Jesse Hawk: Brave Father
Sheri WhiteFeather
Regal and proud as his animal namesake, Jesse Hawk had been young Patricia Boyd's grandest passion. Together they had learned of physical love and created a boundless connection. But when the time came to face their future, Jesse had departed with the summer sun, leaving Patricia longing for his kisses and carrying his child.Jesse's surprise return had rumors spreading–surely the warrior had come to settle an age-old score with the rich, ruthless Boyd family. But what destiny would be forged, for Patricia and himself, once Jesse learned the truth–that a child now bore his name and his proud Native American heritage?
Jesse Hawk Should Have Been Hers.
He should have come back, kept his promise. On the night he’d taken her virginity, he’d pledged his love forever. They had snuggled in each other’s arms, tasted each other’s skin, made secret vows. Young, romantic vows. And she’d kept hers, kept them locked in her heart until she’d cried herself to sleep at night.
No, Patricia hadn’t agreed to move in with him when he’d asked, but she’d had her reasons—good reasons. The young man she’d loved needed a fair chance to pursue his career, and the baby in her womb needed some sort of financial stability. So she’d sent Jesse away, believing he’d return for her.
And more than a decade later he had returned. But not for her.
I’ll never forgive you, she wanted to say. But Dillon has the right to meet his father.
Dear Reader,
In keeping with the celebration of Silhouette’s 20
anniversary in 2000, what better way to enjoy the new century’s first Valentine’s Day than to read six passionate, powerful, provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire!
Beloved author Dixie Browning returns to Desire’s MAN OF THE MONTH promotion with A Bride for Jackson Powers, also the launch title for the series THE PASSIONATE POWERS. Enjoy this gem about a single dad who becomes stranded with a beautiful widow who’s his exact opposite.
Get ready to be seduced when Alexandra Sellers offers you another sheikh hero from her SONS OF THE DESERT miniseries with Sheikh’s Temptation. Maureen Child’s popular series BACHELOR BATTALION continues with The Daddy Salute—a marine turns helpless when he must take care of his baby, and he asks the heroine for help.
Kate Little brings you a keeper with Husband for Keeps, in which the heroine needs an in-name-only husband in order to hold on to her ranch. A fabulously sexy doctor returns to the woman he could never forget in The Magnificent M.D. by Carol Grace. And exciting newcomer Sheri WhiteFeather offers another irresistible Native American hero in Jesse Hawk: Brave Father.
We hope you will indulge yourself this Valentine’s Day with all six of these passionate romances, only from Silhouette Desire!
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Jesse Hawk: Brave Father
Sheri WhiteFeather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Thanks to Shirl Thomas for being there whenever I need her,
Lisa Scaglione for adding a new voice to the critique group,
and Diana Rumm for talking me through a computer crisis.
Another thanks to Pet’s Choice in Anaheim Hills
for helping me create Barney. And for Jesse’s and Sky’s
inspiration—a heartfelt hug to the Muscogee Nation,
a proud and beautiful people.
SHERI WHITEFEATHER
lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, summer powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. Since her one true passion is writing, she is thrilled to be a part of the Silhouette Desire line. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.
Sheri also works as a leather artisan with her Muscogee Creek husband. They have one son and a menagerie of pets, including a pampered English bulldog and four equally spoiled Bengal cats. She would love to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 5130, Orange, California 92863-5130.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
One
Patricia Boyd loved him, more than life itself. She sat on the edge of his bed and brushed her fingers across his forehead, sweeping strands of dark brown hair away from his face. Eleven-year-old Dillon Hawk. Her son. Her heart and soul.
The morning sun shimmered through the blinds, illuminating the boy’s room with slats of light. Patricia smiled. Dillon kept his room tidy. Each carefully constructed model car, battleship and airplane had its place, as did a favored pair of in-line skates.
“Hey, Mom.” He grinned sleepily. “Are you leaving for work?”
“No. Today’s Sunday.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, pulling himself up against the oak headboard. “Breakfast at Grandpa’s.”
Sunday breakfast was a family tradition in the Boyd household. Omelets, hash browns and fresh-squeezed orange juice. “I have something else to do this morning, but Grandpa will fix your eggs.”
“Cool. He always makes those spicy Spanish kind.” Dillon pushed the covers away. “Where are you going today, Mom?”
To see your father, she thought nervously. Jesse was back, twelve years later. He’d bought the old Garrett farm, a piece of property between Arrow Hill and Hatcher. Of course, Jesse wasn’t expecting her. He hadn’t made an attempt to contact the woman he’d shunned.
“I’m going to visit an old friend,” Patricia told her son. My first love. The man who gave me you. “I’ll drop you off, then stop by Grandpa’s later.”
“Okay, but we might be at the hobby store by then.”
Another family tradition, Patricia thought. Raymond Boyd purchased his grandson a new model every Sunday. He spoiled the boy, but then Dillon was easy to shower with affection and expensive gifts. Her son appreciated every heartfelt hug as much as every toy he’d ever received.
She kissed his forehead. “Wash up and get dressed.”
“I’ll hurry.”
Twelve years had passed. Thirty more minutes wouldn’t make a difference. If anything, it would give her a chance to check her appearance again, maybe sip a cup of herb tea. Anything to calm her nerves. “That’s all right. There’s no need to rush.”
Patricia left his room and entered her own, a bedroom that was neither frilly nor bland. Antique wood furnishings, accented with winter-white and splashes of royal-blue, complemented the stained-glass windows. Every morning the sun reflected prisms of light across the bed.
She walked to the mirror and lingered over her reflection. She had chosen a straight white skirt, a pale-peach blouse and low heels—casual designer wear on a not-so-casual day.
Would Jesse recognize her right away? Or would he look twice to be sure? Her body was still slim, but her hips flared a bit more—a testimony to maturity and motherhood. Her hair hadn’t changed much, she decided, aside from a slightly shorter cut and subtle caramel highlights framing her face.
Her face. She touched her skin, remembering how Jesse marveled at what he called its “flawless texture.” Would he find flaws now? The skin of a thirty-year-old?
What in God’s name was she going to say to him? I was pregnant when you left. I waited year after lonely year for you to come back. You were supposed to prove to my disbelieving father that you really loved me.
“Mom?”
She turned to the sound of her son’s voice, her heart leaping to her throat. “You’re finished already?”
“Yep.” He stood grinning at her, his damp hair slicked back with gel, his baggy khakis sporting a trendy label. “Ten minutes flat.”
How could she forget Jesse’s face when she saw a youthful replica of it every day? Dillon’s straight white smile enhanced ethnic cheekbones, a stubborn jaw and sun-burnished skin. But it was his eyes, Patricia thought, that were the true gift from his father’s mixed-blood heritage. Light-gray or a pale shade of blue, depending on the child’s mood.
“I’m ready, too,” she said, wondering if she’d ever be ready to face Jesse Hawk again.
