by Lori Wilde
“There are five categories,” Terri said. “Best Small-Town Garden, Best Urban Garden, Best Flower Garden, Most Creative, and Most Romantic.”
“Oh, and the gardens all have to be organic,” Flynn added.
“Considering that Twilight stands for romance, you would think we’d be a shoo-in for most romantic.” Marva took a sip of her tea.
“Especially if you were the garden’s architect, Caitlyn,” Dotty Mae said. “You’ve got the greenest thumb in North Texas and your own garden is the prettiest in Twilight.”
Completely caught off guard, Caitlyn looked around the table at the faces of her friends, and placed a palm over her chest. “You want me to plan and execute our town’s victory garden for a statewide competition?”
Ten heads nodded in unison.
“But I’m only twenty-five. You’re all older than I am.”
“And none of us half as talented with plants as you are,” Christine declared.
The compliment brought a warm flush to Caitlyn’s cheeks. Praise often embarrassed her. She lived a simple life and wanted only two things—to raise a happy, healthy son and to tend her plants.
“Thank you for thinking of me,” she said, “but really, I’m still picking up the pieces of my life. Kevin left our finances in ruin. The floral shop is struggling, Danny’s having trouble in school—”
“I thought things were better with Danny since Crockett started taking an interest in him . . .” Flynn winked. “And you.”
Crockett was the younger son of the richest man in town. Caitlyn wasn’t a woman much given to hatred, but if she hated anyone, it was J. Foster Goodnight. She had her reasons, and she didn’t owe anyone an explanation. But her feelings toward the father made her leery of the son. Then again, who was she to judge? Hadn’t she struggled for years to throw off her own controlling father’s influence?
Crockett’s baseball memorabilia store was right next door to hers on the square, and when business was slow, he’d pop over to regale her with jokes and stories about his days playing semiprofessional baseball. She had to admit that Crockett could get her to lighten up when no one else could with his lighthearted teasing.
She simply shook her head at Flynn. “Crockett and I are just friends.”
“Yeah?” Terri arched her eyebrows and grinned slyly. “That’s what Flynn used to say about Jesse.”
“You don’t want to get mixed up with Crockett,” Patsy said. “That boy has only one thing on his mind. I don’t trust him any further than I can throw him.”
“Crockett’s not so bad,” Belinda interjected. “He’s one of the most popular dates at the Sweetest Match. All the women seem to love him. He does know how to show the ladies a good time.”
“I don’t know, there’s something off about the boy.” Dotty Mae frowned. “He reminds me of Eddie Haskell from Leave It to Beaver. He’s all ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am’ and ‘what a nice dress you’re wearing today, Ms. Densmore,’ but behind those thick, dark eyelashes you can tell something sneaky is going on.”
“Well,” Raylene said, “J. Foster did drive his mother into the loony bin with his hard-living ways. That’s gotta affect a kid. Those boys were only what? Six and ten when their mother got carted off?”
“His brother turned out fine,” Terri said.
Patsy snorted. “Bowie? That man has anger issues. He goes around scowling and grumbling. I don’t call that exactly well balanced.”
“I think it’s a big bluff he puts on in defense against J. Foster. You have to be a warrior to go toe-to-toe with that old man.” Terri settled her cup into its saucer. “Bowie has a big heart. He was the first one to donate blood after those tourists were badly hurt in that boating accident a few years back, and I can’t ever forget the day he ran out in front of the delivery truck to snatch Gerald up out of the street just in the nick of time. My son would have been killed if it hadn’t been for Bowie. Gerald had just learned to walk and he broke free from my grip and just dashed into the road . . .” Terri trailed off, her eyes misted with tears.
Christine patted Terri on the back. “It’s okay. Gerald is fine.”
“I know, I know, but Bowie Goodnight will always have a soft place in my heart.” Terri plastered a hand over her heart.
“Honestly,” Emma said. “I didn’t really know them, but it sounds like both the Goodnight men have a lot of emotional baggage.”
