The Wedding Garden. Linda Goodnight
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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