The Welcome Home Garden Club (16 page)

“It is.” He showed Danny how the hand worked, and then he took it off, opening himself up to the kid, showing his vulnerability.

Danny eyed the stump. “It looks kind of bad.”

“You should have seen it before it healed.”

Carefully, Danny touched the seams of where the old wound had been stitched together. The scar was white now. Danny’s gentle touch stirred dormant nerve endings and Gideon felt . . . what did he feel? It was a rush of sensation he didn’t know how to describe.

“Does it hurt?” Danny whispered.

“Not anymore. But sometimes I get phantom pains.”

“What’s that?”

“My fingers and hand still hurt sometimes.”

“But they’re gone.”

“That’s why it’s called phantom pain. It’s like my brain hasn’t told my nerve endings I don’t have a hand anymore.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah it is, kind of.”

“I hope I never have phantom pains.”

“I hope you don’t either,” Gideon said vehemently.

“So what did you do before you were a soldier?” Danny asked, dropping his hand.

Relieved that the examination was over, Gideon slipped the artificial arm back on, rolled down his sleeve. “I’ve always been a soldier. Well, except when I was a kid. I made things out of wood.”

“Like the carousel?”

“Well, I never completed a project this big, but yeah, like a carousel.”

“Mom says this carousel is part of my heritage.”

“It is. Your great-great-great-grandfather built this carousel himself way back in the cowboy and Indian days.”

“But I never knew him, right?”

“Right.” Gideon smiled at a kid’s concept of time. “He died a long time before your mother was ever born.”

“My dad died.” Danny suddenly looked sad.

“I heard. I’m sorry about that.”

“I miss him.”

“I bet you do.”

“He used to take me fishing. Sometimes my mom would even come along.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Do you know how to fish?” Danny asked.

“I used to go fishing in Lake Twilight when I was your age.”

The boy met his eyes. “Do you think you could take me fishing sometime?”

“Danny,” Gideon said. “Nothing would please me more.”

Chapter Fourteen

Traditional meaning of red camellia—you’re a flame in my heart.

C
aitlyn was tired of napping, reading, and watching television. She’d stopped taking the pain pills because they were making her groggy. Her hand throbbed like the dickens, but the pain brought with it the realization of just how much suffering Gideon had gone through with the loss of his arm. And she liked the reminder. It helped her understand him better.

It was nine o’clock on Tuesday morning. Patsy Cross would be opening up the shop now. Caitlyn knew the store was in good hands, but she couldn’t help worrying. Gideon had fed Danny and gotten him off to school and then he’d brought her breakfast in bed. Toast and scrambled eggs with orange juice. A woman could get used to this kind of pampering.

The flowering red yarrow Dotty Mae had sent brought a smile to her lips as she got out of bed, pulled a housecoat on over her pajamas, and, balancing the breakfast tray as well as she could with her right hand, carried it into the kitchen. Once again, she was struck by the difficulty Gideon faced performing simple everyday tasks.

The empty kitchen was cleaned perfectly spick-and-span, white tile counters and appliances gleaming. The air smelled of pine-scented cleaner. She felt oddly touched that Gideon bothered to clean so thoroughly. Most guys wouldn’t have bothered. Not even Kevin, who’d been pretty good about keeping house. He might wash dishes, yet he’d overlook the crumbs strewn across the counter.

But Gideon had cared for his ailing mother for several years before her death. Her heart gave a soft twist. He might not be quick with the tender words—or even any words at all—but he showed her how he felt with his kind deeds, and when she thought about it, that was more romantic than an emotional treatise.

“Gideon?” she called. Her cottage was only twelve hundred square feet, if he was inside, he would have heard her.

She stepped out onto the back porch. The cool breeze ruffled the collar of her housecoat. The sun warmed her cheeks. She pushed her hair back from her face, saw that the door to Kevin’s detached workshop stood open.

She moved toward that open door and peeked her head into the workshop. She hadn’t been in it since Kevin’s death because she hadn’t had the mental energy to deal with going through his things on top of everything else.

Gideon sat on a wooden stool, his back to her, deeply engrossed in his work. Caitlyn leaned her right shoulder against the doorjamb; her bandaged left hand cradled against her chest, and watched him. He was painting something, his head tipped down to the work in front of him, but that wasn’t what surprised her.

He was using his artificial hand, holding the paintbrush between the robotic digits and awkwardly rotating his elbow to get it to move, painting the red camellia behind the carousel horse’s ear. He wasn’t letting his disability get the best of him. He was trying to make his prosthesis function like a real hand with something as precise as painting.