The old Garrett farm came into view nearly thirty-five minutes later. It held an address in Hatcher, although the acreage spanned into Arrow Hill. How fitting, Patricia thought, that Jesse would choose a home located on the dividing line between dusty country living and opulent wealth.
Opulent wealth? Good Lord, her father was the most successful man in the county. He owned real estate—houses, apartment buildings, neighborhood shopping centers.
As Patricia steered her Mercedes down the graveled drive, she took note of the house and its condition. Habit, she decided, and a means to keep her mind on something other than her fluttering stomach. Although the wood structure had been neglected for some time, the splendor of the primitive architecture shone through. The house resembled a homesteader’s cabin, small and rustic, and currently, it appeared, under renovation. She parked where the driveway forked, the other path leading to a newly constructed building behind the house, not nearly as rustic, but still charming.
She stepped onto the porch, fighting the urge to flee. Sooner or later she and Jesse would cross paths. It wouldn’t be long before people realized her son and the new resident in town shared the same last name. And then there were those who knew the truth. Wasn’t that how she’d learned he was back? A discreet female colleague had quietly mentioned that a man named Hawk was restoring the old Garrett place.
When she knocked on the door, the sound of barking dogs followed. She waited, waited some more, then headed toward her car. If Jesse was home, surely he would have responded to the yapping hounds.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here,” a deep voice said behind her. “I was working on the kennel out back. I’ve got a house full of strays.” He chuckled. “But then I always do.”
Patricia exhaled a shaky breath. She turned to see a tall, dark-skinned man squinting in the sun, his hand shielding his eyes, a dog—a sturdy rottweiler—at his side. When he moved closer and lowered his arm, her knees nearly gave way.
Jesse, in faded jeans and black construction-style boots, his bare chest a hard mass of sinew and muscle. The lean eighteen-year-old was gone. In his place stood a stranger.
“Oh, God,” he said, and stopped dead in his tracks. “Tricia.”
The nickname flowed through her like wine—a long-forgotten vintage. Sweet yet bitter. No one had ever called her Tricia but him. She lifted her chin, strode toward him, and extended her hand in a businesslike gesture. “It’s nice to see you, Jesse.”
Clearly caught off guard, he placed his hand in hers. “I hadn’t expected you to come around here.”
The handshake made them both uneasy, so she ended it quickly, choosing to adjust her purse strap instead. “Why not?”
“Just didn’t.”
“You could invite me in.” After all, damn you, I am the mother of your child. The innocent who waited for you all those years, believing like a fool, that you’d come back for me. Waited until hope turned to despair.
He slid his gaze over her in one slow sweep, reminding her of the day they had met. Only this time, there was no glimmer in his eye, no young, flirtatious smile. “The other dogs will just jump all over you.”
“I like animals.” She glanced at the loyal rottweiler beside him. It made no move toward her. It was an attractive dog, fit and muscular, its black coat gleaming in the sun. Jesse, too, had a gleaming mass of ebony hair. He still wore it long and flowing across his shoulders, but neatly trimmed sideburns added an air of maturity.
“What are you doing here, Tricia?”
“I thought it would be awkward if we ran into each other in town.” She shifted her feet, stirring the gravel below. “I was hoping we could talk. Catch up a little.” She needed to know what sort of man Dillon’s father had become. Eventually she’d have to introduce them. Marlow County was too small for secrets.
Although Jesse frowned, he accommodated her. “We could sit on the porch a spell, I suppose.” As he turned in the direction of the house, so did the dog. “Do you want a cold soda? I’ve got a cooler out back.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” She followed him up the stairs and sat beside him in a twig-style chair.
The rottweiler curled up at Jesse’s feet, clearly content to be near its master. “What’s his name?” she asked, assuming the massively built canine was a male.
“Cochise.”
“That fits him. A warrior’s name.”
“In a sense, he is a warrior,” Jesse said. “He’s trained to know the difference between friend and foe. And he’s been socialized since he was a pup.”
Naturally, Jesse was a responsible pet owner. He wouldn’t own a dog as powerful as a rottweiler without having it professionally trained. As for the strays he claimed to have, they made sense, too. Tricia remembered how he used to bring abandoned kittens into his apartment and feed them, even though he could barely afford food for himself.
“Are all the dogs inside the house strays?”
“Yeah.” He tapped the windowpane and grinned. A curious mutt had its nose pressed against the glass. “I picked them up at the Humane Society just this week. I was in the process of building another kennel when you arrived.”
He turned toward Patricia. She gripped the chair and steadied her breath. Dillon had flashed the same handsome smile earlier that morning. As their gazes met and held, Jesse’s grin faded.
His eyes were guarded, she noticed, but still breathtaking. Most people would call them gray, yet Patricia knew they turned silver when he made love, glittered sensuously when he lowered his head to kiss a woman—touched his tongue to hers—filtered his fingers through her hair.
How many women had there been? she wondered. How many had watched those eyes change color, enjoyed that staggering touch?
Patricia smoothed her skirt. Jesse Hawk should have been hers. He should have come back, kept his promise. On the night he’d taken her virginity, he’d pledged his love forever. They had snuggled in each other’s arms, tasted each other’s skin, made secret vows. Young, romantic vows. And she’d kept hers, kept them locked in her heart until she’d cried herself to sleep at night. No, she hadn’t agreed to move in with him when he’d asked, but she’d had her reasons—good reasons. The young man she’d loved needed a fair chance to pursue his career, and the baby in her womb needed some sort of financial stability. So she’d sent Jesse away, believing he’d return for her.
I’ll never forgive you, she wanted to say. But Dillon has the right to meet you. She had told her son about his father, promising Jesse would be back someday. They just had to be patient and let him finish college.
“I’d heard this place sold a few months ago,” she said, unaware then that Jesse had been the buyer. The property had been purchased under a corporate name.
“I’ve been coming back and forth from my rental in Tulsa, spending weekends out here, trying to get the renovations done. I hired a crew to build the clinic, but I’m doing most of the work on the house myself.”
Immediately she thought about Dillon’s interest in architecture. “I didn’t know you had experience in carpentry.”
He shrugged. “I did a little construction work during college. It put food on the table, paid the rent.”
Patricia wanted to ask him about his education, if his studies had been difficult. She knew dyslexia made reading a struggle. Her son suffered from the same confusing disability. But asking Jesse about college would probably rehash their past and the part her father had played in it—a moot point after all these years. “So I can assume the building out back is a veterinary clinic.”
He nodded. “I share a practice with three other doctors in Tulsa. We decided it was time to open a facility in the country.”
That explained the company that had purchased his house. Apparently Jesse and his colleagues had formed a small corporation, the property serving as a tax deduction. “Looks like things worked out for you.”
“Yeah.”
They sat silent for a time, staring out at the dusty road. A butterfly winged by, and Patricia felt herself smile. As a toddler, Dillon used to chase the butterflies that graced his grandpa’s abundant flower garden.
Jesse rocked his chair. “Are you sure you don’t want a soda?”
“No, but if you’re thirsty, go ahead.”
His chair scraped the side of the house. “That’s okay. I’m all right.”
