His whole body had gone into shock the minute Annie stepped out of the kitchen.

She had blossomed from a pretty girl into a stunner. Seeing her again had made him feel weak and needy.

He despised weakness, particularly in himself. His childhood and the military had taught him that. Be strong. Be tough. Never let them see you sweat.

Encountering Annie had made him sweat.

Over the years the girl he’d been crazy about as a teen had lingered in his mind. A turn of phrase, a song on the radio, a woman with high cheekbones could start the memories flowing fast and painful.

She was none too happy to see him, either, but she had good reason. What she didn’t know was that his reasons for leaving all those years ago were every bit as good as her reasons to despise him. He hadn’t told her then, and he sure wouldn’t tell her now why he’d had to leave Redemption.

He sighed. Protection was his business. He’d loved Annie enough to protect her at eighteen.

He’d protect her now with his silence.

LINDA GOODNIGHT

Winner of a RITA® Award for excellence in inspirational fiction, Linda Goodnight has also won the Booksellers’ Best, ACFW Book of the Year and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from RT Book Reviews. Linda has appeared on the Christian bestseller list and her romance novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages. Active in orphan ministry, this former nurse and teacher enjoys writing fiction that carries a message of hope and light in a sometimes dark world. She and husband, Gene, live in Oklahoma. Readers can write to her at linda@lindagoodnight.com, or c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

The Wedding Garden
Linda Goodnight

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

—John 8:32

To my cousin Kay, for prayers, kind words, and for literally going the extra mile during a very difficult time. Thanks, “Susie.”

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

There was a man in the house. Again.

Sloan’s stomach got that funny, sick feeling like he was going to vomit. He hated when Mama brought someone home at night. Someone drunk and noisy. He knew what people said about her. Joni Hawkins was no good, like her jailbird husband. They gossiped, said dirty things about her. He was eleven. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what the words meant.

They were all big fat liars.

He tiptoed down the dark hallway to the door, careful not to be heard. Mama would tell him to go back to bed. But he worried when she brought a man home.

He could hear them in there, but he couldn’t make out the words. The man’s voice rumbled, rising at times. Then Mama’s soothing tones would calm him down. She was good at soothing.

A narrow beam of light sliced along the edge of the wooden floor. Breath held, he placed his right eye against the skinny crack and slowly, slowly let the air ease out through his nose.

He couldn’t see much. A flash of Mama’s pink diner shirt. A man’s leg in dark pants. Dress-up pants. Sloan could see a big hand, too, held out toward Mama as though asking for something.

What was that on the man’s wrist? A watch? Sloan squeezed closer until the wood pressed hard into his face and his eyelashes folded back against his eyelid. Not a watch, a fancy bracelet with stones. Sloan held back a laugh, relaxing a little. Only a sissy would wear a bracelet like a girl. Who was in there?

“Mama?” he said before he could stop the word.

The voices inside the room stilled. Footsteps moved toward him. The door cracked open the tiniest bit and Mama’s face appeared.

“What are you doing up, Sloan?”

“Who’s in there with you?”

“Nobody important. Go back to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

More curious now than worried, he made no effort to leave. Mama reached out and smoothed his hair. “On my next day off, we’ll go fishing. Just me and you. Okay?”

When he nodded, his mama smiled. Then she shut the door.

He never saw her again.

Chapter One

Sloan Hawkins killed the purring Harley beneath the cool shade of a swaying willow, lowered the kickstand and stepped on to the leaf-strewn edge of Redemption River Bridge. A breeze sang through the green leaves and whispered around him, tickling like small fingers and bringing the wet scent of the red, muddy river to his nostrils.

Muscles stiff from long hours of riding, Sloan stretched in the May sunlight and listened to the crackle of his neck as he looked around. The river narrowed here, near the ancient bridge, then widened on its restless journey toward the town of Redemption. A knot had formed in his gut the moment the river had come into view. Redemption was a misnomer if he ever heard one. Condemnation was a better term.

Beneath the picturesque bridge, water trickled and gurgled, peaceful this time of year but still corroding the rocks and earth, eating away its foundation—a fitting metaphor for his hometown.

