The Wedding Garden Read Free

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. Childhoodand 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