Think of something to say, she told herself, as they suffered through another bout of awkward silence. She tucked her hair behind her ears while he crossed one leg in male fashion, then uncrossed it, stretching both long limbs out instead. Physically, he’d changed. He’d put on weight, but the virile bulk suited his tall frame, considering it came in the form of muscle. And against the hard wall of his chest lay a small leather pouch, the medicine bag he’d always worn. She knew it contained items that were special to him. He had even placed a small lock of her hair within it. Surely he had discarded that romantic memento long ago.
“So, have you officially moved in?” she asked, not wanting to think about the past.
“Yeah, but I was in California not too long ago. My brother lives there, and his wife had a baby.”
“Your brother? You mean you found him?” Patricia knew Jesse and his older brother, Sky, had been separated as children and taken to different foster homes when their parents died. Since Jesse was only two at the time, he hadn’t known about Sky’s existence until years later. At eighteen, Jesse had begun to search for his brother. But by then, Sky was long gone.
“Sky returned to Marlow County looking for me. So actually, we found each other.” A warm smile touched his lips. “He’s great. Everything a guy could want in a brother. And he has such a loving family. A sweet wife and an adorable baby daughter.”
Hurt and envy pricked her skin. If you had come back for me, you could have had a loving family, too. “Sounds like you two got along well.”
“Yeah. My brother and I talked about everything. Our heritage, our childhood, our work. He’s been learning the Muskokee dialect.” He rocked his chair again. “So what about you, Tricia. How’s your life going?”
“Fine. I’m happy.” I adore our son. He’s my entire world. “I’m a real estate broker.”
Jesse narrowed his eyes. “You buy and sell property for Daddy, right?”
Patricia lifted her chin. The sarcasm in his tone set her on edge. “Yes. I buy and sell property for my father’s business.” A highly successful company Dillon would inherit someday. “The income benefits the family trust.”
“And what a tight little family it is,” Jesse mocked. “Daddy and his precious daughter.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “Or are you married, Tricia? Did you bring a suitable young man home for your father’s approval?”
She waved her left hand. Apparently he hadn’t noticed the absence of a wedding band. “I’m single,” she snapped. “But I’ve matured, Jesse. Unlike you. Your childish grudge is most unbecoming.”
“So sue me. Or better yet, try to run my life again.”
She didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Her father had been wrong all those years ago, but he’d made it up to her. He had loved her son from the moment the boy was born. And being a parent herself, she’d come to understand her father’s motives, his overly protective nature.
“I didn’t come here to dredge up the past.”
He sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. And I’m glad you’re happy, Tricia.”
Since the gentleness in Jesse’s voice reminded her of the man he used to be, the youth she had loved so desperately, Patricia glanced up at the window for a diversion. Two dogs were perched there now, panting against the glass. She couldn’t help but smile.
“You can let them out. I don’t mind.”
He grinned, flashing a set of straight white teeth. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The dogs, three of them, barreled out the door in a whirl of fur and excited barks. Cochise sat, ears perked, watching the activity. Patricia was all but attacked, nuzzled and nudged with wet noses and hairy paws, so she tried to give each dog equal attention, petting them simultaneously. Jesse laughed as a small wiry brown-and-white mutt made its way onto her skirt.
Jesse knelt to stroke the dog on her lap while the other two lost interest and zoomed down the porch steps, Cochise staring longingly after them.
Jesse turned to his loyal companion. “Go on, boy.”
The rottweiler instantly joined the strays.
While Patricia pretended to watch the dogs, she scanned Jesse’s profile—features familiar yet changed—a man she no longer knew. A man, unfortunately, still capable of capturing her eye. The thought disturbed her. Patricia liked to think of herself as immune to tall, dark and rugged.
When he turned suddenly toward her, she focused her attention on the wiggling canine on her lap, hating that she’d been caught staring. “This one’s cute,” she said, scratching the dog’s ears. “He looks like one of those movie dogs. You know, the sweet, scruffy stray.”
His expression turned almost wistful. “You used to love those kinds of movies. They always made you cry.”
She nodded, hoping she appeared less affected than she felt. “I remember. The happy-ending tearjerkers. My goodness, how many of those did we watch?”
Too many, Jesse thought, his heart clenching. Cuddling in front of the TV with Tricia was an image that still haunted him. How many times over the years had he thought about her, missed her, ached for her?
Tricia had changed, grown even more beautiful than in his memories. She wore her silky brown hair a tad more stylishly these days, a professional chin-length streaked softly with golden lights. Her body had blossomed into a womanly blend of cleavage and curves, and those legs, those long trim gams looked as though they had the strength and agility to wrap themselves around a man for hours. And they had, he remembered, as his groin tightened. Those were the most painful images of all. The youthful passion, the sensuality of shyness, the tender, inexperienced lovemaking.
Fresh out of high school, Jesse had moved to Marlow County in search of his roots, but found Tricia instead. Nervous about college, he’d gone to the public library where he’d debated signing up for a free literacy program. When he’d walked away without joining, she had approached him—a sleek brunette in shorts and sandals claiming she had volunteered as a tutor. He’d lingered over her in one slow torturous gaze and fell instantly in love. And then three months later his world fell apart.
As Jesse gazed up at the porch roof, his mind drifted back to the day Tricia had betrayed him. She had come to his apartment that August afternoon, looking tired and pale.
“I shouldn’t have told my father about your scholarship,” she said, her voice shaky.
Jesse shook his head, dismissing her guilt. He’d just had a life-altering confrontation with her father—a man who despised him. “You didn’t know he’d be able to use it against me.” A cruel twist of fate had dealt that card, it wasn’t Tricia’s fault.
Her voice continued to quiver. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing.” Pride had kept him silent, masking the rage. Jesse knew Raymond Boyd had been trying to destroy his relationship with Tricia since it started, but despite her father’s wishes, she had continued to date him. That thought gave him hope. After all, it was modern-day Oklahoma, and they were both adults—strong-willed eighteen-year-olds. A poor Indian boy loving a rich white girl was no longer a crime. “Don’t worry, I’m going to fight back.”
Immediately her eyes filled with tears. “How? There’s nothing you can do that will change any of this.”
Jesse took a deep breath. He could go to a different college, one Raymond Boyd didn’t have an affiliation with. It wouldn’t be easy, but with Tricia by his side, he could accomplish anything. She was part of his strength, his soul.
“I want you to move in with me, Tricia.”
The tears collecting in her eyes began to fall. “If I do that, how will you be able to go to college? You know my father meant what he said. He’ll have your scholarship taken away.”
Jesse’s scholarship was from Winston College of Veterinary Medicine, a privately funded institution providing an education in conventional veterinary medicine as well as extended studies in holistic remedies, acupuncture and homeopathy. In spite of Jesse’s reading difficulties, his advanced knowledge of herbal healing had earned him the rare scholarship. But now, Raymond Boyd had the power to take it away.