Sloan had never expected to cast another shadow in Redemption, Oklahoma, or to breathe the same air as Police Chief Dooley Crawford—or his daughter, Annie. A dozen years later, here he was.

“Never say never,” he muttered through three days’ growth of whiskers. Traveling cross-country on a motorcycle with nothing but a duffel bag didn’t afford luxury. Not that he couldn’t have them if he wanted, but the good citizens of Redemption didn’t need that information. They believed the worst of their “bad seed” and he hadn’t come back to change their minds.

Only one person and one scenario could have coaxed him back to the place that had both destroyed and made him. Lydia. And she was dying.

The pain of that knowledge was a hot boulder in his belly, a fist around his heart tight enough to choke him to his knees. Sometimes life stunk.

He cast a hard-eyed squint across the riverbank toward the historic little town that despised him. They called him trouble. Like father, like son. With a throaty, humorless laugh, Sloan climbed back on the seat and kick-started the bike.

“Prepare yourself, Redemption, because trouble’s back in town.”

G.I. Jack spotted him first. The grizzled-gray Dumpster diver had just crawled out of the industrial-size receptacle behind Bracketts’ furniture store when he heard the rumble. Any man with salt in his blood recognized the sweet music of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Though G.I. Jack couldn’t recognize the model, he recognized the rider.

He rapped the side of the trash bin with his knuckles and hollered, “Popbottle, get out here this minute. You ain’t gonna believe your eyes.”

Popbottle Jones—so named because of an unfortunate length of cervical vertebrae—rose from the proverbial ashes of someone else’s junk and snapped off his miner’s lamp.

“Pray tell, G.I., what are you prattling on about?”

“Sloan Hawkins is back in town, bigger than life and scarier-looking than old Slewfoot himself, riding like some dark knight on a Harley.”

Despite his advanced age, Popbottle Jones scrambled up from the Dumpster, hopped with practiced agility to the paved alley, and hurried to the end of the building for a better view. To the surprise of neither man, others had also spotted the unlikely visitor.

Tooney Deer stood at the yawning bay entrance of Tooney’s Tune-Up, wiping his hands on a red mechanic’s rag. Eighty-something handywoman Ida June Click paused in hammering a new awning over Redemption Register and yelled down at Kitty Wainright and Cheyenne Rhodes, who were just arriving at the newspaper office with a notice about the new women’s shelter.

Across the street, Roberta Prine scurried out of the Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon, mouth hanging open in both shock and thrill. Strips of shiny foil poked from her head like antennae, as if she was waiting to be beamed aboard the mother ship. She fished in her pocket for her cell phone. This was news. Big news.

Miriam Martinelli was spritzing Windex on the plate glass of the Sugar Shack Bakery in a never-ending battle against dust and fingerprints. Her employee, Sassy Carlson, pointed a roll of paper towels at the passerby.

“Who is that?”

“Well, I declare.” Miriam plunked the Windex bottle on a round table and shaded her eyes with a large, bony hand. The dark rider roared past. “It’s him, come back. And not a moment too soon. Praise be to Jesus.”

“Who, Miriam? Who is it?”

Miriam cast a look over her shoulder, and sure enough, Police Chief Dooley Crawford had wrenched back in his chair and was coming over, leaving his coffee and cinnamon roll. If time hadn’t faded the issue, he wasn’t going to like what he was about to see. Nor would his daughter.

“What are you two gawking at?” the chief asked, patting his shirt pocket for the ever-present roll of antacids. “Santie Claus coming down Main Street in the middle of May?”

The Harley had reached the red light by now. The rider eased to a stop with one black-booted foot balancing the massive bike. A thick silver chain rode low on the heel of the boot, giving it a dangerous look—as if the rider himself didn’t look dangerous enough.

Chief Dooley Crawford grunted once, shoved a Rolaids between his lips, and stormed out of the bakery.

Home-health nurse Annie Markham was in the rose-colored kitchen, one hand on the oak cabinet where she kept Lydia’s medications, when she heard the back door open. She stilled, cocked her head to one side and listened.

Her patient, the elderly Miss Lydia, was lying down. Annie’s two kids were at school. No one else was supposed to be in Lydia Hawkins’s beautiful old Victorian.

