than he’d been then, but somehow, she wasn’t afraid of him. In fact, around him she felt safe, protected.
And highly aroused.
From the moment she’d looked into Gideon’s eyes at the cemetery pavilion, an undercurrent of dark sexual attraction ran like a deep flowing river beneath all the other emotions of disbelief, shock, hope, and anxiety. Eight years of believing him dead, of mourning him, missing him, of yearning to kiss him again, to hold him, to touch him, make love to him coalesced into throbbing, primal need. He was the only man she’d ever really wanted.
Crockett came trotting over to the van in his easy, carefree lope. Sweat glistened his skin. A charming smile curled his lips. A smile that seemed far too upbeat for the occasion. “Could I talk to you in private for a sec, Caitlyn?”
“Danny,” she called out. “Run tell Amelia I’m here to pick you up.” Her son went for the front door of Amelia Mullin’s cute Cape Cod.
“What is it?” she asked once Danny was out of earshot.
“I’ve got season tickets to the Rangers game. I was hoping you and Danny might join me on opening day.”
“Are you asking me out?”
“No, no.” The look he sent her said, That is, unless you want me to ask you out. “You’re a good friend, Caitlyn. One of the few people in this town I can converse with on an intellectual level.”
“I appreciate the offer, Crockett, but this victory garden project eats up all my spare time.”
“Yeah, okay, I get it, you’re a busy woman.” He shrugged and widened his grin. “But if you change your mind, just let me know. We could have a really good time.”
If he’d asked before the unsettling switchblade incident with Bowie, before Gideon had come back to town, she just might have said yes, but not now, not ever. “Thank you for asking.”
Danny came zooming up, rescuing her from more conversation.
“Well, I’ve got to get Danny home.”
Crockett’s smile hung like faded clothes on a wash line. She could almost feel his disequilibrium. But what did she expect? He’d just buried his father today. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his designer slacks, restlessly jangled his keys. His shoulders pulled downward in a lonely slump. She wondered why he stayed in Twilight. He seemed so out of place here. Was it the same reason she’d stayed? His roots ran too deep to pull them up.
She had an urge to touch Crockett’s arm, to tell him everything was going to be okay, but she didn’t want to lead him on.
Because Gideon was back, and even though things were strange and strained between them, the one thing she knew for certain was that her feelings for him had not changed.
She wanted him just as much now as she had eight years ago. Maybe even more so. To think they’d lost so much time together and her father was to blame.
The anger she’d struggled to keep under control made her nose burn. She’d put it off for too long. The time had come to confront her father about his unconscionable actions. She could no longer allow him to get away with what he had done. It was time he paid for his sins.
S unday morning after J. Foster’s Saturday funeral, Richard Blackthorne sat in his usual pew near the front of the First Presbyterian Church of Twilight. He’d been attending the church for thirty-four years. Caitlyn had stopped coming here after she’d moved out and married Marsh. She’d turned Baptist on him, going to Marsh’s church on the other side of town. To avoid him, he knew. Today’s service was on transgressions, and he couldn’t help thinking of Caitlyn.
Richard had just stood up with the rest of the congregation, hymnal in hand, ready to sing “The Old Rugged Cross,” when he felt soft fingers clamp down on his shoulder from behind and smelled the light lavender scent of his daughter’s perfume.
“I need to see you,” Caitlyn whispered in his ear.
An undertow of panic caught him low in the gut, snatched at him, ripped. He kept singing,
And highly aroused.
From the moment she’d looked into Gideon’s eyes at the cemetery pavilion, an undercurrent of dark sexual attraction ran like a deep flowing river beneath all the other emotions of disbelief, shock, hope, and anxiety. Eight years of believing him dead, of mourning him, missing him, of yearning to kiss him again, to hold him, to touch him, make love to him coalesced into throbbing, primal need. He was the only man she’d ever really wanted.
Crockett came trotting over to the van in his easy, carefree lope. Sweat glistened his skin. A charming smile curled his lips. A smile that seemed far too upbeat for the occasion. “Could I talk to you in private for a sec, Caitlyn?”
“Danny,” she called out. “Run tell Amelia I’m here to pick you up.” Her son went for the front door of Amelia Mullin’s cute Cape Cod.
“What is it?” she asked once Danny was out of earshot.
“I’ve got season tickets to the Rangers game. I was hoping you and Danny might join me on opening day.”
“Are you asking me out?”
“No, no.” The look he sent her said, That is, unless you want me to ask you out. “You’re a good friend, Caitlyn. One of the few people in this town I can converse with on an intellectual level.”
“I appreciate the offer, Crockett, but this victory garden project eats up all my spare time.”
“Yeah, okay, I get it, you’re a busy woman.” He shrugged and widened his grin. “But if you change your mind, just let me know. We could have a really good time.”
If he’d asked before the unsettling switchblade incident with Bowie, before Gideon had come back to town, she just might have said yes, but not now, not ever. “Thank you for asking.”
Danny came zooming up, rescuing her from more conversation.
“Well, I’ve got to get Danny home.”
Crockett’s smile hung like faded clothes on a wash line. She could almost feel his disequilibrium. But what did she expect? He’d just buried his father today. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his designer slacks, restlessly jangled his keys. His shoulders pulled downward in a lonely slump. She wondered why he stayed in Twilight. He seemed so out of place here. Was it the same reason she’d stayed? His roots ran too deep to pull them up.
She had an urge to touch Crockett’s arm, to tell him everything was going to be okay, but she didn’t want to lead him on.
Because Gideon was back, and even though things were strange and strained between them, the one thing she knew for certain was that her feelings for him had not changed.
She wanted him just as much now as she had eight years ago. Maybe even more so. To think they’d lost so much time together and her father was to blame.
The anger she’d struggled to keep under control made her nose burn. She’d put it off for too long. The time had come to confront her father about his unconscionable actions. She could no longer allow him to get away with what he had done. It was time he paid for his sins.
S unday morning after J. Foster’s Saturday funeral, Richard Blackthorne sat in his usual pew near the front of the First Presbyterian Church of Twilight. He’d been attending the church for thirty-four years. Caitlyn had stopped coming here after she’d moved out and married Marsh. She’d turned Baptist on him, going to Marsh’s church on the other side of town. To avoid him, he knew. Today’s service was on transgressions, and he couldn’t help thinking of Caitlyn.
Richard had just stood up with the rest of the congregation, hymnal in hand, ready to sing “The Old Rugged Cross,” when he felt soft fingers clamp down on his shoulder from behind and smelled the light lavender scent of his daughter’s perfume.
“I need to see you,” Caitlyn whispered in his ear.
An undertow of panic caught him low in the gut, snatched at him, ripped. He kept singing,
Similar Books
