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pleasant buzz. Most summers the garden—locally known as the Wedding Garden—was alsoabuzz with wedding preparations. Dozens of Redemption citizens had married in the Hawkins’s backyard.
    As if she couldn’t sit still more than two minutes, Annie got up and busied herself with handing around glasses of lemonade. Dry from yard work, Sloan downed his in two drinks. The tart cold cut through the dust and thirst.
    “Your roses look puny, Aunt Lydia.” Ice rattled as he aimed his drippy glass toward a trellis covered in withered vines and limp pink flowers.
    “They need tending, but…” Expression sad, Lydia lifted a hand tiredly. She, who had spent hours and hours tending and coddling this garden for her pleasure and the pleasure of others, had no more gardening left in her.
    Now, as he took the time to really observe, Sloan saw the neglect taking a toll. More than the roses suffered. Weeds had taken over, choking out the young plants and hiding the old ones. Trees and bushes were overgrown and shaggy with more than a few dead branches. No bride had planned a wedding here in a long time.
    Not that he cared about that, but Lydia would. Her beloved garden spread for more than an acre beyond the porch. A place of light and shade and peace, the garden had been here since the first Hawkins bride moved in after the Land Run of 1889. Occupants through the years had added their touches, and the garden had become a source of pride and pleasure to Aunt Lydia and the whole of Redemption.
    “I recall some merry occasions in this garden,” Popbottle Jones intoned.
    “Me, too,” Annie said. She’d perched again, close enough that Sloan smelled apples and had to fight down a miserable yearning. “I caught Claire Watson’s bouquet right over there.” She lifted one finger from her half-empty glass to point.
    Sloan’s chest tightened. He remembered that afternoon. Annie was a bridesmaid in pink, a hundred times more beautiful than the bride. A giggling batch of females had scrambled for the tossed bouquet, but as if guided by a homing device, the flowers had fallen into Annie’s hands. Everyone in attendance had turned to look at him. Cat-calling male attendees had pounded him on the back and made remarks about the old ball and chain. Annie had blushed and looked so happy Sloan had wanted to marry her then and there.
    He clunked the glass on the table. Ice cubes rattled. “I’ll tend them.” The words came out gruff, angry. Well, what if they had? He was angry, though mostly at himself.
    When the gathered company gazed at him with surprised faces, he turned and left the porch.
     
    Redemption’s Plant Farm and Garden Center smelled green and wet. Customers browsed up and down the long aisles filled with flats and potted plants, some in flower, some not. A man in coveralls carried a burlap-wrapped tree in each hand while the woman with him rattled on about a bird bath and wind chimes. Outside workers loaded a truck with patio urns and garden furniture.
    Sloan fisted his hands on his hips and gazed around at the bewildering array of plants, bags, sprays, and tools. He didn’t know a lot about gardening but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. In fact, he’d do more than water and feed the roses. He was dying for some sweaty, hard work to keep him busy. Mowing the lawn was quick. Revitalizing the garden his aunt loved would not be.
    “May I help you, sir?” A familiar-looking woman in no-nonsense work pants and long-sleeved shirt approached him. Middle-aged, maybe older, she had short blond curls, a serious overbite and a healthy tan. Miller. Her name was Miller—Delores, he thought—and her family had operated the plant farm for years.
    “I want to revitalize my aunt’s flower gardens. Any advice?”
    “Depends on what you want to do. Who’s your aunt? Maybe I know her tastes.”
    “Lydia Hawkins.” He tensed, waiting for the relationship to register and the expected censure.
    Recognition flickered but her