The Wedding Garden

Her eyes sparkled. “You and your lists.”

Sloan didn’t remind her that the trip list was her doing. After his business had begun to prosper, he’d asked her to write down ten places she’d like to visit. He’d taken her to seven of them and had a dozen more in mind. If he could give her the world, he would.

The oxygen hiss reminded him that time was running out to give her anything but himself.

“Fancy necklace you’re wearing there, Miss Lydia.”

She patted the green oxygen tubing. “You know me. I like to look pretty. Did you talk to Annie?”

“You could have warned me.”

“Didn’t know you were coming.”

She wouldn’t have told him anyway. After Annie had married, Sloan refused to discuss her. What was the point? If Lydia hadn’t shoved the information on him, he wouldn’t have known about her kids.

“She’s divorced now.”

He jerked. He’d missed that piece of information. “Too bad.”

“Yes, it is. Annie’s a good Christian girl and a great friend to me. Joey didn’t do right by her.”

Sloan felt his jaw tighten. “What do you mean?”

And when did Annie get religion?

“There was gossip about Joey and other women for a long time.” Lydia paused for a breath. Her chest heaved. “Two years ago, he left Annie for a woman over in Iron Post. He doesn’t even bother to visit those kids.”

Anger stirred in Sloan’s belly. If he had Joey Markham’s pretty-boy face in sight, he’d break his nose. “She chose him.”

“After you left.”

“That was a long time ago. We were kids. We both got over it and moved on.”

Lydia studied him for an extended second. She was wearing down fast, a fact that made him ache.

“Be nice, Sloan. Annie’s had enough heartache.”

Go ahead and lay on the guilt. He was used to it. “Why, Aunt Lydia, I’m always a nice guy.”

He showed his teeth and she swatted his arm the way she’d done when he was a kid. “Are you hungry?”

This time the smile was real. Aunt Lydia was a true Southern lady who believed in the power of food. “I’ll grab something later.”

“There’s plenty in the kitchen. Annie makes enough to feed the Seventh Cavalry. Meals are not part of her job, but I can’t make her stop.”

He’d scrounge the kitchen after Annie went home. “Nice of her. I’m here now. I’ll cook for both of us.”

“You and Annie can work that out.”

He didn’t think so.

“I don’t think Annie likes having me around that much.” But she’d have to deal with him anyway. Lydia was his aunt and he wasn’t budging.

“That’s because you look like something the cat dragged in,” she said with affection. “What did you do, hitchhike?”

He glanced down at his tattered jeans and scuffed boots. He probably smelled a little ripe, too. “Motorcycle.”

“Can’t afford an airplane?”

He grinned. She knew better. Lately, he’d considered buying one of his own. “I had some serious thinking to do.”

“Did you get it done?”

He managed a short laugh. “No.”

“Then you shouldn’t be sitting here—” she paused to take a breath “—with a wheezy old lady. Go on back to Virginia and save the world. Your work is too important to be worrying over me.”

“You’re not going to run me off that easy.” As long as he had his smart phone and a fax machine, he could work from anywhere. “I’m staying as long as you need me.”

“Are you sure about that, honey? You were always so adamant about never coming back to Redemption. I don’t want you hurt again.”

Which meant the dirty laundry in a small town wasn’t forgotten, no matter how long a man stayed away. “I want to be wherever you are. That’s all that matters.”

“Then give me a kiss and go take a shower.”

She was tiring. He could hear fatigue in the staccato speech and see the tinge of gray around her lips. Even a short conversation was too much for her fragile heart.

Obediently, he kissed her crepe-paper cheek, his insides crying like a baby, and headed for his old upstairs bedroom and a long, hot shower.

As he grabbed the banister and started up the curvy wooden staircase, he heard Annie’s voice in the kitchen. Without guilt, he stopped to listen. He’d discovered the value of eavesdropping, whether with a planted listening device or an ordinary ear.

“Oh, not again.” She sounded none too happy. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Granger. Okay, I will. Yes, right away.”

Then the receiver thumped hard on to the cradle. A whimper of dismay was followed by the scrape of chair legs and another whimper.

Sloan frowned and stepped around the wall into the warm, sunny kitchen.

Annie sat at the round table, head down on folded arms. Honey-blond hair spilled over a long barrette onto the polished oak. Her shoulders heaved.

Oh, man. Was she crying?