Annie listened again to be certain the house wasn’t settling and heard the creak of footsteps. A twinge of alarm tickled the hair on her arms. “Who in the world…”

No one locked doors in Redemption. Nothing bad had happened here for nearly thirty years. Not since Lydia’s no-account brother, Clayton, killed a man over a gambling debt. This was a good town, a safe town.

“Who is it?” she called.

A man’s voice came back, smooth and deep. “Lydia?”

Her anxiety evaporated. Someone had come to visit her sick patient. Probably Popbottle Jones. The odd old gentleman had been coming around more and more since Lydia’s health had gotten so bad. Strange, though, that he would enter through the back way via the gardens instead of knocking on the front door. Stranger still, he hadn’t knocked at all.

“I’ll be right there,” she said.

In case the visitor wasn’t Mr. Jones, Annie grabbed the closest weapon, a saucepan, and started out of the kitchen.

One step into the living room and she froze again, pan held aloft.

A hulking shape stood in shadow just inside the French doors leading out to the garden veranda. This was not Popbottle Jones. This was a big, bulky, dangerous-looking man. She raised the pan higher.

“What do you want?”

“Annie?” He stepped into the light.

All the blood drained from Annie’s head. Her mouth went dry as saltines. “Sloan Hawkins?”

The man removed a pair of silver aviator sunglasses and hung them on the neck of his black rock ’n’ roll T-shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves up, baring muscular biceps. A pair of eyes too blue to define narrowed, looking her over as though he were a wolf and she a bunny rabbit.

Annie suppressed an annoying shiver.

It was Sloan all right, though older and with more muscle. His nearly black hair was shorter now—no more bad-boy curl over the forehead, but bad boy screamed off him in waves just the same. He was devastatingly handsome, in a tough, rugged, manly kind of way. The years had been kind to Sloan Hawkins.

She really wanted to hate him, but she’d already wasted too much emotion on this outlaw. With God’s help she’d learned to forgive. But she wasn’t about to forget.

Mouth twitching in a face that needed a shave, Sloan stretched his arms out to the sides. “You can put away your weapon. I’m unarmed.”

She glanced at the forgotten saucepan and then lowered it to her side. After what he’d done, she should thump him with it for good measure.

She found her voice. “The bad penny returns.”

The quirk of humor evaporated. His expression went flat and hard. “That’s what they say.”

“Sneaking in the back way, too. Typical. Sneak in. Sneak out.”

Annie didn’t know why she’d said that. She wasn’t normally hateful, but Sloan had walked out on her twelve years ago without a word. To say she was shocked at his sudden, unexpected reappearance would be a massive understatement. Shocked, yes, but deeper emotions rattled around in her belly and set her insides to trembling. Anxiety. Anger. Hurt. All of them were stupid because she’d been over Sloan and that difficult time for years.

“You Redemption folks sure know how to roll out the welcome mat,” he said in a quiet voice edged with steel. He reached in the back pocket of his tattered jeans and pulled out a yellow paper. “No more than hit town and I get a ticket. Compliments of your old man. He still loves me, too.”

She ignored the too. What had he expected after what he’d done? A brass band and helium balloons? “You must have broken the law.”

Gaze holding hers, Sloan slid the ticket back into his pocket. “That’s what he always thought. Why change now?”

She wasn’t going to get into this. There had been a lifetime of animosity between Sloan and her police-chief father. Apparently, time didn’t change some things. She had a little animosity going herself, come to think of it.

“I suppose you want to see your aunt.” Though why he’d bothered to come now, when time was running out, mystified her. Where had he been all these years? If he cared anything for the elderly aunt who’d taken him in when no one else would, he should have come home before now.

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Considering I just rode thirteen hundred miles and I’m in her house, I’d say you’re right.” He shifted his weight to one hip. Something metallic jingled at his feet.

“Still got a smart mouth, I see.”

“One of my many talents.” He allowed a small display of teeth that looked nothing like a smile. “What are you doing here? The welcome committee send you out to harass me?”

“You think too highly of yourself, Sloan. No one knew you were coming and I doubt anyone cares.”

“Ouch.” He crossed his arms over that muscled-up chest. “When did you grow fangs?”

Annie drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t a rude person, but Sloan’s sudden appearance seemed to bring out the worst in her. If she was any kind of Christian, she’d stop letting him affect her right now.