As it turned out, Tricia’s father and George Winston, the founder of the college, were fraternity brothers. So if Jesse didn’t end his relationship with Tricia, he’d lose his scholarship. Fraternity blood, as Raymond had put it, was thicker than water.
Jesse dried Tricia’s tears, then took her in his arms, the fragrance of her hair, silk of her skin, creating an ache. Being that much in love scared the hell out of him, as did the fear of living without her.
“I know that if you move in with me, I won’t be able to go to Winston,” he said, explaining his frantic plan. “But I’ll find another school that will accept me. And I’ll apply for financial aid. There must be government grants available.”
“Oh, Jesse.” She blinked back another stream of tears. “You know how important the holistic care program is to the dean at Winston. So far, it’s the only veterinary school in the nation that offers extended studies in alternative medicine. It’s where you’re meant to go.”
Deep down he knew what she said was true. The ancient practice of herbal healing had been passed on to him by Tall Bear, a Creek medicine man, and it was Tall Bear who had introduced Jesse to the dean at Winston, offering a trade. Jesse would assist the director of the holistic care program in exchange for an education in conventional veterinary medicine. The dean had agreed to the unusual scholarship proposal, but if George Winston, the man who held the purse strings, suddenly changed his mind about funding it, the deal would crumble.
Jesse trapped her gaze. “I don’t want to lose you, Tricia.” Healing animals was his destiny. But so was Tricia. Choosing between them wasn’t possible. He was willing to make sacrifices to have them both, work himself to the bone if he had to. And he knew Tall Bear would understand. The wise old medicine man would tell him to follow his heart. What Raymond Boyd proposed to do might not be illegal, but it was unethical. Morally wrong.
Jesse took Tricia’s hand and squeezed it. “Somehow I’ll find a way to make this right. Maybe the dean at Winston will help. Maybe he’ll recommend me to another school.” Jesse swallowed back his nervousness, his fear. “Please, Tricia, move in with me.”
“Oh, God. I can’t. Not now.” She paused, inhaled a deep breath. “First of all, I would never expect you to prolong your education for me. You deserve that scholarship. Think about it, Jesse. We can be together after you finish college. You can come back for me.” She closed her eyes, then opened them, blinking away her tears once again. “If we moved in together now, we’d never make it financially. We’d never earn enough money to survive, let alone get you through college.”
Jesse pulled away. Money. The word alone clenched his gut. Once, Tricia had convinced him there was no dishonor in being born poor, orphaned or learning disabled. But suddenly the shame, the humiliation of being poor ripped through him like a knife, slicing his heart in two.
When Tricia lifted her hand to his cheek, her gentle touch made his skin burn—a sickening combination of love, hate, confusion and pain. She had just chosen her father’s money over him. She wasn’t willing to live in a tiny apartment or ride around town in a battered pickup. She wanted the luxury her father could provide, the fancy car and designer clothes.
“Come back after you finish college,” she said, skimming her fingers over his jaw. “Come back for me, Jesse. Prove to Daddy that—”
“Damn it, Tricia,” he interrupted, still hurting from her touch. “You should hate your father for this, but instead you expect me to prove myself to him.”
She dropped her hand. “Daddy’s wrong, but I could never hate him. He’s raised me all by himself…and I…” She glanced away and clutched her stomach. “Please try to understand.”
He did understand. Tricia didn’t love him the way he loved her. They had no future. All he’d be to her in a few years was the guy who had taught her how to please other men. Rich men Daddy wouldn’t scorn. Fine, he thought. He’d take advantage of that scholarship, go on with his life and leave Tricia to her daddy’s money.
“You’ll come back, won’t you, Jesse?”
“Damn right, I will,” he told her, deciding then and there that he’d return to Marlow County someday, but not for the girl who had chosen her wealthy father over him. Jesse Hawk would come back to find his roots, make his home in the town where his parents had lived and died.
And that’s what he’d done. Of course now, twelve years later, Tricia was here stirring all those painful memories.
Jesse sighed. He knew he should be a proper host and invite her into his home, but he wouldn’t dare. He couldn’t bear to see her among his belongings and then watch her leave. His house would seem far too empty afterward, and damn it, he’d suffered through enough loneliness.
All because of Tricia. And her father.
“Look,” he said, “I know you didn’t stop by to talk about the past, but there’s something I need to say.”
When he paused, she gazed up at him, her hair catching a soft breeze.
He focused on his next words, hating that she looked so beautiful. So ladylike. “I wasn’t really in love all those years ago, and neither were you. I mean, we were only kids. Teenagers experimenting.”
Her skin, that flawless complexion, paled a little, and Jesse felt a pang of regret from his perverse need for revenge. But he’d be damned if he’d ever admit that he had pined for her, missed her so badly he’d actually unmanned himself with tears.
“So,” he said, finishing his speech, “I never should have asked you to live with me. What we had wasn’t anything more than puppy love. A strong infatuation. It never would have worked.”
“I’m well aware of that,” she responded, her voice tight.
“That’s just my point. I don’t blame you for not moving in with me.” And he didn’t. Not now that he was older and wiser. The blame was in her loyalty to Raymond Boyd, in her expecting Jesse to come back to town and grovel at her old man’s feet—worship the real estate tycoon as though he were some powerful pagan god. It still stung that Tricia had valued her daddy’s money over Jesse’s love. If she had asked him to come back to sweep her off her feet and tell Raymond Boyd to go to hell, Jesse would have been there with bells on. War paint and feathers, too.
“I should go.” She placed the dog gently on its feet, stood and brushed off her skirt.
Jesse remained seated a moment longer, looking up at her. If he’d rattled her, she was doing her best not to show it. Aside from the loss of color in her cheeks, she appeared cool and professional. Aloof.
He rose slowly. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I insist.”
The gravel crunched beneath their feet. Her steps were light, his heavy, just like the ache in his chest. The strays circled Jesse and Tricia as they walked, barking playfully. Cochise took his place at Jesse’s side, and he patted the dog’s head for comfort. Cochise had been his companion for longer than he chose to remember, and more loyal than any woman could ever be.
They stopped at Tricia’s car, an expensive white model. She’d graduated from a sporty convertible to four-door luxury. As she searched the interior of a leather handbag for her keys, Jesse caught a whiff of her perfume. The scent was unfamiliar, but it sparked a weakness in him he couldn’t deny.
Damn her. Unable to stop himself, he cupped her face.
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t touch—”
He silenced the rest of her protest with his lips, crushing them brutally against hers. The kiss was demanding, hard, hungry and lustful—filled with years of pain. He pressed her against the car and felt a shiver slide from his body to hers. She responded to his blatant tongue thrusts and melted like warm, scented wax, her hands gliding down his arms.
Satisfied that he’d made her as weak as he, Jesse tore his mouth away. “Don’t come back, Tricia,” he said, forcing air back into his lungs. “I don’t want to see you again.”
He turned and left her standing at the car, hating that a part of him still missed her—a flaw he intended to keep buried. Forever.
