitlyn,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  God, when she pursed those lips it was all he could do not to grab her and kiss her until she begged for more. “I wish things had turned out differently.”

  “Is that an apology?” Her tone mocked him. “You never used to apologize.”

  “And you never used to be so smart-mouthed.” He grinned.

  “Things change,” she said.

  It was a cliché, but a profound one.

  “You want some help packing up?” He waved a hand at her tools strewn about the lot—hoes, rakes, twine, the tiller.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  The streetlamps cast them in an eerie, ghostly purple-white glow. Moths circled the lights, dipping and swirling. He knocked dirt clods off the blades of the tiller before loading it into a metal shed. His gaze lifted from the tiller. The feel of metal cool against his skin, he studied Caitlyn’s strong, slender back, her shoulder blades moving beneath her cotton shirt as she worked.

  She’d always loved plants. Whenever he brought her flowers, which hadn’t been often on his meager salary working as a stock boy at Branson’s, she’d been delighted. He’d picked wildflowers for her once and she’d been just as impressed by that as she had by the store-bought variety.

  Gideon guided his gaze back to getting the tiller ensconced in her shed, his emotions clouded and confused. He wanted her, God, how he wanted her, but he didn’t feel he had a right to claim her. She’d thought he’d died and she’d done what any good mother would have done. She’d picked up the pieces of her life and moved on. Providing for her son the only way she knew how—by marrying Kevin Marsh.

  Jealousy pushed up hard against his rib cage, making his chest hurt. Kevin had gotten to hold her in his arms, press his lips to hers, make love to her. Gideon swallowed, narrowed his gaze.

  “Gideon?” Her voice was soft.

  He didn’t want to look at her. He was terrified she’d see the despair inside him. Or worse. The emptiness.

  Slowly, he raised his head.

  She was standing in front of him, a bottle of water in her hand. She extended it. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

  Their gazes clutched. Or at least his clung to hers, but then that made him feel desperate. So he closed the shed, locked it, and took the water.

  “Thanks,” he said gruffly, and twisted the cap off the bottle.

  Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. He tried not to notice, but it was impossible not to acknowledge the gesture. Innocent enough on her part, but it flooded his system with testosterone.

  He’d imagined this moment a million times. Being back with Caitlyn. In the early days of his exile in Afghanistan—for that’s how he thought of it now, banishment from the one person who’d meant more to him than life itself—he’d thought of her constantly. Then when his letters came back unopened he’d stubbornly hardened his heart and her memory had begun to fade until he’d stopped fantasizing about her.

  But he hadn’t stopped dreaming.

  On those dark nights when he cobbled together a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, his treacherous mind would spin dreams of her. Caitlyn, coming to him, standing in the doorway of his subconscious, wind blowing her hair about her face in soft wisps, her eyes filled with longing just as they were now.

  If it had been a million years ago, he would have dropped the water bottle to the ground, reached up, snagged his arm around her waist, and pulled her to him. He would have moistened those tempting lips for her.

  But too much time had passed.

  She’d been married and widowed. She’d given birth to his child without his even knowing about it. He’d been on the other side of the world, losing an arm, losing his humanity. He had nothing left to give her. A kiss would make promises he wasn’t sure he could keep.

  So he tipped back his head and drank, letting the cool water slide down his throat. Allowing the liquid to substitute for the nectar he really wanted. Caitlyn’s sweet lips.

  “I should head home,” she said, wrapping her arms around her.

  The night wind had kicked up and blew cold against their skin. She shivered. But Gideon’s goose bumps weren’t from the breeze, rather his skin prickled from being so close to her, wanting her but not knowing how to have her again. Not knowing if he could. If he even should.

  Things could never go back to the way they had been.

  “I’ll walk you,” he said.

  “There’s no need. Twilight is safe as a cocoon.”

  She was probably right. “I’ll walk you,” he said, making sure his tone brooked no argument.

  For a long moment, she said nothing, just peered into his eyes, and he thought she was going to buck him on it, but finally, she nodded. She’d always been cautious. In their youth, he’d been the reckless one. The war had tempered that impulsiveness. Recklessness on the battlefield could get you killed. Recklessness had indeed almost cost him his life. His phantom limb gave a twitch, reminding him that he had not conquered his impulsiveness. It was there. Lurking. Ready to stir up trouble.

  He stared at her, fascinated by the unruly tendrils of blond hair escaping her ponytail to frame the angular edges of her face. She looked so fierce with her shirtsleeves rolled up, but in that fierceness he spied the vulnerability she struggled to hide. She was still his soft, innocent Tulip underneath it all. So achingly sincere.