“I’m Lydia’s nurse as well as her friend. I care for and about her.” She said the last as a dig. So much for not letting him get under her skin. She cared about the elderly woman who was everyone’s friend. She was here for Lydia. He hadn’t been. But then, “that Hawkins boy” had a history of running from responsibility.

He frowned. “A nurse. Full-time?”

Apparently, he hadn’t been in close contact or he would know his aunt was dying. “I look after her during the day. She stays alone at night, though she shouldn’t. Her choice, though.”

He swallowed. “How bad is she?”

Some of the fire went out of her.

“Some days are better than others,” she said softly. “But her heart is failing fast. I’m sorry, Sloan.” And she meant it.

With his hands fisted at his sides and a hard line to his mouth, he looked lethal. If sheer will could cure Lydia’s heart disease, Sloan would make it happen.

“Why isn’t she in the hospital?”

“Surely you know your aunt better than that. She wants to die here in her own home with her gardens and memories around her.”

He swallowed again and she could see he hadn’t been prepared for the news to be this bad.

“Her heart is only functioning at about twenty percent. She puts on a good show for company, but she tires easily.”

Sloan had no flip response. Annie would have felt better if he had. With a short nod, he headed to the staircase and started up.

“Sloan.”

He stopped, one hand on the polished banister as he looked down with narrowed eyes and a strange little twist to his mouth. “What now? You want to frisk me?”

The smart mouth was back. She was going to ignore it. “Lydia can’t negotiate the stairs anymore. We moved her things to the garden room.”

Those stunning eyes fell closed for three seconds before he retraced his steps and headed toward the opposite side of the house. But in those three seconds, she saw past Sloan’s tough facade the way she had in high school. Whether from guilt or out of love for his aunt, he was hurting.

Annie didn’t want to think of Sloan Hawkins as vulnerable or sensitive. She wanted to remember him as the self-centered teenager who’d abandoned her when she’d needed him most. Better yet, she wanted him to go back to wherever he’d been hiding and leave well enough alone.

As soon as he was out of sight, Annie slithered onto the couch and put her face in her hands.

The wild and troubled boy she’d loved in high school was back in Redemption messing with her emotions and threatening her hard-earned peace of mind.

Looking upward, she murmured a prayer. “Lord, I know Lydia needs him and I’m trying to be glad for her. But Sloan Hawkins can’t possibly bring anything but trouble.” She glanced toward the staircase. “Especially to me.”

Chapter Two

You could have knocked him over with a feather. Or with a two-cup, stainless-steel saucepan. Sloan’s lips quivered.

He’d expected to run into Annie Crawford sooner or later, but he hadn’t been prepared to see her here in Lydia’s house, working as a nurse.

His smile disappeared before it could bloom. She wasn’t Annie Crawford anymore. She’d married Joey Markham, a decent-enough guy, had kids, made a life.

Good. Fantastic. No reason for him to go on feeling guilty about the way they’d parted.

He did anyway. Like his mother’s disappearance, Annie was an issue he’d never fully resolved.

His whole body had gone into shock the minute she’d stepped out of the kitchen with that pot in her hands. He was furious about his reaction, but there it was. With her large green eyes and Cameron Diaz cheekbones, Annie had blossomed from a pretty girl into a stunner. Seeing her again had made him feel weak and needy.

He despised weakness, particularly in himself. Childhood and the military had taught him that. Be strong. Be tough. Never let them see you sweat.

He wiped at the moisture on his forehead. Encountering Annie had made him sweat.

There’d been other women in his life, though none in a while. His business soaked up most of his time. But the girl he’d been crazy about as a teen had lingered in his mind. A turn of phrase, a song on the radio, a woman with high cheekbones could start the memories flowing fast and painful. He’d long ago boycotted Cameron Diaz movies.

He’d have to boycott Annie Crawford Markham, too, though it wouldn’t be easy with her working here.

She was none too happy to see him, either, but she had good reason. What she didn’t know was that his reasons for leaving town were every bit as good as her reasons to despise him. He hadn’t told her then, and he sure wouldn’t tell her now why he’d had to leave. She’d never done one thing to deserve the grief dealt to her. Nothing except love the son of Redemption’s most reviled criminal.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Protection was his business. He’d loved Annie enough to protect her at eighteen. He’d protect her now with his silence.