“Amen to that.” Flynn reached for another cookie.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be losing my head or my heart over Crockett Goodnight,” Caitlyn assured her friends. “I harbor no illusions about him.”
“I say go for a booty call, I mean have you seen that boy? Butt like a Greek god, face like a cherub, a smile like Satan. Do him and then throw him away like a used tissue. Treat men the way they treat us,” Raylene said.
“Raylene!” everyone exclaimed.
Raylene glowered and snapped her fingers. “Hush y’all and pass the schnapps already, Dotty Mae.”
“You know, Ray, there’s always the possibility that Earl will come back,” Belinda murmured. “He does love you.”
“Booty call,” Raylene said firmly to Caitlyn, ignored Belinda, and tippled schnapps into her Assam. She held up the bottle. “Anyone else want a snort?”
“Let’s get back on track. About the victory garden contest,” Patsy said, steering the conversation where she wanted it to go.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Caitlyn said. “It’s an honor to be asked and I do thank you, but I just don’t have the time for volunteer work. I was even thinking of dropping out of the gardening club because it looks like I’ll be taking a part-time job to make ends meet.”
Or selling the flower shop.
She shoved that thought aside. Caitlyn loved being a florist almost as much as she loved being a mom and she’d do everything in her power to hang on to the shop. Well, except ask her father for money. Before she stooped to something that desperate, she’d sell a kidney on the black market.
But with her job skills or lack thereof, the only part-time position she qualified for required the utterance of phrases such as “You want fries with that?” She’d been a wife and a mother and Kevin’s assistant in the flower shop. That was the extent of her résumé.
“Did I mention that the job pays twenty dollars an hour?” Patsy asked. “Plus don’t underestimate the power of publicity. When we win this thing—and with you in charge, we will win it—you’ll have people flocking to buy flowers from the designer of the most romantic victory garden in Texas.”
Patsy’s unbridled optimism shot excitement up Caitlyn’s spine. But she was nothing if not cautious and she tamped down her enthusiastic mind which was already toying with plot design and flower selection. “It’s a paying position?”
“You’d get to dig in the garden and make money at your passion,” Patsy enticed.
She wanted to hope, but something didn’t sound right. Could her father be behind this offer? She wouldn’t put it past him. Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “Where’s the money for my salary coming from?”
“Town council has an overflow fund.”
“Why would they use it to fund a victory garden?”
“Because the grand prize is a hundred thousand dollars that would go into the town coffers if we won.”
Caitlyn stirred more honey into her tea. “And if we don’t win the grand prize?”
“We’d still have a beautiful victory garden to attract tourists. It’s a win/win situation.” Patsy ran a hand over her lap, flicking away cookie crumbs.
It seemed too good to be true. She didn’t trust too good to be true. Caitlyn narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“Well . . .” Patsy folded her napkin, paused for a long moment, and then took a deep breath. “The town council wants you to design the garden around your great-great-grandfather’s carousel.”
Gideon had once promised that he would fix up the carousel for her. Refurbish the damaged horses. Get the rusty ol
d mechanisms working again. Gideon had had the hands for it—broad palms, long deft fingers, a way with both wood and engines.
But Gideon was gone, just like her mother.
Ah, here it was—the catch to end all catches. Hope flickered out. “Do we have to use the carousel for the garden?”
“I’m afraid it’s a deal breaker,” Patsy said. “No carousel, no garden. The town council feels the carousel is the tourist draw.”
“Couldn’t we just make a carousel?”
“It wouldn’t have the historical significance. Imagine if we built our garden around the oldest functioning carousel in the state of Texas, that just happened to have been built by the son of the town founders and then lovingly restored to its former glory in a garden nurtured and designed by Jon and Rebekka Grant’s great-great-great-granddaughter. It’s the stuff of legends.”
“No.”
“It’s really—”
Caitlyn held up a palm, cutting Patsy off. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
“Could you at least—”
“Not doing it.”