In answer, Annie drew in a hiccoughing breath and sniffed.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly, out of his element and unsure of what to do at this point. Give him a terrorist or a man with a gun any day. A crying woman was far more frightening.

He reached out, hand hovering above the soft-looking hair.

Don’t do it. Don’t touch her.

She sniffed again.

He touched her.

Someone was touching her.

Annie sat upright. Sloan hovered next to her chair…and his hand was on her hair.

Heart thudding erratically, she jerked away.

Sloan’s hand was left suspended in midair. He folded it against his side.

“What are you doing?” she asked. And why did she sound breathless?

“Listening to you cry. What’s wrong?” Forehead wrinkled, mouth tight, he looked as if he wanted to strangle someone. Hopefully not her. On second thought, after the phone call, she might let him.

“Nothing.”

“Oh right, sure. Peeling onions again.”

In spite of herself, Annie nearly smiled. “You were always such an idiot.”

“Another of my talents.” He handed her a napkin from the hand-painted napkin holder Lydia had bought on a trip to Japan.

Hoping to regain her composure, Annie took her time, dabbed at each corner of her eyes, dotted underneath, then patted her cheekbones.

Sloan turned a chair around backward and straddled it. “Tell me.”

“I haven’t talked to you in twelve years. Why start now?” She sounded as petulant as she felt.

“Explain why you’re crying and I’ll go away.”

She rolled her eyes. “For another twelve years?”

His expression was bland, but something flickered in those electric-blue eyes. “You’re stuck with me for a while.”

Annie’s stomach dipped. Sloan Hawkins underfoot day after day? “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” He studied the end of his fingernail. “Who was that on the phone?”

Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe this man. Less than an hour in town and he was prying into her life? “Were you eavesdropping?”

He abandoned the troublesome nail to lift both palms. “Well, yeah. So tell me unless you want a bug on the phone.”

“A what?”

He didn’t seem too happy about the strange statement, and now Annie was the one who wanted to pry. What had Sloan been doing since high school?

“I’m being an idiot again,” he said. “You need an aspirin or something?”

“No, I need for my son to behave himself.” Tears pushed up behind her nose. She was sure her eyes had gone all watery. “He’s in trouble at school. Again.”

“And? What did he do?”

She couldn’t believe this. She hadn’t communicated with Sloan Hawkins since before her senior prom and now he was sitting across the table expecting her to spill out her troubles the way she used to.

Oh, why not? No one else was listening and no matter what he said, Sloan would be gone before the week was out. He owed her a little child-rearing advice.

“Justin got in a fight.”

“Is he okay?”

She hadn’t expected him to show concern. “He won’t be when I get through with him.”

Sloan whistled softly. “Mean Mama. Boys fight. It’s normal.”

“Not at school.” Besides, what would Sloan know about normal? “He never behaved this way until—” She pushed up from the table. She was not going to talk about Joey or the divorce. Not to Sloan Hawkins. “Tell Lydia I’ll be back in time to give her her medications.”

Sloan unwound his tall body from the wooden chair. “Need company?”

Right. Like she wanted any more problems in her life. Without answering, she grabbed her purse and hurried out the door.

She was back in thirty minutes, flustered, clearly upset, and dragging a belligerent-faced boy who looked like a miniature, male version of his mother.

Kicked back on the flowered sofa, answering e-mails on his smart phone, Sloan pretended to ignore their tense conversation.

“There are three days left until school is out,” Annie was saying. “Why did you have to get in a fight now?”

“He was picking on me.”

“What did he do?”

The kid clammed up.

Annie’s hair had come loose from the big barrette and lay on her shoulders. She shoved angrily at an unlucky strand.

“If you won’t tell me what happened, then I have to assume you did something you shouldn’t have.”

The conversation was giving Sloan a serious case of déjà vu. He shifted, uncomfortable.

The boy—Justin, wasn’t it?—crossed his arms and glared at the wall behind Annie. Whatever had happened, he wasn’t going to tell his mother. And that had Sloan wondering.

“To hear your side of the story—” Annie said. She had her hands on her hips, ready to tear into the boy. “—it’s never your fault and everyone picks on you.”

This wasn’t his business. He should keep his mouth shut. Exhaling a single huff of air, Sloan lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward. He’d always been lousy at remaining neutral. “Maybe they do.”

Annie whirled on him, green eyes shooting sparks. “Are you still here?”