Two
After a long, shaky drive, Patricia parked her car in the circular driveway on her father’s estate and willed herself to take control. Jesse’s kiss had left her skin tingling and her heart pumping, conjuring needs and feelings that were best to ignore. She twisted the end of a lipstick tube, leaned toward the rearview mirror and attempted to camouflage his aftertaste with an icy-mauve hue.
The feminine maneuver failed. Jesse was still there, hard, sexy and demanding. Patricia sighed and checked her appearance. Hopefully no one would know. She looked cool and polished, as always. She’d learned long ago how to keep her nerves inside where they belonged. She was, after all, Patricia Boyd, the daughter of the most prestigious man in the county. She had an image to uphold. And she’d fought to preserve that image even when she’d become the object of raised eyebrows and none-too-subtle whispers. Giving birth to an illegitimate child wasn’t what the citizens of Marlow County had expected from Patricia Anne Boyd. Attending Princeton and marrying a Harvard man was more her style, but she’d done neither. Instead she’d stayed in Arrow Hill, become an active member of Boyd Enterprises and raised Jesse Hawk’s son.
Patricia made her way to the front door and opened it, grateful her father’s domestic staff didn’t work on Sundays. Because she’d been raised with cooks, housekeepers, chauffeurs and nannies, she’d always wondered what being part of a “normal” family would feel like. Patricia’s mother had died before Patricia’s second birthday, and as far as she was concerned, there wasn’t a nanny alive who could replace what she’d lost. Raymond Boyd had done his best, though. And Sundays were special in his house—no staff, just family—a union that now included Dillon.
The Boyd mansion was stereotypical of old money and power: fresh flowers at every turn, a marble foyer, a winding staircase with a slick wood banister. The white-tiled kitchen was a cook’s delight with its industrial-size refrigerator, abundant counter space and center isle. Copper pots and pans dangled above the stove—a kitchen clichå that lent the massive room a homey appeal.
Patricia found her father in his office, a room rife with masculine furnishings. Since he rarely worked at home, the ornate antique desk seemed like a rich man’s prop, decked with brass ornaments and a humidor filled with imported cigars. The French doors that led to an impressive flower garden were open, inviting a blend of summer fragrances.
He glanced up and smiled. He sat at the desk with impeccable posture, a handsome man nearing the age of retirement, trim and fit with manicured hands and neatly styled graying hair. He looked like what he was, Patricia thought, domineering and headstrong, yet, below the surface, capable of immense kindness. And from what she remembered, Jesse had similar personality traits, only the younger man’s were packaged in a more rugged appearance with long, windblown hair and large, callused hands. Neither would appreciate the comparison, she knew, although under different circumstances, Jesse Hawk and Raymond Boyd might have found each other admirable.
“I took Dillon into town for a new model, then dropped him off at the Harrison estate,” her father said. “They called and invited him for a swim.”
Mark Harrison was Dillon’s best friend. He was a nice, enthusiastic boy, and her father approved of the family. The Harrisons, too, came from old money. It sounded snooty, but things like that mattered in Raymond Boyd’s world. Patricia also knew her father overlooked Dillon’s illegitimacy, something the Harrison family had done.
“That’s fine.” She sat in a tuck-and-rolled leather chair and absently ran her fingers over the brass tacks. Not having to face Dillon immediately after facing Jesse seemed like a small blessing. At times, her eleven-year-old son appeared capable of reading her emotions, no matter how well hidden. No one but Dillon could do that.
“Did you eat?” Raymond asked. “It’s past the lunch hour.”
Patricia glanced at her watch. Food was the furthest thing from her mind. This was, she decided, a perfect opportunity to tell her father who and what occupied her thoughts. Dillon was gone, and the household staff wouldn’t be poking about, dusting furniture or offering entråes from a carefully-selected luncheon menu.
She scooted forward. “Dad, Jesse’s back.”
He turned his chair slowly, although she imagined his heart had taken a quick, unexpected leap. “For good?” he asked.
Patricia nodded. “He bought the old Garrett place. I went by there this morning.”
“So you’ve seen him, then?”
“Yes.”
“Did he come back for you?”
She kept her eyes steady and her expression blank. The question hurt almost as much as the answer. She had insisted years before that Jesse would do right by her, and her father had called her young and naive for believing so. Jesse would forget about her. Eighteen-year-old boys often confused lust for love. For Patricia the lesson had been a difficult one. Jesse had seemed so sincere. He had even offered to sacrifice his scholarship to be with her. That alone had convinced her it was true love.
“No. He’s opening a veterinary clinic behind his house.”
Raymond squared his shoulders as though preparing for an emotional battle. “Did you tell him about Dillon?”
“No. Not yet.” She held up her hand in a failed attempt to confront her father’s disapproval. “Jesse and Dillon have the right to know each other.”
“Oh, Patricia.” He let out a long sigh. “Do you honestly think someone like Hawk is going to make a suitable father?”
“But Jesse was raised in foster care. Establishing roots was important to him. He wanted children more than anything.” For Dillon’s sake, she prayed that was still true.
“Really? So is he married with a family now?”
She dropped her gaze. “No.” A happily married man wouldn’t have kissed her like that. And as far as children went, the strays he took in were as close as he got, of that she felt certain.
Raymond drummed his fingers on the desk.
Tricia looked up. “What am I supposed to do? Keep my son a secret? His name is Dillon Hawk, Dad.”
“Giving the boy that name was a mistake. Dillon should be a Boyd.”
Patricia rubbed her temples. That useless argument always resulted in a headache. “It’s too late to turn back the clock. And somehow I’ve got to get Jesse to agree to see me again.”
Her father’s eyes hardened. “What happened? Did he toss you off his property?”
“Not exactly, no.” She pressed her temples again. Worse than having been told not to come back, was Jesse’s admission that he’d never really loved her. After all these years, hearing it out loud had been like a blow to the heart. “He told me he didn’t want to see me again.”
“Mom? Grandpa?”
Patricia and Raymond turned simultaneously toward the open doorway to find Dillon staring into the room, his hair still wet from an afternoon swim.
Patricia slanted her father a nervous glance. How much had Dillon heard? “You’re back early,” she commented casually to her son.
“Mark ate too much candy and got sick, so his mom brought me back.”
“Did you eat a lot of candy, too?” Raymond asked, smoothing his sideburns in what Patricia recognized as an anxious habit.
“Not as much as Mark.” The boy moved a step closer, his ever-changing eyes a steely shade of gray. He turned to Patricia. “How come my dad doesn’t want to see you again?”
Oh, God. So he had been eavesdropping. “Dillon, come sit down. We need to talk. Dad?” She looked at her father, dismissing him politely. Raymond Boyd didn’t know how to be objective when it came to discussing Jesse.
“I’ll take a walk.” The older man stood, then squeezed his grandson’s shoulder as the child took a seat next to Patricia. “I’ll be in the garden if you need me.” He exited through the French doors, his loafers silent as they touched the stone walk-way.
