The Wedding Garden. Линда Гуднайт

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