  “Okay.” She nodded. “You can walk me home.”

  The full moon shone overhead as they left the square and started toward Caitlyn’s house.

  “Let’s cut through Sweetheart Park,” she said, surprising him.

  She left the pavement, her feet angling for the grass. He followed her
to the cobblestone path leading to the wooden footbridge stretching over the narrow tributary of the Brazos that ran through the park. She paused on the bridge, rested her hands on the wooden railing, and took a deep breath. Moonlight illuminated the stalwart oak, pecan, and elm trees that dominated the park. The air smelled heavy with the scent of water. A clump of white ducks slumbered in a group along the banks. Gideon wondered what prevented a predator from attacking them. What kept Twilight ducks so safe?

  “What are you thinking?” she murmured.

  He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “You were frowning so intently. Like you were mad at the world.”

  “I was thinking how vulnerable those ducks were,” he said. “Just sitting out here in the open. A dog could come by or a raccoon or a coyote.”

  “Animal control is pretty vigilant and the park is well patrolled. It is on the road to the sheriff’s office.”

  “Still . . .”

  “The ducks do the best they can,” she said. “What else can they do? They live their lives and—”

  “Die.”

  “Everything dies.”

  “But not many things come back to life,” he said, not knowing why he said it.

  “No.” Her whisper was so low that he almost didn’t hear her.

  “Caitlyn,” Gideon whispered, still really unable to believe that this was real. That she was here with him and it wasn’t some dream.

  She reached up to stroke his shoulder, a gentle palm, soft and light.

  His body roared to life, throbbing so strong with a blinding-hot need to possess her. He wanted this woman more than he wanted to breathe. His dick hardened to stone.

  His erection was so hard he could barely catch his breath. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. His blood raced with the thought of making love to her, but how prudent was that? He was damaged beyond repair and it wasn’t simply because of his missing limb. His psyche had been mutilated and there was no way to repair it. He could not unsee what he’d seen, could not undo what he’d done.

  Ironic really, that the same issue that tore them apart as teens still stood between them, albeit in a different guise. They came from different worlds. Back then the rift had sprung from the fact she was the daughter of the judge, the great-great-great-granddaughter of the town founders, and he was the bastard child of the richest man in town and a Mexican woman of low moral character. She’d lived in one of the most elegant houses in Twilight. He’d grown up in a shack across the railroad tracks. She was gentle and cautious and sweet. He’d been rough and reckless and impecunious. She’d kept her emotions under wraps; he expressed himself without reservation.

  Now the rift was even wider because all that history was still there, but added into the mix was the sorry state of affairs that he was disfigured, both outside and in. He’d seen the worst the world had to offer. She was wrapped in the cocoon of her safe little world. She’d never ventured beyond the bounds of Twilight. He was world-weary. She was innocent. He was coarse. She was refined. He was broken. She was whole.

  “Gideon,” she whispered. “Talk to me.”

  He didn’t want to talk to her. The crude, hard, masculine side of him wanted to strip off her clothes, lay her down on the cool, rich soil, and make love to her right there in the park. But of course, he couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t do that. She deserved honor and dignity and respect. No matter how much his body throbbed for her, he couldn’t take her, not like this.

  Her pink lips parted and she stared deeply into his eyes. “Gideon.”

  In a time warp, they were transported, back eight years to when they were teenagers, so hungry for each other they couldn’t resist the hormonal pull of their bodies.

  He stepped closer, not even sure what he intended, and she didn’t move away.

  “When I thought you were dead . . .” she said.

  Gideon heard the words clog her throat, heard her pain, could see she teetered on the verge of tears. It ate him up inside.

  “Oh, Gideon, your death ruined everything.”

  Caitlyn wasn’t going to cry. She refused to cry as the memories of the past washed over her. It didn’t matter now. The past was gone and he was back.

  “Tulip,” he murmured.

  “I’m okay, I’m all right.” She took a deep breath, gave a shaky laugh. “I just can’t get enough of looking at you.”

  He looked pleased, but worried. He ducked his head, but his deep chocolate eyes never left her face. “What do you see when you look at me?”

  “You look . . . deeper.”

  His laugh was short and shallow. “What does that mean?”

  “Layers. You’ve got layers. You used to be simple, easy to read. And now you’re as complicated as a bottle of expensive wine.”

  “Red or white?” he teased.

  “You’re making fun.”

  He measured off an inch with his thumb and forefinger.