She was gorgeous all fired up.

He shrugged. “I’m a male. We like to watch explosions.”

Justin snickered. Annie glowered. “Stay out of this.”

Sloan lifted both hands in surrender. Annie was not in the mood for his jokes.

She poked a finger in the boy’s face. “You’d better start talking, Justin.”

“Or what, Mom? You gonna ground me again?” Justin made a rude noise. “Like I care. Big whoopin’ deal.”

Sorry kid, you went too far. Sloan shoved against his knees and stood, rising to his full six feet two. He kept his tone mild but firm. “Don’t smart-mouth your mother.”

A little squeak escaped Annie. Her mouth opened and closed.

Lip curled, Justin glared at him. “Who are you?”

Sloan offered a hand as if the two had been introduced at church. “Sloan Hawkins. Miss Lydia is my aunt.”

Justin stared at the hand for two beats and then shook. The kid had a wimpy handshake. Better toughen up, kid. Life is hard.

“You owe your mother an apology.”

“What do you know about it?” But Justin dropped his gaze, some of his belligerence fading.

“I know she’s a good mother who went running when you needed her. Better appreciate having someone in your corner.” This time Annie didn’t tell him to back off. A good thing because he wouldn’t anyway. No one was talking to Annie like that in his presence. Not even her son.

Justin studied the tops of his untied sneakers and mumbled in a more polite tone. “Am I grounded?”

Annie pushed. “Are you going to tell me why you hit Ronnie Prine?”

“No. But he deserved it.”

Sloan was starting to believe the kid. He’d been there, done that. Bullies didn’t change. If they found a tender spot, they’d pick at it until you bled or exploded. Justin had exploded.

Annie sighed, a long-suffering huff of air. “You have in-school suspension for the rest of the week. I suppose that’s enough, if you promise to control your temper and stay out of trouble.” Tiredly, she rubbed two fingers over her forehead. “Now go finish your homework.”

The kid pivoted to leave the room. Sloan stopped him. “Wait a minute.”

Eyes rolling, body cocked to one side in an expression of annoyance, Justin said, “What?”

“Don’t you have something to say to your mother?”

Justin squirmed, clearly not wanting to lose face, but when neither adult relented, he muttered, “Sorry, Mom.”

Sloan narrowed his eyes and studied the lanky boy. Something about his stance was uncannily familiar. “How old are you, kid?”

Annie shot him a long look.

“Eleven. What’s it to you?”

Maybe more than either of us knows.

Eleven. Justin was eleven. With that worrisome little tidbit eating into his brain like a woodworm, Sloan did the math and considered the possibilities.

Nah, he couldn’t be.

Could he?

Chapter Three

Bluetooth headset attached to his ear like an oversize cockroach, Sloan exited his bedroom with an armload of clothes to toss in the washer.

“Yeah, send Blake and Griffith with the ambassador’s family. Some segments of Manila aren’t excited about his mission. We may encounter problems there. Tell the team to be on their toes.” As head of Worldwide Security Solutions, he contracted with the government and military on a regular basis. This latest assignment in the Philippines had him worried. Muslim extremists had infiltrated the area. “Sure, no problem. How’s the issue in Afghanistan we discussed yesterday?”

Listening intently, he rounded the top of the stairs…and slammed into Annie. The bundle of clothes went flying. Annie stumbled back and started to fall. Instinctively, Sloan reached out, grasped her upper arms and yanked forward. Annie ended up cradled in his arms, against his chest.

His first sensation, besides the adrenaline pumping like pistons through his bloodstream, was the smell of her hair. He’d teased her in high school about washing her hair in apple juice. Apparently, she still did.

The second thought was of how she fit against him, curved in all the right places and softer than silk. She must have been stunned, too, because she didn’t move for several seconds. Several torturous seconds while he flashed back to age nineteen and the wild, desperate love he’d felt for Annie Crawford.

His throat went dry. This was not good, not good at all.

He told his arms to release her. He told his legs to step back one stair step. His well-trained body, capable of taking out an enemy in three-point-six seconds, would not obey.

The voice in his ear said his name. Once. Twice.

“Later,” he muttered, too distracted to remember the business conversation.

While he battled inwardly, both reveling in the touch and dismayed at the yearning, Annie stiffened.