Patricia reached for Dillon’s hand and found it cold. She rubbed it between her palms. He shouldn’t have heard what he did. She should have been more careful. “Just because your father and I parted ways doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t get to know him.”
The boy’s voice quavered. “But it’s not fair that he doesn’t like you anymore.”
She sighed. Apparently Dillon had only overheard the tail end of the conversation. For that she was relieved. And she couldn’t help but admire his attempt at chivalry. “Life isn’t always fair, sweetheart.”
“But he shouldn’t have been mean to you.” Dillon tugged his hand away, stood and paced in front of the desk, appearing suddenly older than his eleven years. “I don’t want you to tell my dad about me. I don’t care if I ever meet him.”
Patricia drew a deep breath. “He lives here now, and one way or another, he’s going to find out he has a son. He’ll come looking for you, Dillon.”
“Then let him.” The boy stopped pacing and pushed his hair out of eyes that were clearly his father’s. “Just promise that you won’t go back to his house. Please, Mom. Promise.”
“Okay.” If Dillon needed time to deal with his feelings, then Jesse Hawk would have to wait.
“Yoo-hoo!”
Now what? Jesse rolled his shoulders and strode from the examining room into the reception area of the clinic. Half the supplies he’d ordered hadn’t arrived, and the brand-spanking-new air-conditioning unit had decided to quit on the muggiest day of the decade. So what if it was under warranty? The inconvenience irked the hell out of him. He was not in the mood for visitors.
“The clinic isn’t open yet,” he said, then broke into a grin when he saw his guest cooling herself with an ornate fan. No one but Fiona Lee Beaumont wore rhinestoned glasses and carried jeweled fans. The woman’s hair was still a gaudy shade of red, he noticed, and whipped around her head like a beehive. And she had to be pushing seventy these days.
“Jesse Hawk, as I live and breathe.” She lowered the fan. “You grew into one hunk of a man. You look just like your daddy.”
He hugged her frail frame, touched by the reference to his father. Fiona lived in the same trailer park where Jesse had spent the first two years of his life. She remembered his parents. Not well, but she knew their names and what they had looked like. Jesse didn’t even have a photograph of his parents. “And you, dear lady, are still the love of my life. I’ve missed you.”
She patted his cheek. “So you’re an animal doctor, with your own practice and everything.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. It’s a step up from working at the pet store.” How many pounds of kitty chow had he packed into Fiona’s ancient Oldsmobile? She was what the town of Hatcher called “The Cat Lady,” an eccentric old woman who shared her worn-out trailer with at least two dozen pampered felines, some that slept there, others that just came to visit.
“I have a brood of my own now, Fiona.”
“Yes, I noticed. You’ve got six dogs in the yard, and that gelding back there’s a real looker. Big, handsome paint.”
“I’ve got a bird, an iguana and three ferrets, too.” He sent her a playful wink. “Hell, I might even have a cat or two around here somewhere.”
She smiled. “Your old boss told me you moved back. Also said he’d be sending business your way.”
He leaned against the front counter. “Larry’s a good man.” Larry Milbrook of Larry’s Pets and Feed had given Jesse a job twelve years before, when Jesse had drifted into town wearing holey jeans, time-worn boots and a tattered backpack with more of the same.
She peered past his shoulder. “So have you hired someone to run the reception office?”
“No, not yet. I’ll probably only have the clinic open three, maybe four days a week. The rest of the time I’ll be out on ranch calls. Horses like me.” And he liked them. Horses, it seemed, ran in the blood. Jesse’s brother, Sky, made his living as a stunt rider, and their father had worked as a ranch hand and trainer most of his life.
Fiona walked around the counter, allowing herself access to the computer. She tapped the keys with bony fingers flaunting rings as bold as Texas. “So are you going to hire some pretty young thing?”
“No,” he responded quickly, thinking about Tricia. Young and pretty still felt like heartache. Because he tried to avoid the Daddy’s-girl type, he’d picked up the habit of dating women slightly older than himself, ladies who looked nothing like the long-legged, fine-boned Patricia Boyd. And even then, dating was rare. He’d become a bit of a recluse; he and his animals. There were times he’d considered building an ark, loading his pets and sailing to the ends of the earth to numb the pain associated with his lost love.
“So you’re going to hire someone more mature, then?” Fiona pressed on, pulling Jesse back into conversation.
He eyed the old woman. Apparently she needed a job. Feeding dozens of cats and living on a fixed income couldn’t be easy. He imagined the rent had increased in that trailer park she called home. Some thief owned the place, some slimeball slumlord from Tulsa.
“I could use a mature lady around here. Someone who has a way with animals. Say, you wouldn’t be interested, would you?”
“Me?” Her eyes widened beneath the pointy-framed glasses. “Hmm.” She played the drama out, patting the side of her bouffant and gazing up at the ceiling as though the offer needed consideration.
“Oh, why not?” she said finally. “I did take some computer classes at the Senior Citizens’ Center, and quite frankly this place could use a little jazzing up.”
Jesse looked around. The room was simple and sterile, mostly white with touches of gray. Well, he thought, if anyone could add color, it would be Fiona Lee Beaumont in her fake baubles, dyed hair and god-awful pantsuits. Lord help him.
“How about a cold drink to celebrate,” he suggested. There was no turning back now. Fiona was already arranging the reception desk to her liking, her bracelets clanking in the process.
He brought her a canned iced tea and chose a soda for himself. She whipped out her fan again and drank the tea from a paper cup, fanning and sipping like an aging Southern Belle.
“So,” she said, “have you been keeping in touch with the Boyd girl? She was so lovely. Always wanted legs like that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You know damn well her daddy hated me.”
“Doesn’t mean the two of you haven’t been carrying on a secret rendezvous.”
Jesse finished his drink. “Tricia came by last week, but nothing happened.” Nothing but a kiss that had made him hungry for a thousand more. “That romance is history.”
“Well, in any case, you must be proud that she gave the boy your name. It was gossip for a long while. This county flourishes on gossip, especially tidbits concerning the rich.”
Jesse’s heart nearly stopped. “What are you talking about? What boy?”
“Oh, my.” Fiona chewed her fading lipstick line. “Oh my, oh my.” She reached for his quaking hand. “You mean after all these years, she never told you about your son?”
“Miss Boyd,” the receptionist said over the intercom, “there’s a Mr. Hawk here to see you. He—” the young woman paused and lowered her voice “—seems quite upset. He threatened to find your office himself if I don’t accommodate him. Should I call Security?”
Patricia straightened her spine, preparing for a battle Jesse would surely force her to wage. He knows, she told herself, taking a deep breath. He found out about Dillon.
“I’ll see Mr. Hawk, Susan. There’s no need for Security.”
Within seconds Patricia’s door opened, and Jesse shouldered by the receptionist. Petite and pale, Susan looked like a quivering mouse next to him, eager to escape something even more dangerous than a surly tomcat. A grizzly, Patricia decided. A grizzly with long black hair and gunmetal eyes. When in God’s name had Jesse gotten so big?