Sloan’s thoughts ping-ponged in a dozen directions as he traversed the long hallway toward his aunt’s new living quarters. He hated knowing she couldn’t climb the stairs anymore. Strong, independent Lydia would hate it even more, but unlike her ill-tempered nephew, she would put on a happy face and find a blessing in moving downstairs.

Sloan grunted. He saw no blessing in dying.

Even after all this time, his feet knew the way through the big Victorian that had been his only refuge as a child. The house was still stunning with its gleaming oak trim, sky-high ceilings, and huge windows for admiring the considerable view. The upstairs held four bedrooms and baths, two of which boasted sitting rooms with balconies and fireplaces. He’d spent his teen years in one while Lydia had lived in the master suite overlooking the expansive backyard known as the wedding garden. Though surrounded by the Hawkins’s wealth, Sloan had felt like an outcast tainted by his father’s crime.

The vast downstairs was typical Victorian with an elegant parlor, a living room, the country kitchen and formal dining room complete with butler’s pantry, a library and study along with the garden room—a sunny space surrounded by windows looking out upon the backyard and Lydia’s beloved flower gardens.

It was to this room he came and found the oak-paneled door ajar.

His throat squeezed. Aunt Lydia lay on a hospital bed, her hands holding a book, a pale purple lap robe over her legs. She was dressed as he always thought of her in a print house dress; this one was blue. Oxygen hissed from a bedside tank into a tube looped around her head. Even from this distance he could see how frail she was.

She couldn’t be dying. Times like this he wished he believed in prayer the way she did.

He rapped a knuckle on the open door and said, “Aunt Lydia?”

Her head swiveled toward him. She released the book—a worn black Bible—and reached out, smiling wide. The joy in her face filled him with hope that he was more than Redemption gave him credit for.

“Sloan. You’ve come home.”

Sloan went to her then and took the outstretched fingers. They were cold. He kissed her cheek, breathed in her talcum-powder scent.

“Heard my best girl wasn’t feeling so hot.”

“Who told?” Her eyes were a tad too bright, her cheeks a little too rosy.

“You did.” Although the phone call from Ulysses E. Jones had gotten him moving.

“When?” she asked, disbelieving.

Still holding her pale, slender hand, he slid onto the chair next to her bed. “When you refused to go to Egypt with me.”

“I always wanted to see the pyramids.” The wheeze in her chest made him want to kick something.

“We’ll reschedule as soon as you’re feeling better.”

She patted his hand but didn’t say anything. The silence tore at him, a truth too terrible to be voiced.

“We’re only on trip number seven, Auntie. You can’t quit on me now.”

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.

“Mom, can I go to Brett’s and play video games?”

She turned to find her son at her elbow. “Maybe later. I’ll have to call his mother.”

Justin’s gaze followed Sloan down the hallway. “You like that guy?”

The question came out of nowhere. Annie turned to study her son’s expression. “I don’t even know him.”

“That’s not what Ronnie says.”

Ah. So that was it. She should have known someone like Roberta Prine would resurrect the past relationship between her and Sloan. “What exactly did he say to you?”

“Nothing. Just stuff. He’s a loser.”

“Was that why the two of you got in a fight?”

Avoiding her eyes, he hitched a shoulder. “Maybe.”

Lord, forgive me for not believing in him.

She hooked an elbow around his neck and bumped his head with hers. He was nearly as tall as her now. By summer’s end, he would likely surpass her. Someday he’d be as tall as his father.

“Rumors hurt people, Justin. You have to learn to ignore them. Okay?”

One bony shoulder hitched. “I guess.”

Being a single mother was the most difficult job she’d ever tried to do. Justin had never been an easy child, but pre-adolescence was doing a number on him—and her.

“Mom?” He stared at his sneakers. The strings were untied, but she knew better than to get into an argument over that. She was learning to choose her battles.

“What, son?”

He fidgeted another moment. “I love you.”

Annie’s throat thickened with emotion. “Oh, baby, I love you, too. You’re my heart, my life.”