“What other options do you have, Caitlyn?” Dotty Mae murmured. “You’ve got Danny to think about.”
Low blow. Caitlyn felt more than a little bit manipulated. They didn’t want her. They were only offering her a paying job in order to get their hands on the carousel and her heritage. “Ladies, I’d love to help, I really would. But honestly, I’d rather sell the flower shop before resorting to that.”
“If you could even find a buyer,” Patsy pointed out. “Real estate just isn’t moving in these tough economic times.”
“I’m sorry.” Caitlyn got up, pushed back her chair. “I have to pick Danny up from his playdate. If you all will excuse me . . .”
“Sure, sure.” Everyone got to her feet and headed for the door.
Patsy was the last one to leave. She paused at the threshold, met Caitlyn’s gaze. “I do hope you’ll reconsider. The victory garden would be a boon to both you and Twilight.”
“Thank you again for your offer.” She pressed her lips into a firm line. “But I prefer to solve my own problems. I don’t need to be rescued and I don’t like being used.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Patsy said, “but the door is still open if you change your mind. We have until next Monday to file the entry form.” Then she turned and followed the others.
Caitlyn shut the door behind them, her mind racing. A job creating the victory garden was the answer to her prayers. Too bad it came with strings tied so tightly that a chain saw couldn’t shear through them.
Chapter Two
Traditional meaning of poppy—eternal sleep.
Badakhshan Province, Afghanistan
Half a world away, former Green Beret sergeant Gideon Garza stared out across the craggy desert landscape. A black SUV, windows tinted darkly, smoke billowing out from behind the tires, raced toward his encampment.
Trouble coming. He could smell it.
His good hand automatically went to the gun he kept holstered at his chest, and in Pashto, he calmly instructed the children to go inside the tent. They could be mischievous and unruly, but his tone told them he wasn’t kidding around. Far too accustomed to sudden danger, the orphans quickly left their games and did as he asked.
He’d been hired by concerned family members to escort the ragtag youths from volatile living conditions in the Pashtun heartlands to the relative safety of the mountains near Faisabad. The orphans’ relatives couldn’t pay him much, but he wasn’t doing it for the money. He made the bulk of his six-figure annual salary providing personal security and translation services to British and American opportunists doing business in Kandahar and Kabul. He was just damn tired of seeing kids with their limbs blown off by land mines.
Yeah, you’re a regular flippin’ Princess Di.
Right now, he felt more like Clint Eastwood, gun drawn, muscles tensed, eyes steely, stance ready for action. The children behind him, the threat rapidly approaching, the wind at his back. All he needed now was the soundtrack to The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, because damn if he wasn’t all three rolled into one.
He’d set up the camp in a valley of stone outcroppings. The vehicle wouldn’t be able to just drive straight up on them. But it was close enough that he could make out that the SUV belonged to an infamous group of paramilitary subcontractors that, among other things, provided serious muscle to powerful and influential private citizens mucking around in war-torn countries. His competition. Why would they be interested in a handful of scraggly orphans? A chill ran through him at the potential answers. He steeled his spine, clenched his jaw.
The SUV halted at the lip of the rocky rim surrounding his encampment about five hundred yards from where he stood. His mind raced, but his heartbeat was slow and steady. Did he have a fight on his hands? There was only one vehicle. How bad could it be?
The driver’s side door swung open and a muscular man stepped out. Buzz haircut, dark sunglasses, desert fatigues, boots, AK–47 slung across his chest, all Mr. Badass. Gideon’s mirror image.
Rambo stood casually, but there was nothing casual about him. He mouthed something into a headset clipped to his ear and waited while the back passenger door opened and a greenhorn climbed to the ground.
The greenhorn and Rambo had a short powwow, then the greenhorn turned and headed toward Gideon.
It was almost worth the disruption to watch the balding man in the tailored Italian suit and leather loafers mince his way over the rocky terrain. He slipped several times in his attempt to navigate the hill. If Gideon hadn’t been full-on alert, he might have chuckled at the ludicrous sight.
