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Twilight, Texas #4
Avon
April 2011
On Sale: March 29, 2011
Featuring: Gideon Garza; Caitlyn Marsh
400 pages
ISBN: 006198843X
EAN: 9780061988431
Mass Market Paperback
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Lori Wilde

Lori Wilde
Author Book List

Caitlyn Marsh stopped believing in happily-ever-after when
high-school sweetheart, Gideon Garza, left for Iraq. Now she
raises her small son while her matchmaking gardening club
members drive her crazy. Then Caitlyn's world turns
upside-down when Gideon swaggers back to Twilight.

Gideon had left town in the middle of the night with threats
ringing in his ears. A lot of things have changed since
then. This bad-boy-turned-Green-Beret bears scars from the
war, the timid girl he loved is an independent mother, and
the father who refused to recognize his son in life has, in
death, left him a vast cattle ranch.

He still aches for Caitlyn, and now there's a dark-haired
boy who looks exactly like Gideon did at that age. Could the
child be his? And can this war-weary soldier overcome the
scars of the past to claim the family he so richly deserves?

Excerpt

Prologue
Traditional meaning of striped carnations—No, sorry, I
cannot be with you.

From the look of things, the good citizens of Twilight,
Texas thought more of J. Foster Goodnight as a corpse than
they had as a human being.

Numerous military-themed floral baskets and vases filled
with white lilies, red roses, blue delphiniums and red and
white striped carnations with blue bows, vied for space
with the dressed-in-their-Sunday-best crowd spilling out of
the stone pavilion overlooking the Brazos River. But no one
cried, most speculated on the lavish contents of J.
Foster’s will and quite a few shared a smile or two.

Caitlyn Marsh concurred.

In death, J. Foster had earned her floral shop more money
than she’d made her entire last quarter. While in life, the
grandfather of her only child had killed her high school
sweetheart as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger.

Even now, eight years after Gideon’s murder, just thinking
of him as he’d been—whole, handsome, incredibly strong and
brave—hurt Caitlyn’s soul. Never mind that at age twenty-
five she’d already been both bride and widow to someone
else, her heart would forever and always belong to Gideon
Garza.

In the distance she heard the faraway droning of a
motorcycle engine. The cool spring breeze dispersed
somewhat the cloying perfume of too many blooms; ruffled
hairstyles and funeral programs with a photograph of the
deceased sitting in an overstuffed leather chair, a black
Stetson perched atop his head. He had one hand on his
Bluetick Coonhound’s neck, the other curled around a
tumbler of malt Scotch. A fully loaded gun rack, along with
various dead animal heads, was mounted on the wall behind
him. He looked the epitome of what he was. Rich,
privileged, cruel and proud of it. J. Foster had been the
kind of wealthy, hard-ass, good old boy who’d once defined
Texas—loud, shrewd, swaggeringly arrogant and tough as his
alligator boots.

No expense had been spared on the flag-draped, cherry
hardwood coffin with a MemorySafe drawer to display his
cherished keepsakes—the scorecard from the hole in one he
shot on his forty-fifth birthday at the Pecan Valley
Country Club, old Blue’s last dog collar, a cigar that was
reportedly Cuban and given him to by LBJ, a Navy Vietnam
War Veteran patch and a paperback copy of Larry McMurtry’s
Lonesome Dove. The coffin’s handles were solid gold and the
casket liner was 100% silk, custom-made, cowboy print
depicting a an old west cattle drive scene.

The casket sat flanked by two young Navy seamen in white.
Ringing the pavilion, standing at attention as erect as the
young service men, were the Patriot Guard. On their
motorcycles, American flags flying, they had escorted the
hearse from Shady Rest Funeral Home to the hillside where
many of Twilight’s servicemen and women were buried. Just
the sight of them, stalwart and dutiful, misted Caitlyn’s
eyes with patriotism. She might have hated J. Foster, but
he had served his country, and for that, he’d earned her
grudging respect.

The minister delivered the eulogy, but Caitlyn wasn’t much
listening. She knew what J. Foster was really like and she
didn’t particularly want to hear the positive spin the
reverend put on his life. Instead, she was calculating how
long it would take her and the funeral home assistant to
get the flowers, earmarked for the graveside, into the rear
of her van while the sound of the distant motorcycle grew
steadily louder.

The young service men carefully folded the flag with
practiced precision. Once their task was complete, the
honor guard took over. Three retired service men with
rifles, simultaneously firing off three shots apiece. The
loud, definitive noise jarred Caitlyn and she winced with
each firing as spent bullet casings spit against the
cement.

“Taps” issued eerily out across the cemetery. The river
running below bounced the sound back until it was difficult
to know from what direction the mournful bugling came from.
The hairs on her arms raised and a lump clogged her throat.
Caitlyn swiveled her head, looking for the bugler, but saw
instead a black motorcycle traveling the winding road
toward the pavilion.

The bugling stopped and she heard the engine again, much
louder now.

It was an Indian.

She knew because Gideon had owned a 2000 Indian Chief
bought with money he’d earned working as a carpenter’s
apprentice the year after he’d graduated high school and
she’d loved riding on the back of it, her arms wrapped
around Gideon’s firm waist, the wind blowing over her skin,
the throb of that distinctive machine vibrating up through
the seat.

Who was this latecomer?

Closer and closer the motorcycle drew. For a moment it
disappeared behind a bend in the road, hidden by a cedar
copse. Then it reappeared, just as the two Navy seamen
handed the folded flag to Goodnight’s next of kin, saluted,
snapped their heels and pivoted away.

The Indian pulled to a stop behind the procession of cars
parked along the circular drive. Heads turned. A murmur
running through the throng as others noticed the new
arrival.

The rider, cloaked in leather, his face hidden behind a
helmet and protective goggles, swung off the bike. He
sauntered toward the group, everyone transfixed.

Caitlyn’s heart fluttered in recognition. Gideon. She felt
all the air leave her body, heard the blood bounding
through her ears.

Gideon?

But it wasn’t Gideon. It couldn’t be Gideon. Even though he
moved with the familiar gait of the boy she’d once loved
more than life itself. How many times had she mistaken a
stranger in the crowd for her long lost lover? Hundreds. A
thousand? More?

The interloper reached the stone pillar where Caitlyn
stood, her body trembling, mouth dry.

He stopped halfway between her and the casket.

Her heart was in her throat. Her knees were noodles. Her
confused mind was in utter chaos. Her head spun, her vision
blurred. She fisted her hands, gulped for air.

It wasn’t Gideon. It simply could not be. She knew it and
yet and yet…

Then he stripped off his helmet, pulled away the goggles
and Caitlyn stared straight into the eyes of a dead man.