She kissed his cheek, something he rarely allowed these days and was gratified when he grinned and didn’t yank away.

Delaney bounced into the room, her usual sunshiny self, with the handheld video game she’d gotten last Christmas. “Justin, will you play Pretty Miss Dress-Up with me?”

Annie could see how much her son did not want to play the girly game, but he stepped away from her and said, “Sure.”

From the time Delaney had been born, Justin had doted on his baby sister. Regardless of his attitude in other areas, he was a gentle, loving brother. The knowledge gave her hope that beneath the sometimes sullen boy was a good man waiting to bloom. At least, that was what she prayed for.

She left her children side by side on the couch, heads bent over the electronic game, and headed to Lydia’s room to begin their morning routine. When she reached the doorway, Sloan was standing next to the bed, his side angled away from Annie so he didn’t know she was watching him. Lydia was propped up on a mile-high stack of pillows with the hospital table alongside, her oxygen cannula making its monotone hiss. Sloan’s big, manly hands held a hairbrush which he was gently drawing through Lydia’s white hair, over and over again.

Annie’s chest constricted.

She didn’t want to think of Sloan as tender. She wanted to think of him as a user, a troublemaker, a jerk of the highest magnitude.

But he wasn’t always, a voice whispered.

She batted away the thought like a pesky fly and hurried back to the kitchen.

Company arrived at ten.

Sloan was behind the push-style lawnmower, sweating buckets, his T-shirt soaked when Annie stepped outside and asked him to help Lydia to the veranda.

“She prefers you to the wheelchair.” Annie seemed irked to involve him, as if she could have done the job just fine alone. She likely could have.

Wiping sweat, he went into the kitchen, stuck his over-heated head under the faucet for a long, refreshing minute. When he came up, water sluicing, Annie stood next to him, a towel in hand. “Don’t drip everywhere.”

She sounded like a mother. Or a wife.

He clenched his teeth. Why did she have to be underfoot every day? Why couldn’t someone besides Annie serve as Lydia’s nurse? He would have taken a room at Redemption Motel, but what good was coming home if he didn’t spend every spare moment with Lydia?

With an annoyed grunt, he grabbed the towel and scrubbed his face and head with more vigor than was needed, then went to do his aunt’s bidding. With Annie handling the portable oxygen bottle, Sloan scooped Lydia into his arms. She felt frail and fragile, skin over bones, and Sloan’s chest ached with sorrow. Before his very eyes, his aunt was fading away.

Out on the long, shady porch, Sloan encountered the man who’d telephoned him two weeks ago with the news that Lydia was unwell. Over the phone, Ulysses Jones sounded educated and well-to-do, but as Sloan recollected, Popbottle Jones didn’t look a thing like his voice.

“Sit with us, Mr. Hawkins. I doubt you remember me, but I recall your mother very well.”

Sloan stiffened. Lots of men had known his mother. “Yes, I remember you.”

Who could forget the local Dumpster divers, Popbottle Jones and his quirky partner, G.I. Jack? They were notorious for their “recycling business” as well as for knowing pretty much everything in town.

“Your mother was a kind and generous heart.”

Sloan relaxed onto a metal chair opposite his aunt, pathetically grateful to hear the compliment. “Yes, she was.”

His mother had been a soft touch for anyone down on his luck or needing a place to crash for the night. After she’d left, Redemption seemed to have forgotten her good qualities. Sloan never had, though he’d been scared and angered by her abandonment. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe she had driven away and left him.

Annie came through the French doors carrying a tray of lemonade. She slid the flowered tray onto the round patio table. Fresh lemons bobbed in a clear pitcher. “Lydia’s recipe, though not as good as hers, I’m sure.”

Lydia’s lemonade was legend, as were the garden parties and weddings held here in the garden where lemonade had been the drink of choice.

“Are you okay out here?” Annie said to Lydia. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine, honey. Why don’t you sit and visit a spell? You work too hard.”

“I shouldn’t.” Annie glanced at Sloan and he had a feeling that her refusal had more to do with him than work.

“Sit down, Annie.” The command came out much gruffer than he’d intended. But she sat.

Sloan didn’t miss the glance Lydia and Popbottle Jones exchanged. He glowered at both of them.