One of the younger boys poked his head from the tent and made fun of the man.
“Get back inside,” Gideon said. “Now.”
The curious brown face disappeared, but he could hear childish giggles from the other side of the tent.
“Hello,” Italian Suit called out in a Texas twang.
“What do you want?” Gideon kept his voice low and even, one eye on the man in front of him, the other on Rambo, who was smoking a cigarette and lounging against the SUV. He could smell the burning tar. It had been a while since he’d heard the accent of his native land, and his suspicion escalated. He leveled the gun at the man’s head. “Arms up.”
Startled, Italian Suit shot his arms into the air, the briefcase clutched in his right hand banging against his head. “I’m looking for Gideon Garza. You’re him, aren’t you?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name is Lester LaVon and I’m from Twilight, Texas.”
The hairs on the back of Gideon’s neck stood at attention, but he’d be damned if he’d let his fear show. Twilight, Texas, scared him more than Rambo and company. “Long way from home. You aren’t in Texas anymore, Toto.”
LaVon looked confused. “Huh?”
“You’ve gone over the rainbow, Lester. There’s a field of poppies just beyond that next rise, and people delight in killing overfed white Americans for them. You find any yellow bricks around here, then you better run like hell.”
“Why are you speaking in riddles? I’m not following a word you’re saying.”
Gideon didn’t bother to explain his sarcasm. He simply nodded in the direction of the SUV. “Who’s your friend?”
“My escort.”
“Is he coming down for this little chat?”
“Our business is not his concern.”
“Clue me in. What is our business?”
“Must you point that gun at me?” LaVon shifted nervously, arms still extended over his head, briefcase resting on his balding pate.
“Until I know who you are and what you want, yeah, I must.”
“I told you, I’m—”
“I don’t mean your name. Who sent you?”
LaVon’s face flushed and sweat slid down his temple. “If you’ll just put away the gun . . .”
The hairs on the nape of Gideon’s neck were dancing now. Troubl
e, trouble, trouble. “Who sent you?” he repeated, but from LaVon’s shifty behavior, he already knew the answer.
“Umm . . .” LaVon licked his lips. “Your father.”
“I don’t have a father. His name was left off my birth certificate.”
“J. Foster Goodnight.”
“Ah, you mean the jerkwad who ignored my mother and me and then denied who he was when I confronted him.”
“He’s sorry about that and he wants to make amends.”
Gideon snorted. “I don’t believe you, and furthermore, I don’t give a damn if it is true.”
“Look, can I put my hands down now? This briefcase is getting heavy.”
Gideon was not inclined to trust him. Then again, Gideon wasn’t inclined to trust anyone. At twenty-seven, he’d already seen far more of the dark side of life than most men three times his age.
Moira Simon, the British relief aid worker he visited whenever he crossed over the border, had once told him he possessed the eyes of a very old soul. He didn’t believe in new age mumbo-jumbo, but her words had unsettled him. He felt very old.
Tilting his head, he sought out Rambo again. The hired gun was taking a leak against the back tire of his own vehicle. What a dog. But if he was relaxed enough to do that, he wasn’t expecting immediate danger.
Gideon let out his breath and nodded, but kept his gun leveled at the intruder. “You can put your hands down, but do it slowly.”
Inch by inch, LaVon lowered arms that trembled with exertion. “May I sit?”
Gideon indicated a large flat rock with a nod of his head. LaVon sank down on it, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and sopped his sweaty brow.
“Goodnight flew you all the way to Afghanistan?” He knew his biological father had both the money and political means to make that happen, he just couldn’t figure out why. Especially after all this time. He didn’t for one minute believe it was to make amends as LaVon claimed.
“He did.”
“How did you find me?”
“J. Foster kept up with your career. He knows what happened.” LaVon glanced pointedly at Gideon’s prosthetic hand.
