The Wedding Garden (7 page)

“‘The truth shall set you free,’” she said softly, realizing
the words were true. She felt freer in the last few minutes of truth than she’d felt for years.

Sloan turned to look at her. “What?”

“Something Lydia told me from the Bible. The truth will set you free.”

“She said that to me the other day when I was reading to her. Think she was preparing us for this?”

More than once, she’d seen him sitting by Lydia’s bed, reading the worn black Bible. The sight had caused a hitch in her heart. “Yes, I do. She knew about Justin.”

Annie figured half the town suspected but no one had ever said a word—until now.

Sloan got up and went to the window, his back to her. He was quiet for a while and she wondered what was churning inside that complicated head of his.

“I have money,” he said, pivoting suddenly. “Whatever you need.”

Hand to her chest, Annie reeled back against the floral sofa cushions, stunned and hurt. “I don’t want your money. Is that what you think? That you can buy twelve years with a check?”

His jaw hardened. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What
did
you mean? You drove away and left me. I had your baby. Money doesn’t fix that.”

Sloan blew out a breath of frustration. “I didn’t know about him.”

“Which is the only reason I didn’t throw you out of here the day you roared up on that terrifying Harley. I had planned to tell you about the baby the night of the prom.”

Sloan’s eyes dropped shut. His lips barely moved. “The night I left.”

The old wound rose up inside her and tears pressed against the back of her eyelids. She’d been so excited that day. Like all the other girls, she’d had her nails and hair done, she’d
bought the perfect dress, and she had the most perfect date in town. Even though her belly had fluttered with the news growing inside, she’d excitedly planned exactly how and when to tell Sloan. In her overly romantic teenage mind, her father could no longer keep her and Sloan apart. Now that there was a baby, they could be married. But something happened that day that she’d never fully understood, and she’d been stood up at the senior prom. Sloan had gotten into trouble with the law and left town without a word.

“Why, Sloan? Why didn’t you at least call me? I would have stood by you no matter what you’d done.”

The blue eyes, blazing a moment ago, shuttered. “I couldn’t.”

“Why?” Hadn’t he loved her enough to give her that one thing? If he would only explain, maybe this terrible ache would go away forever.

But he didn’t. Abruptly, he pushed off the couch. “I’m going to tell him, Annie. It would be better if we do it together but one way or another, he’s going to know the truth.”

Sloan figured he was the most worthless human being that ever lived. He kick-started the Harley and roared away from the big Victorian, the urge to find Dooley Crawford and break his nose eating a hole in him.

Dooley must have known or suspected that the relationship between him and Annie had gone too far. He must have. There was no other explanation for the purposeful and well-timed railroading Sloan had gotten at the police chief’s hands.

He sped past the town square where a city employee, Jim Barta, he thought, was mowing the grass. The green smell of summer drifted on the air. He lifted an index finger to wave at Tooney Deer and then again when Popbottle Jones and G.I. Jack sauntered out of the Sugar Shack.

After another ten minutes of arguing, Annie had finally
agreed to talk to Justin. Alone. For Justin’s sake, she’d claimed. But he knew better.

Annie didn’t want him involved. She didn’t want him to be part of her son’s life.
His
son. He bit down on his back teeth hard enough to dislocate his jaw.

Her rejection cut him to the bone and he was bleeding inside.

He revved the motorcycle, winding out the engine until it whined. Let Dooley catch him today and there would be trouble the old chief couldn’t handle. Sloan needed to be alone and he needed to think.

By the time he reached Redemption River Bridge, some of his fury had subsided. Wind and a wild ride usually calmed him down, and the fresh breeze from the big, muddy river cleared his head.

He parked the bike in the shade of a willow just off the road and made his way down the riverbank, along a well-worn path past blackberry bushes and more willows. When he reached bottom, he doubled back toward the bridge and stepped beneath it into the shade. The river was low this time of year, allowing a natural shelter beneath the bridge, although at times the spot was flooded. Today the area was littered with cans and a few cigarette butts, a sure sign that teenagers still frequented the place as he and Annie and their friends once had.