Caitlyn gulped, her own damaged hand aching in empathy. Stupid really. As if her mishap with the bear trap could compare to what he’d suffered. She tried to imagine what it was like for him. This big, powerful man maimed and disfigured, learning how to do the simplest things all over again—tying his own shoes, putting toothpaste on his toothbrush, doing up buttons.

“You’re doing so good!”

Gideon jerked back and dropped the paintbrush, a trail of red smearing over the horse as the paintbrush went down.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rushed toward him. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’ve messed up the paint job,” he said tersely. “I’ll have to start again.”

“It’s my fault.”

“Don’t apologize,” he growled. “It’s a sign of weakness. Besides, you didn’t cause it. I had a spasm in my elbow.”

For a moment, she felt hurt, and then she realized he was just lashing out because he’d been embarrassed. She pressed her lips together.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asked gruffly, reaching down to pick up the dropped paintbrush, but he used his right hand.

“I’m bored and I hurt my hand, not my legs or my brain.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“What?” Caitlyn looked down to see the blood had seeped through her bandage.

“You were supposed to keep it elevated,” he said.

“I’m so—” She broke off before saying “sorry.”

“That’s my girl.” He grinned.

It felt so good to hear him say that, to see him smile. He made her feel special, just like he used to. But that was a dangerous thing, because she wasn’t who she used to be and neither was he. They couldn’t fall back into old patterns or rely on old ways of communicating. For all intents and purposes this was a new relationship, and she had no idea where it was going or even if it was going anywhere. There was so much negotiating to be done, so many things they had not talked through. Yes, they were Danny’s parents, but beyond that . . .

“C’mon.” Gideon tossed the paintbrush in a jar of turpentine sitting on the window ledge. “Let’s get that seen to.”

He took her right hand in his and led her back to the house. It felt so good, this handholding, so simple and yet so fraught with tenderness. But she did notice how he’d managed to take the attention off him and put it on her.

That’s not fair. You were bleeding.

Yes, but he hadn’t hesitated in deflecting her observations about his painting with his artificial hand. Clearly, he did not want to talk about it, or even let her know that he was experimenting with improving his fine motor control. Why not?

He was never one to open up and talk about what was on his mind. You know that.
He’d always had a difficult time with sharing his emotions.

“Where do you keep your first aid kit?”

“Medical supplies are in my bathroom closet.”

He took her through her bedroom, past her rumpled bed that she hadn’t even tried to make one-handed, and into the adjoining bathroom, which suddenly seemed very small with Gideon’s big frame in it.

“Can you hop up here?” He patted the countertop.

“It’s kind of hard one-handed.”

“Tell me about it. Here, I’ll help you up.”

He gave her a boost and she settled her tush onto the cool tile. She was suddenly very aware that she was in her pajamas. Yes, they were cotton “mom” pajamas, nothing sexy, but they were still pajamas.

Gideon rummaged in the cabinet, extracted gauze, medical tape, hydrogen peroxide, and a Telfa nonstick dressing. He took his time carefully unwrapping the bandage and maneuvering his body so that he blocked her from seeing the cut.

“How’s it look?”

“You’re gonna have some scarring.”

“Let me see.”

“You sure?”

“I have to see it sometime.”

Reluctantly, he moved aside.

She braced herself, but still, the jagged scars encircling her wrist looked vicious. Blood had caked around the sutures, with fresh blood still oozing at the seams. The surgeon had neatly sewn it all back together, but Gideon was right, she was going to have some ugly scars.

He startled her by leaning over and kissing her inner arm near her elbow. “I’m sorry you hurt.”

“Hey,” she said. “No saying you’re sorry. It makes you look weak.”

He straightened, smiled down at her. “You’re throwing my words back at me?”

“I guess I am.”

“Ha, I get the last laugh. I’m the one who’s going to wash out your wound.” He tucked a towel underneath her arm and unscrewed the cap from the hydrogen peroxide. “This is going to sting.”

Gideon gently trickled the cool liquid over her wrist.

She hissed in her breath as the solution fizzed and bubbled and did its job, but it wasn’t pain that had her drawing in air through clenched teeth, rather it was her intense awareness of him, his scent, his muscular body, his dark hair in contrast to her pale skin. He bent his head and it oh so barely brushed against her breasts. Instantly, both her nipples hardened to tight little pebbles.

Stop it. Stop it.
But she couldn’t.

After the hydrogen peroxide had washed away the blood, he carefully laid the nonstick dressing over the sutures, and then wrapped it all up with a thick layer of gauze. “There you go.”

Her hair had fallen across her face and she didn’t dare look up. Afraid he could see the stark desire in her eyes. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest.

“Caitlyn.”

She raised her head. He was staring at her and she was staring at him.

They were breathing in tandem. Rough, jagged gulps of air.

