The Wedding Garden. Linda Goodnight
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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.