“The mimosa is blooming,” Lydia said, probably to break the tense silence.

Early summer was upon them, warm and shining. Pink mimosa blossoms cast a sweet perfume over the vast yard. Hummingbirds and bees competed for the sweet nectar, creating a constant, pleasant buzz. Most summers the garden—locally known as the Wedding Garden—was also abuzz with wedding preparations. Dozens of Redemption citizens had married in the Hawkins’s backyard.

As if she couldn’t sit still more than two minutes, Annie got up and busied herself with handing around glasses of lemonade. Dry from yard work, Sloan downed his in two drinks. The tart cold cut through the dust and thirst.

“Your roses look puny, Aunt Lydia.” Ice rattled as he aimed his drippy glass toward a trellis covered in withered vines and limp pink flowers.

“They need tending, but…” Expression sad, Lydia lifted a hand tiredly. She, who had spent hours and hours tending and coddling this garden for her pleasure and the pleasure of others, had no more gardening left in her.

Now, as he took the time to really observe, Sloan saw the neglect taking a toll. More than the roses suffered. Weeds had taken over, choking out the young plants and hiding the old ones. Trees and bushes were overgrown and shaggy with more than a few dead branches. No bride had planned a wedding here in a long time.

Not that he cared about that, but Lydia would. Her beloved garden spread for more than an acre beyond the porch. A place of light and shade and peace, the garden had been here since the first Hawkins bride moved in after the Land Run of 1889. Occupants through the years had added their touches, and the garden had become a source of pride and pleasure to Aunt Lydia and the whole of Redemption.

“I recall some merry occasions in this garden,” Popbottle Jones intoned.

“Me, too,” Annie said. She’d perched again, close enough that Sloan smelled apples and had to fight down a miserable yearning. “I caught Claire Watson’s bouquet right over there.” She lifted one finger from her half-empty glass to point.

Sloan’s chest tightened. He remembered that afternoon. Annie was a bridesmaid in pink, a hundred times more beautiful than the bride. A giggling batch of females had scrambled for the tossed bouquet, but as if guided by a homing device, the flowers had fallen into Annie’s hands. Everyone in attendance had turned to look at him. Cat-calling male attendees had pounded him on the back and made remarks about the old ball and chain. Annie had blushed and looked so happy Sloan had wanted to marry her then and there.

He clunked the glass on the table. Ice cubes rattled. “I’ll tend them.” The words came out gruff, angry. Well, what if they had? He was angry, though mostly at himself.

When the gathered company gazed at him with surprised faces, he turned and left the porch.

Redemption’s Plant Farm and Garden Center smelled green and wet. Customers browsed up and down the long aisles filled with flats and potted plants, some in flower, some not. A man in coveralls carried a burlap-wrapped tree in each hand while the woman with him rattled on about a bird bath and wind chimes. Outside workers loaded a truck with patio urns and garden furniture.

Sloan fisted his hands on his hips and gazed around at the bewildering array of plants, bags, sprays, and tools. He didn’t know a lot about gardening but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. In fact, he’d do more than water and feed the roses. He was dying for some sweaty, hard work to keep him busy. Mowing the lawn was quick. Revitalizing the garden his aunt loved would not be.

“May I help you, sir?” A familiar-looking woman in no-nonsense work pants and long-sleeved shirt approached him. Middle-aged, maybe older, she had short blond curls, a serious overbite and a healthy tan. Miller. Her name was Miller—Delores, he thought—and her family had operated the plant farm for years.

“I want to revitalize my aunt’s flower gardens. Any advice?”

“Depends on what you want to do. Who’s your aunt? Maybe I know her tastes.”

“Lydia Hawkins.” He tensed, waiting for the relationship to register and the expected censure.

Recognition flickered but her expression remained mild, not the cold-faced glare he’d gotten at the drug store.

“Lydia. God love her. How is she doing?”

“Not well, but thanks for asking.”

“I heard you’d come back. Figured Lydia’s health had taken a turn.” Frowning, she reached down and plucked a yellowed leaf from a flat of petunias. He was sure they were petunias because the little white plastic stick said so. “Best gardener in the county. I never knew how she managed the Wedding Garden on her own.”

Sloan had helped some as a boy, though not nearly enough now that he looked back. He’d been good for little except causing trouble.