Sliding his back against the cool concrete, Sloan sat down on one of the many piles of rocks and listened to the water lap the edges. The rocks were moist and cool, and the sounds and smells familiar even though he’d been gone so long.

The day he’d learned his mother had disappeared, Chief Dooley had taken him to Lydia’s house. Scared and confused, he’d run back to his mother’s rental, searching for her. Then he’d gone to the diner where she’d worked. When the people there looked at him with pity, he’d run here to the river.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as a boy—out of breath,
crying, pounding the walls of this bridge with his fists. Annie had found him here and cried with him. Later, she’d walked him back to Aunt Lydia’s and stayed for cookies and milk.

Sloan pressed a fist to his mouth. He’d loved Annie for so long he didn’t know how to stop.

Now that they had a son together, he was forever bound to her. He laughed, a bitter sound. He’d always been bound to Annie Crawford Markham. Justin only tightened the knot.

He tilted his head back against the cool stone wall and looked up. Colorful graffiti stared back at him, some carved, some spray-painted and some in marker. Somewhere up there he’d written his and Annie’s names and the word
forever.

He was amazed to discover it was true. He’d loved her forever. Still did. And that truth didn’t make him free. It made him mad. It broke him in two.

Annie had borne him a son. His whole body ached to think of what she must have endured in the days after discovering he’d left town. Yet, Annie had found a way to care for his baby. Even though she’d been a teenager, with strength and love she’d held her head up and forged ahead with life for the sake of their child.

Part of him had longed to ask if she’d loved Joey Markham, but he was afraid of the answer. He figured she had. Sloan Hawkins had been a moment of madness in her young life, and when she’d come to her senses, Annie had chosen the boy her father always wanted for her. A boy who had openly pursued Annie even while she was dating Sloan. The fact that Joey and Annie had married within two months of Sloan’s departure was now much more significant.

Sloan shucked off his boots, and then emptied his pockets into them and set the footwear side by side on a rock. No one was around. The river was calm. A long time ago, he’d skinny-dipped in this river. Today, he’d settle for a swim. From local
history, he knew the area under the bridge was once a low-water crossing but farther along, the river deepened. He stepped into the water and started walking in that direction.

Cold, red water swirled around his calves and quickly moved up to his knees. Five strides later, he dove under.

The shock of cold against his hot skin made his nerve endings screech and he came up shaking his head. “Brrr.”

Water sluiced down his face. Back in Virginia, he had a pool. Every day he made himself swim laps whether he wanted to or not. All his employees were required to remain in top condition and he couldn’t ask less of himself. But here in Redemption, he’d not had that opportunity. Still, his muscles knew the rhythm and he stroked the hundred yards toward the far bank.

As he came up the muddy, rocky incline, legs sluggish from the weight of wet jeans, a voice called out.

“Ahoy there, Sloan Hawkins.”

An old man dressed in cast-off, mismatched clothes skidded down the embankment toward him. Sloan’s heart sank. He’d wanted to be alone, but there was no way he’d be rude to Popbottle Jones. The man was a good friend to Aunt Lydia. Yesterday he’d brought her flowers, an action that had made Annie tear up and hurry inside the house.

Sloan lifted a hand. “Mr. Jones.”

“A fine day for a swim. How’s the water?”

“Cold. Muddy. Invigorating.” Sloan shoved his sopping hair back from his forehead. “Where’s your partner?”

“G.I.? He had some errands to run, which was just as well since I wanted to speak with you alone.”

“Yeah?” Sloan’s guard went up. Popbottle had seen him pass through town, guessed his destination, and followed for a reason. This was not a casual encounter.

“How is your aunt today?”

His guard fell. “Not well. The wedding took a heavy toll. She’s hardly been out of bed since.”

Until now, she’d taken her meals with him and occasionally sat on the veranda to watch him work in her gardens. She was thrilled about restoring the Wedding Garden to its former glory, and Sloan had wanted more than anything to make that happen while she was alive to see it. But since the wedding she only shuffled back and forth to the bathroom, and that with Annie’s assistance.

