have to boycott Annie Crawford Markham, too, though it wouldn’t be easy with her working here.
She was none too happy to see him, either, but she had good reason. What she didn’t know was that his reasons for leaving town were every bit as good as her reasons to despise him. He hadn’t told her then, and he sure wouldn’t tell her now why he’d had to leave. She’d never done one thing to deserve the grief dealt to her. Nothing except love the son of Redemption’s most reviled criminal.
He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Protection was his business. He’d loved Annie enough to protect her at eighteen. He’d protect her now with his silence.
Sloan’s thoughts ping-ponged in a dozen directions as he traversed the long hallway toward his aunt’s new living quarters. He hated knowing she couldn’t climb the stairs anymore. Strong, independent Lydia would hate it even more, but unlike her ill-tempered nephew, she would put on a happy face and find a blessing in moving downstairs.
Sloan grunted. He saw no blessing in dying.
Even after all this time, his feet knew the way through the big Victorian that had been his only refuge as a child. The house was still stunning with its gleaming oak trim, sky-high ceilings, and huge windows for admiring the considerable view. The upstairs held four bedrooms and baths, two of which boasted sitting rooms with balconies and fireplaces. He’d spent his teen years in one while Lydia had lived in the master suite overlooking the expansive backyard known as the wedding garden. Though surrounded by the Hawkins’s wealth, Sloan had felt like an outcast tainted by his father’s crime.
The vast downstairs was typical Victorian with an elegant parlor, a living room, the country kitchen and formal dining room complete with butler’s pantry, a library and study along with the garden room—a sunny space surrounded by windows looking out upon the backyard and Lydia’s beloved flower gardens.
It was to this room he came and found the oak-paneled door ajar.
His throat squeezed. Aunt Lydia lay on a hospital bed, her hands holding a book, a pale purple lap robe over her 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