Avoiding his glare, Patricia rose and nodded to the receptionist. “Thank you, Susan. Please hold my calls.” She glanced at her watch, determined to keep her manner professional. “I’ll let you know when this meeting ends.”
The woman cast a wary glance at Jesse, who kept his stare focused on Patricia. “Yes, Miss Boyd.” She darted out the door and closed it soundly.
“Well…” Patricia smoothed her jacket. Did she look as nervous as she felt, or did her red suit boast confidence? She lifted her chin. If her designer apparel didn’t, then certainly the plush office should.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked, sweeping her hand toward a wet bar. “Or would you prefer something cold?” Like the frost glazing your eyes.
“Cut the crap, Tricia.”
He strode toward her, his faded denims and casual T-shirt mocking the decor. Suddenly the hours of labor spent perfecting the office seemed insignificant. He dwarfed the room and all of its high-powered pretense.
“Do you have a child?” he asked. “An eleven-year-old boy?”
She resisted the urge to remove the scarf draped around her neck. Deep, calming breaths were difficult as it was, and the flowing strip of silk felt like a noose. “Yes.”
He stepped closer. Dangerously close. “And am I his father?”
“Yes.”
“And tell me,” he said, moving closer still, “did you know you were pregnant when I left town? Did you know then that you were carrying my child?”
“Yes,” she stated once again, refusing to offer an explanation. She had begged him to come back for her. The fault was his.
He stood dead still, his metallic eyes boring into hers. “Do you know how hard it is not to hate you right now?”
“No harder than it is for me,” she shot back. Love and hate were only a fine line apart. And she had loved him once. Loved him beyond comprehension.
She wanted to scream, claw his skin and make him bleed. But instead she stood facing him as years of pain stretched between them. God help her. Jesse was back, making her insides ache all over again. Everything hurt: her lungs as they battled for air, her heart as it pumped erratic beats. Yes, she struggled not to hate him. How could she not?
“By the way,” she said, angry that he hadn’t asked, “your son’s name is Dillon.”
He flinched, and those eyes, those slate-gray eyes lightened, softening his stare. He repeated the name in a near whisper, his voice cracking. “Dillon.”
Patricia glanced away. She didn’t want to see that side of Jesse, the vulnerable, gentle side she had loved. In that moment he could have been eighteen again—the teenage boy who had pledged “forever.” The man she’d almost come to hate. The thought made her sad and sick inside.
Jesse raised his voice to a commanding level once again. “I want to see Dillon. As soon as possible. I have a right to see my son.”
She reached toward the edge of her desk, felt for the ridge and leaned against it. “I’m sorry, but Dillon isn’t ready to meet you.” That truth intensified the sickness, especially when Jesse jerked as though he’d been struck.
“What?” He pulled his hands through his hair. “Oh, God, what are you saying? Does he know about me? Does he know I’m his father?”
“Yes, he knows, he’s just confused right now.” She gestured for Jesse to sit, and surprisingly he did, lowering himself onto a contemporary leather sofa. She seated herself beside him. “This isn’t easy for Dillon.” She thought about her son, about his sensitive, protective nature. “He used to ask about you, but now that so many years have passed, I think he’s gotten used to the idea of not having a father.”
Jesse scrubbed his hand across his jaw. “Did he tell you he didn’t want to meet me, or are you just assuming—”
“He told me,” she answered honestly. “And he asked me not to go back to your house. Made me promise I wouldn’t.”
Jesse’s breath hitched. Big, strong and vulnerable, she thought. He looked as though he wanted to cry, bury his head in his hands and let the tears flow. Patricia touched his shoulder and felt it shake. He was, she realized, as hurt and confused as Dillon. He leaned toward her, reached up and skimmed his fingers across her cheek. She wanted to cry, too. Cry for their youth and what should have been.
Patricia closed her eyes as images of Dillon flashed through her mind—birthday parties, skinned knees, warm hugs, toothless grins, fevers, chicken pox. Years of motherhood. A sweet, loving little boy who had waited for his father to return.
She opened her eyes and pushed Jesse’s hand away. “Damn you. Why didn’t you come back?”
He clenched the hand that had touched her, his face still except for a twitching muscle in his cheek. “Because I didn’t know I had a child,” he hissed. “You stole him from me. Dillon is my flesh and blood as much as yours, but you kept him for yourself. You didn’t want me involved in his life.”
“Stole him?” She moved to the edge of her seat. “I gave birth to him. Loved him, rocked him, fed him from my breast. And I told him about his father. Good things. But you didn’t come back and prove me right. So I’d say Dillon has the right to decide if you’re worth meeting.”
He rose and began to pace the room, the restless movement reminding her of Dillon. How alike yet different they were. Father and son. Strangers.
“Oh, God,” he said, anguish vibrating his voice. “What if Dillon never wants to meet me?”
She took a deep breath, composing herself. Watching Jesse hurt didn’t seem to ease her own pain, the ache he’d renewed. “Dillon will come around. He’s just angry…upset that—” She paused, exhaled again. “He knows that you and I—that our reunion hasn’t been a friendly one.”
Jesse stopped pacing and turned to face her. “That’s what’s wrong? You and me?”
“Dillon’s a sensitive child. It bothers him that we’re not friends,” she said, grateful she hadn’t been forced to reveal the conversation Dillon had stumbled upon. She hadn’t forgiven herself for that act of irresponsibility. Her son’s emotional well-being had been jeopardized simply because she hadn’t thought to close a door.
Jesse trapped her gaze. “I’m taking you to dinner tonight.”
Patricia startled. “What?”
“Our son wants us to be friends.”
Just like that? Sit down for a cozy dinner and wipe away years of pain? Two people who not more than ten minutes before had admitted they were battling hatred? She stood to face him. “You’re crazy.”
“Damn it, Tricia. Don’t you dare fight me on this.” He took one of her business cards off the desk and handed her a pen. “Write your address down. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
She did as he asked and shoved the card back at him. For Dillon, she told herself. She’d do it for Dillon. Deep down she knew the boy wanted a father.
“We’ll go to The Captain’s Inn.” Scowling, he grabbed the pen and tossed it back onto her desk; it rolled off and landed on the floor. “But remember, this isn’t a date. We’re making peace with each other for the sake of our son.”
Well, she thought as he left her office and shut the door with a smart bang, we’re off to one hell of a start.
Three
Jesse came home to find Sally, a six-foot iguana, speculatively eyeing Barney, an animated African gray parrot. Apparently in the mood to show off, the chatty bird sat atop the lizard’s terrarium reciting gibberish he’d picked up from the television. Since Barney had figured out the buttons on the remote control, he spent his days switching channels. He adored the clatter of game shows and cartoons, but occasionally Jesse caught the bird tuned in to a soap opera, his head cocked curiously.
“Hi, guys,” Jesse said, as he passed. Barney and Sally didn’t know that in the real world, lizards and birds weren’t supposed to be friends. Although Jesse’s woodsy home boasted plenty of greenery and primitive artifacts, it was hardly a jungle. Barney and Sally had been hand raised in captivity.