“I did my best to dissuade her from attending.” Popbottle’s jowls sagged, though a soft smile touched his eyes. “But she
did
look radiant.”

“She’s weaker every day.” Sloan hated the admission, but in his career he’d learned to be a realist. Facts were facts. His auntie was fading away with the summer.

He bent to press some of the water from his pants legs. The red liquid slid over his feet like diluted blood.

“She’s worried about you.”

Sloan straightened. “I don’t want her to be.”

“She can’t help it. And as you well know, worrying is not good for her heart.”

“Maybe I should go back to Virginia.” But Sloan knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t bear to leave her, knowing as he did that she would not be here if he returned. Right now, with the issue of Justin simmering like the Middle East, he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Regardless of your location, my boy, she would still be concerned. You are the child she never had.”

The thought pinched a hole in Sloan’s chest. His aunt Lydia had never married though she had many friends and was well-loved in the community. To his way of thinking, her acceptance was all that kept Clayton Hawkins’s boy from being a total outcast. She’d taken in her brother’s son and loved him
as her own, and Sloan would carry that love with him to the grave. “I don’t know how to stop her from worrying. If I did, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

Popbottle placed a hand on his shoulder. “She always had hopes for you and Annie.”

Sloan grunted. “That’s not happening.”

“Yet you are undoubtedly in love with our kind and lovely nurse.”

Well, happy day, Sloan thought sarcastically. Did the whole world know he was an idiot who couldn’t stop loving a woman who was far too good for him? A woman he’d wronged so completely that there was no going back?

“And you’re in love with my aunt.”

The old man removed a brimmed hat that Annie would term “disreputable” and scratched at the tuft of gray hair. “Your aunt and I have been friends for a long time, but the topic of consideration this day is you, my boy. You’ve been in a turmoil your entire life, most of which was not your fault, but only you have the ability to end it.”

“You sound like Aunt Lydia.”

“She’s a wise woman who knows God is the answer to all life’s questions.”

“God can’t change the past.”

“No, but He can change your future.”

Sloan found himself listening intently. Lydia’s Bible readings had him thinking more about God, about her steadfast faith.

“My boots are under the bridge,” he said. “Walk over with me?”

“Certainly. Old legs need exercise.”

Soft, red clay squished between Sloan’s toes as he and Popbottle covered the fifty yards back to the bridge.

“I never gave God much thought, I guess,” Sloan admitted
as they reached the structure and he stood aside to allow the older man to enter the shady area first.

“Ah, much cooler here.” Popbottle Jones pinched the crease of his aged pants as if they were a tuxedo, gingerly settled on the narrow ledge, and continued the thread of conversation. “Trusting God won’t solve all the issues with which you must contend, my boy, but knowing that someone greater and wiser than you is in charge gives you a peace.” He tapped his chest. “In here. An assurance that everything is going to work out for your good.”

“I sure don’t have that.” Never had. Sloan perched on his rock and reached for his boots. “The preacher invited me for coffee the other day.”

He’d been surprised out of his mind, too. A Redemption preacher wanting to associate with him.

As if he’d heard his thoughts, Popbottle said, “Do you know the story of this town and its founder?”

Sloan swished his muddy feet in the shallow water and dried them with his socks.

“You can’t grow up in Redemption without hearing about Jonas Case.”

The reformed gunslinger had founded the small town during the Land Run of 1889 as a refuge for men like himself who wanted to change. Funny how Sloan had never thought about that. The town was created for bad boys and criminals, men struggling with their pasts, men with guts full of regret.

Men like him.

He shoved his foot into a boot.

“I often stand upon the riverbanks,” Popbottle was saying as he motioned toward the well-traveled shoreline, “and think about the sermons preached here when the town was a tent city and settlers clung to God as their only hope for a new life.” The old man slid a glance his way. “God is still the only hope, you know.”

While Sloan wrestled with the idea, his cell phone played his latest download. The security business didn’t stop just because he was half a country away.

With a nod of apology to the older gentleman, he flipped open the device and said, “Hawkins.”

“Sloan?”