“Excuse me,” she said, voice muffled against his Harley T-shirt. When he didn’t move, she wiggled away, retreating one step so that he was looking down into her upturned face.

She wasn’t happy about the unexpected contact either. Above the blush cresting on her cheekbones, her big green eyes looked even bigger. Her chest rose and fell like an escapee, and her mouth was pinched tight and tilted down. She looked repulsed.

His touch repulsed her.

Grinding his molars, Sloan gave a short nod he hoped passed for an apology and bent to retrieve his laundry. Silently, Annie gathered a shirt and a pair of jeans from the banister. As Sloan reached for the items, she held one end and he the other. Their eyes met and held, as well. A feeling rose between them that he did not want to identify. A feeling more dangerous and disturbing to his peace of mind than the work in Afghanistan.

Finally, he grumbled, “Thanks,” and bounded down the stairs like a man running from his past.

Sloan and Annie tiptoed around each other for another three days before the ice began to thaw. He didn’t know why that mattered except being in the same house all day with a silent frozen woman was pure discomfort.

He was plagued by memories of the way they’d been in high school, made worse by that moment on the stairs.

The day after school dismissed, Annie brought both her kids to the house because of sitter problems.

“Never mind about your work rules,” his aunt had said to Annie. “This is my house and if I want to invite those children, I will. Tell your boss I said so.”

It was not yet seven o’clock when they arrived, and Sloan sat at the kitchen table, draped over a copy of USA TODAY and a fragrant cup of extra-sweet coffee.

“Morning,” he mumbled, determined to be civil. “I made coffee.”

“Thank you.” If she got any stiffer, she’d be cardboard.

Justin slouched in, all arms and legs and loose ends, looking like trouble but saying nothing. The kid had an attitude as bad as Sloan’s.

Sloan studied the kid with interest. After fiddling with the dates until he had brain lock, he had concluded that Justin was not his son. Annie had married the summer after Sloan’s departure—which allowed time for Joey to be Justin’s father. Sloan considered asking Annie straight out, but figured he was wrong anyway, and she already thought he was pond scum. The boy looked nothing like him. Their only similarity was a bad attitude which Sloan was fairly certain was not genetic. No use starting trouble. He had enough of that without trying.

Last night, he’d ridden his motorcycle into town to pick up Lydia’s prescriptions and could feel the stares burning a hole in his back. He’d no more than given the Hawkins name to the pharmacist when a woman approached him. Sloan hack-led. His memories of Roberta Prine were not fond ones.

“Say, you’re Sloan Hawkins, aren’t you? Clayton Hawkins’s son.” She’d snapped her fingers as if trying to remember something. “And his wife—what was her name? Worked over at the diner? Janie?”

Sloan skewered her with a dark glance. If she was trying to get a rise out of him by pretending ignorance, she was succeeding.

“Joni,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“That’s right. Now I remember.” Right. As if she’d actually forgotten. “She’s the one that run off with a trucker, wasn’t she? Sure was a crazy thing to do, leaving you behind and all. Did you ever hear from her again?”

Never let ’em see you sweat.

With a cocky grin he didn’t feel, Sloan leaned in and imitated her tone. “Say, aren’t you the mom of that mean little creep, Ronnie? And isn’t that your broom parked by the curb outside?”

Roberta jerked back, face flushing bright red. “Well, I never!”

Sloan showed his teeth in a feral smile. “Now you have.”

Taking the white sack from the stunned pharmacist, Sloan spun on his boot heels. A titter of conversation followed him.

“That’s the thanks I get for being neighborly.”

“Never was much good.”

Sloan had clenched his fists and kept moving, exactly as he’d learned to do as a boy.

Well, he wasn’t a boy anymore. He would handle the Redemption gossip for Lydia’s sake. What he wasn’t handling particularly well was the tension between him and Annie.

Lifting his coffee cup, he watched her move around the kitchen to prepare Lydia’s breakfast. If any woman could look good in nurse’s scrubs, Annie did. This morning her hair was on her shoulders, held back from her forehead by a brown clip of some kind. Wispy little curls flirted around her cheekbones.

Ah, those cheekbones. He remembered the feel of her silky skin beneath his thumbs, the salty taste of her tears when he’d butted heads with her father.

Sloan slid his gaze away from Annie and the torrent of reminders. Why couldn’t he get his brain under control?