“She can’t take care of them anymore. From the looks of things, she hasn’t done much in years.”

“I’d say you’re right. I haven’t seen her in here in a long time. Doesn’t even get out to church that often and you know how faithful she is to the Lord.”

More faithful than the Lord was to her, apparently.

“Can you help me out with the garden?” he asked. “Give me some idea of what I need and where to begin?”

“You planning to have weddings there again?”

The idea took him aback. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

“You should. Come on. Let’s see what we can find.”

She led the way to a counter strewn with papers, a trowel, a box of seed packets, a hunk of burlap and a good amount of loose, black dirt. She went behind the counter and bent down, disappearing from sight. Her muffled voice rose up to where he waited.

“This town needs that wedding garden. Tradition, you know. History matters here in Redemption. I suspect Lydia, bless her heart, needs it, too. You’re a good nephew to do this.”

Sloan’s mouth quivered. First time he’d been accused of that.

“Somewhere in this mess I actually have files of my best customers. Sometimes even a photo or two. Customers like to brag on their handiwork and I like to see where my plants thrive. You can be sure I have plenty of Lydia’s yard. Ah, here we go.”

She popped up with a plain manila file boldly labeled “Lydia Hawkins.” Inside was a mishmash of invoices and hand-written notes.

“See this picture?” She plopped a snapshot in front of him. “We can start with this.”

“Okay.” He still didn’t know where to begin.

Mrs. Miller laughed. “I can see you’re lost. Come on, then, I will load you up and give you a crash course. Then you call me or come by anytime you have a question. Got your truck?”

“Uh, no.” He turned to glance out at the parking area. Two men were standing close to his bike, talking. His shoulders tensed. “I’m on my motorcycle.”

“You can’t carry supplies on a motorcycle. One of the boys can deliver. Let’s get started.” She hollered toward someone in the back. “Mack, bring a dolly. We got a live one.”

She laughed again and Sloan decided he liked this no-nonsense woman. She didn’t seem to care that he was the notorious Hawkins boy. He shot another look at the parking lot, found the men gone, and relaxed.

As Mrs. Miller dragged him from plants to fertilizers to animal repellents, she hollered out orders and greetings, stopping now and then to chat with customers.

Three people stopped Sloan to ask about Lydia, but other than a couple of curious stares and the men coveting his Harley, the outing was amazingly benign.

Would wonders never cease?

By the time he slipped on his shades and roared away on his bike, he’d bought several hundred dollars’ worth of supplies and his head spun with advice. But a sense of excitement hummed in his veins. He didn’t give a rip about pleasing the town, but he could restore the Wedding Garden for Lydia…and stay under Annie’s radar at the same time.

As he approached the main section of town, he downshifted and cruised past stately homes, historic buildings and businesses that hadn’t changed all that much in a decade.

For the first time since he’d returned, he really looked at the town he’d once called home. Redemption was a beautiful place, idyllic some would say, with neat green lawns and clean fresh air.

There was even a story that healing flowed in Redemption River—or some such nonsense as that.

Sloan gave a short, mirthless laugh.

It was a story, nothing more, meant to attract tourists.

According to his aunt and his mother, Redemption was a town of good and caring people. He’d spent his whole life wondering where they were.

Thinking about the river gave him the urge to ride out to the bridge. The gardening center wouldn’t deliver until tomorrow anyway, and he sure wasn’t doing anything else. The longer he could avoid Annie and the curious buzz she created in his veins, the better.

He circled around Town Square, catching a glimpse of Tooney Carter, who raised a hand in greeting. Sloan nodded. He and Tooney had fished together as boys and gotten into more than their share of trouble along the way. Maybe he’d stop in sometime and catch up with his old friend. Funny that he’d want to.

Feeling positive about the day’s work and the fact that he hadn’t heard one cruel remark about his family, he gunned the engine and headed north toward the river bridge. With the wind in his face and the powerful Harley rumbling beneath him, Sloan felt free.

He’d begun humming “Born to Be Wild” when a siren ripped the peaceful atmosphere behind him.

Sloan glanced in his side mirror and groaned.

Chief Dooley Crawford had spotted him.

So much for his one good day in Redemption.

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