  “I get the feeling that if I don’t watch myself I’ll be sinking in quicksand.”

  “Complicated and deadly. Yeah, that about sums me up.”

  “I don’t mean it like that,” she said. “What I mean is you’re out of my league.”

  He laughed again, more robustly this time. “You’ve always been out of my league, Caitlyn Blackthorne Marsh. Just ask your father.”

  She canted her head, studied him. Other than the hand, what was it about him that was so altered? He was more textured now. Like the accent wall in her kitchen that she’d added plaster mud to and dabbed with rags to create an Old World look. He had on desert camo pants, his black leather motorcycle boots, and a red flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal a black T-shirt underneath. Beard stubble darkened his strong jaw. His hair was longer on top and shorter on the sides, but certainly not the severe buzz cut most former soldiers favored.

  Her gaze dropped to his hand. To the prosthesis with black plastic fingers in sharp contrast to his flesh-colored skin. He had a watch strapped to the artificial hand, which struck her as incongruous. But why not? Machinery strapped to machinery.

  His gaze followed hers to his hand, and then he went back to her face. She could tell right away it bothered him far more than it bothered her. All she cared about was having him back, but his dark eyes sheltered demons she knew nothing about. She could see them lurking beneath the surface.

  There was that quicksand again, shifting beneath her feet.

  “Caitlyn, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.” His words were music, soft and sensual. He was luring her in, saying exactly what she needed to hear.

  “I’m not.” Embarrassed, but flattered, she raised a hand to her cheek. Even when a woman knew she wasn’t all that beautiful, she loved hearing her man say it.

  Her man.

  Was he still her man? Did she want him to be? She still loved him, yes. No doubt about that. But could she handle the heavy baggage he carried with him?

  So much had happened. So much had changed.

  “You are beautiful,” he said, and she could hear that he meant it. “When I look at you—” He broke off. He’d always had trouble expressing his feelings. He was terrified of being vulnerable. Even if he couldn’t say it, she knew.

  “Gideon,” she whispered, knowing she shouldn’t be crumbling so easily.

  They needed to take this slowly. Find out how they still fit, or even if they did. Danny was between them now and he could not be taken out of the equation. Their son’s needs came first.

  Gideon stepped closer, encroaching on her space, looming. He didn’t talk. He acted. He was so big. Six-foot-three, two hundred pounds, all muscles and man. Beside him, she felt, well, like a delicate tulip at five-four and a hundred and twenty pounds. He was solid as a brick wall and hot as a radiator and one hundred percent male.

  His dark eyes glittered in the moonlight, telling her that he had something wicked on his mind. Oh, the naughty things he used to do to her body! She could only imagine that his rugged life away from her had ta
ught him even more erotic tricks.

  Her knees trembled and she drew in a shaky breath.

  He wove a spell over her with his eyes, pulled her in. There were a million things they needed to say to each other. Questions to ask, questions to answer. Fears to be overcome. Doubts to conquer. But underneath the hesitancy and confusion, the shock and surprise of their new lives mingling with the old, pulsed a primal undercurrent that could not be denied.

  They were soul mates.

  His mouth came down on hers with the weight of years behind it. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her to him. She went up on tiptoes, greedily trying to get as close as she could.

  They inhaled a single breath, tasting the rapture of each other.

  Welcome home, welcome home. She tried to show him with her mouth what she was thinking.

  At first his kiss was tentative, searching, but it quickly escalated to something frantic and hot and electric. Time had not eroded the chemistry—in fact, it seemed to have stoked their former heat to a raging blaze. She parted her teeth, invited him deeper.

  They fell on each other, into each other, mouths seared, hands touching, caressing, kneading. Both of them ignoring the fact that they were out in the open in the middle of the night. The magic spun about them like fireflies, pulled them deeper into the spell. Happily-ever-after was a seductive myth.

  Caught up on the current, they drifted on the river of bliss. She cupped his cheeks between her palms, holding him, cherishing the feel of him. Then she moved her hands up, threading through his hair, holding on while he plumbed her mouth with his tongue.

  Her lips tingled. She let out a shuddery breath and he absorbed it. Every inch of her body was inflamed. Had any kiss in the history of the world been this perfect?

  A heightened sense of awareness stole over her. She was aware of everything. The pressure of his lips, the smell of the water, the feel of his skin against hers, the light of the moon shining down on them. And for an instant, everything was perfectly, absolutely clear, and she felt free for the first time in her life.

  She wished she could freeze this moment, stay like this forever suspended in Gideon’s embrace, forever capturing this fleeting moment of utter joy.