Justin slouched into the room across from Sloan. His dark blond hair was still damp, as if his mother had forced him to water it down. Sloan had done the same thing when he was a kid. Splash with water, hit it once with a comb and call it done. The teenage years and girls would change Justin’s grooming habits.

“Morning,” Sloan said.

Justin gave him one of those looks that said he’d rather die than be awake this early. Sloan grinned against his coffee cup.

Annie walked by and stroked a hand lovingly over the boy’s messy hair.

That quick, Sloan was tossed back a dozen years. He had been hanging out at the river with a bunch of other kids. Some guy had called him the son of a slut and a jailbird. Naturally, he’d punched the goon in the face. This hadn’t gone over well with the goon’s friends and before he could make an escape, Sloan had six guys kicking his ribs in. Annie had come flying to his defense, screaming her head off that she was going to tell her father on them. They’d backed off, and she’d knelt beside him on the ground, cradled his head and stroked his hair.

That was the day he’d fallen in love with Annie.

He closed his eyes against the memory, and when he opened them again, a dimpled darling with big brown eyes, a hot pink headband, and a nearly white ponytail stood at his side.

“You’re Sloan. Justin told me about you.” She frowned up at him with interest. “You don’t look that mean.”

A pitcher of juice in one hand and a glass in the other, Annie looked aghast. “Delaney!”

Sloan chuckled, glad for the distraction. His head was giving him fits. “I’m never mean to little girls with ponytails.”

She climbed up on the chair beside him. Her swaying ponytail brushed his arm. “I drew you a picture.”

“Yeah?” He knew next to nothing about kids, but this one charmed him.

She displayed a neatly colored, crudely drawn playground, complete with the smiley-faced sun. “You can hang it on the refrigerator. That’s what Mom does. Have you got any Scotch tape? I’ll hang it for you.”

“Why don’t you show your drawing to Miss Lydia first?” Annie said. “Ask her if she feels up to coming to the table this morning.”

More and more of Lydia’s time was spent inside the garden room.

“Okay.” Delaney hopped down and bounced out of the kitchen, taking a ray of sunshine with her.

“Cute kid.” he said. “How old is she?”

“Nine.” Annie’s whole face softened with love. “Delaney is a blessing, has been from the moment she was born.”

Unlike the churlish boy? he wanted to ask, but didn’t. Justin was sitting right across the table, wolfing down half a box of Cheerios.

Almost immediately, Delaney skipped back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Miss Lydia liked my picture.”

“I knew she would. Is she up to sitting with us for breakfast?”

“Not this morning, she said. Maybe tomorrow.”

Annie and Sloan exchanged unhappy glances.

“That’s what I figured, but I wanted to ask.” She slid Lydia’s breakfast plate onto a tray, added a tiny cup of pills and started toward the doorway.

“I’ll take that,” Sloan said and swallowed the last of his coffee. The fresh-ground brew went down smooth and warm.

“Thanks.” She smiled. And that simple little action made his belly flip-flop. He wanted to blame the caffeine, but he was a realist. Annie was getting to him big time.

He reached for the tray. Their hands touched. He grunted and made his escape.

Frankly, after a week he needed something better to do than to stare at Annie and relive memories of a painful past. A man of action, he was accustomed to fourteen-hour days and frequent trips all over the globe. Here in Redemption his smart phone kept him busy but not busy enough to keep his eyes and mind off Annie. Not being a man who particularly enjoyed suffering, he didn’t want to notice her. She obviously didn’t want to be around him, either.

He spent as much time with Lydia as her health allowed, but his sick aunt slept more than she was awake. When she felt up to it, he carried her to the veranda for some fresh air. Yesterday, he’d found the weed-whacker and gone to work on the fast-growing weeds around the porches. Today he’d find a lawnmower if he had to buy a new one. Anything to stay clear of Annie and those troubling memories.

Annie watched Sloan all the way down the hallway, walking in a loose-limbed strut exactly like Justin’s. She’d been terrified when he’d roared in on his Harley and intruded on her safe world. People in town were already talking, speculating on where he’d been and what he’d been doing. Most remembered him with sympathy as that poor little Hawkins boy whose mother ran off and whose father died in prison. But not everyone had been as kind. Some said he was a drug dealer. She’d done her best to squelch that rumor. Not that she had a clue what his life was like, but the Sloan she remembered was scared of anything addictive. He’d said his life was out of control enough. He wasn’t about to let drugs take over.