His lips were so close to hers, hard and angular and masculine. He smelled of hydrogen peroxide, wood shavings, and turpentine.

The tugging pull of pleasure-pain burned deep within her. She’d never felt this level of intense arousal, this brand of raw, aching need. She needed relief and he was the salve.

The next thing Caitlyn knew she’d flung her arms around his neck and she was kissing him like it was the end of the world and they were the last two people in it.

It was hormonal insanity. That was the only excuse she had for it. Her sex contracted tightly, begging for him.

“I’m so hard for you,” he rasped.

As if she couldn’t tell. The bulge behind the zipper of his jeans was like concrete.

She kissed him frantically.

He came back at her like an explosion.

His fingers kneaded her ass, pushing her firm against his pelvis. When she slipped her tongue into his mouth, he slid his hand underneath her pajama top to lightly pinch an erect nipple.

Gideon kissed her back, his mouth matching her ferocity. Caitlyn wrapped her legs around his waist and clung on for dear life. He thrust his tongue inside her mouth, feeling as if he could never be sated no matter how long he drank from her.

He wanted to cling to this moment forever, hold on with both hands.

That thought jolted him. He didn’t have two hands to grab on to happily-ever-after with. Just the one. And he suddenly felt inadequate beyond words.

Caitlyn must have sensed the shift in him because she pulled back, stared into his eyes. “Gideon? Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Swallowing against his conflicting desires, he lowered his eyelids to half-mast, stepped away. “I should get back to work.”

“No,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I liked what we were doing. I want more.”

“You were the one who made the no sex rule.”

“Rules are made to be broken.”

“I don’t want you to do something you’re going to regret later.”

“Who says I’ll regret it.”

“You’re still recuperating.”

“We could be really careful.” She looked at him hopefully.

He groaned and, unable to stop himself, kissed her again.

Her lips tasted of springtime. Like Easter eggs and chocolate bunnies. Sweet and full of hope. She made him hope, and hope was a dangerous thing.

She reached up to thread her hand around his hair, pull his head down lower, deepen the kiss. Her sassy little tongue pushed against his teeth, demanding more, seeking entry.

Damn him, he was weak. With a groan, he parted his lips.

Her delicious tongue slipped inside him. Her grip tightened around him.

In that moment, he felt whole again, and it was a seductive sensation. He slid his right arm around her waist, tugged her as close to him as he could get her.

Her body wriggled against his.

Gideon’s cock throbbed, ached, hungered.

The scent of her hair—which smelled like flowers—invaded his nostrils. He took a deep breath, breathing in her fragrance, inhaling her taste. This woman, this woman. He could find no words to describe the level of pleasure she brought him.

Her hair trailed over his cheek, coiling like silk against his skin. Her fingers moved over his spine, exploring, seeking.

He shuddered against her, moved his mouth away, but still held her close. “Caitlyn, no,” he murmured.

“Please, Giddy, please,” she said, calling him by the silly nickname she’d give him eons ago.
Giddy
.

An image flashed in his mind. One of the times they’d made love. They’d been in her bedroom when her father had been away on a business trip. She was buck naked, straddling his body. His cowboy hat perched atop her head, her pert breasts poking proudly in the air, a sly smile on her face. Boldly—which in their lovemaking up to that point hadn’t been like her—she’d eased herself down on his pulsating cock, lifted the cowboy hat off her head, and swatted his thighs with it. “Giddy up, Gideon.”

After that, whenever she was feeling particularly sassy, she called him Giddy. It had become their code word for
I want to make love
.

It broke his heart a little, that memory. As did all the memories he had of her. When he looked at Caitlyn, he thought about their past, and thinking about their past made him take stock of everything he’d lost, all the things he could not give her.

Firmly, he put her away from him. “No, Caitlyn, not now. Not today.”

She looked hurt. Reached up to trace her fingers over her lips.

He clenched his jaw, hardened his heart. She might be hungry for sex. She might think she really wanted this, but when he took her, he wanted there to be absolutely no regrets.

“I want it to be right,” he said. That much was true. What he didn’t tell her was that he feared it would never be right. He was too battle-scarred for her. She needed someone who came from her same insular world. Who lived in her small-town cocoon, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked beyond the city limits of Twilight.

“When?” she asked, calling him on it.

“I don’t know.”

“Is it me?” She raised a hand to her throat. “I know I don’t have the body I used to have. I’m a mom now and things change, stretch, head south.”

“God no,” he said, upset that he’d caused her to doubt her femininity. “You are so beautiful. More beautiful than ever.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I’m just not ready.”

Her gaze went to his artificial arm. “You haven’t been with a woman since . . .”