Turning the corner, he strode into the kitchen. Uneven stacks of dirty dishes cluttered the chopping-block counters. He blew a windy sigh and filled the sink with warm water, adding a fair amount of soap. Dissolving dried pancake syrup and crusty chili would take some elbow grease. He wasn’t the sort to ignore chores, household or otherwise, but his organized existence had gone to hell and back since he’d set eyes on Tricia again.
Keeping busy was important, he decided, and pacing the floor with cigars in his pocket wouldn’t do. He might be a new father, but his son wasn’t an infant. Dillon Hawk was eleven years old. And although it wrenched his heart, he couldn’t blame the boy for being apprehensive about meeting him. Apparently Dillon respected his mother enough to stand up for her honor, something a young brave had the right to do.
He dunked another set of dishes and wondered how he and Tricia were going to tackle friendship. It was, of course, Jesse’s only option if he wanted a healthy relationship with his son.
What was the boy like? he wondered. Was he tall for his age? Dark or fair in coloring? Shy? Outgoing? Did he wear his baseball caps reversed, or did he avoid hats altogether? What television shows did he watch? Was there a girl in the neighborhood he had a painful crush on, or was Tricia the only female who had yet to influence his life?
As Jesse scoured a frying pan, he tried to envision the items on Tricia’s shiny black desk. Had there been a framed photograph he’d missed—a snapshot of his son? He’d been too keyed up to even think about searching for a picture, much less grill Tricia for sentimental facts.
Her secret had blinded him from anything but rage. Damn her for not telling him about their baby—for making him miss the first eleven years of his son’s life. She knew how badly he had wanted children, how he longed for a family of his own. But Jesse had given up on that dream soon after Tricia’s betrayal. Children meant a wife, and a wife meant falling in love—something he never intended to do again. Sure, maybe the weak part of him had never quit missing Tricia, but the other side, the proud, willful side, had suffered from her disloyalty—almost to the point of hating her for it. And now, God help him, he had no choice but to befriend her.
A deafening sound drew Jesse’s attention. He dried his hands and went back into the living room where Barney had decided to blast the volume on the TV.
Having abandoned the iguana, the African gray patrolled the coffee table, protecting the remote control like an armed guard.
“Come on, pal, that’s too loud.” Jesse reached for the remote, then scolded Barney when the parrot went for his hand. “Don’t even think about.”
Barney ducked his head in what looked like shame. Jesse set the volume on mute and grinned at his feathered friend. “Want to learn a new word?”
The bird stepped closer, inching its beak toward the remote in Jesse’s hand. He hid the device behind his back. “No TV. A new word.”
“Cochise,” Barney squawked.
“Cochise is outside with the other dogs.” Although some would disagree, Jesse believed parrots did more than mimic. They were extremely intelligent birds, and Barney knew that Cochise was the dog that shared their home.
“Dill-on,” Jesse said, emphasizing each syllable.
He wanted Barney to learn his son’s name, as he intended to introduce Dillon to all of his pets—hopefully soon. While the bird listened, Jesse sat on the edge of the coffee table and continued to repeat the name in a slow, patient tone.
A short time later, the African gray fluffed his feathers. “Hello, Jesse.”
Jesse smiled. Was Barney’s parrot-voice spiced with an Oklahoma twang, or was that his imagination? “Dillon,” Jesse coaxed once again. “Hello, Dillon.”
“Hello, Jesse,” came the quick reply.
No. No. No. “Hello, Dillon.”
Barney bobbed his head. “Hello, Jesse. Hello.”
Jesse set the remote down. “We’ll try later, okay?”
“Okay.” The bird repeated the familiar word, then pecked at the buttons until he discovered sound once again.
Jesse’s mind drifted back to his son. Would he meet Dillon tonight, or would the child refuse an introduction until he felt certain his parents had worked through their differences? He removed Tricia’s business card from his pocket and gazed at the address she’d written. What would Dillon think of him? Jesse wondered as he studied the card. Would he fit the boy’s image of a father? Or would Dillon be expecting someone suave and sophisticated, like the kind of men Tricia probably dated?
Jesse combed his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t enter his son’s home for the first time empty-handed. He should bring the boy a gift. But what? He had no idea what would interest an eleven-year-old, especially one born into wealth. Dillon probably had every video game and computer software available, not to mention sports equipment. The thought nagged him. How was he going to compete with Tricia’s money?
You’re not even going to try, a sensible voice in his head said. Parents shouldn’t compete for their child’s affection. Love comes from the heart, not the wallet.
Even so, he still intended to take his son a present. He felt for the leather strap around his neck and reached under his shirt for the medicine bag he’d worn since his own youth. Yes, he’d take Dillon a gift.
And what about Tricia? Should he offer her something as well? Flowers perhaps? She used to love sunflowers. Their bright yellow heads always made her smile.
Jesse went back into the kitchen and began scanning the phone book. He’d make dinner reservations first, then locate a florist for the biggest, brightest sunflower arrangement he could find. Tricia had given birth to his child, and for that he should thank her.
“Hi, Elda.” Patricia set her briefcase on the kitchen counter and greeted her friend. She preferred to think of the nurturing woman as a friend rather than an employee. Raymond Boyd had hired Elda Yacabucci as a nanny for Dillon while Patricia suffered the stigma of being an unwed mother in an affluent, but narrow-minded, community. Patricia had protested at first, not wanting her son raised by nannies. But she’d given in soon enough when she’d realized Dillon needed care while she furthered her education.
The year Patricia and Dillon moved out of the Boyd mansion and into their own home, they’d taken Elda along, offering her accommodations in a guest house located on the property. These days, Elda did more cooking and cleaning than baby-sitting, but the older woman didn’t seem to mind.
“Dillon’s having a snack in the den,” Elda offered, as she headed toward the laundry room, basket tucked against an ample hip. “I made lasagna for lunch, and now that boy’s hungry again.” Elda, a nonjudgmental woman who attended mass every Sunday and routinely wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a tidy bun, glanced back and sent Patricia a pleased smile. “I fixed him another plate.”
Patricia returned the smile. For most kids a snack would consist of crackers and cheese or a piece of fruit, but then, Dillon wasn’t most kids. He thrived on Elda’s leftovers.
Patricia poured herself a cup of decaf and went to the room they referred to as the den. Dillon watched TV from the sofa, a tray of half-eaten food on a glass-topped coffee table. He appeared relaxed in the brightly lit surroundings, his feet tucked under him. Patricia didn’t think dens should be dark and brooding, so she’d decorated the room with printed fabrics and blond woods. The pale decor suited the rest of the house with its high ceilings and whitewashed walls.
“Hi, honey.”
He turned away from the TV. “Oh, hi, Mom. You’re home kinda early.”
Patricia sat in a recliner and placed her coffee on a nearby end table. No point in wasting time, she thought. “I came home to talk to you. I saw your father today. He stopped by the office.” Barged in was more like it, but she’d have to withhold the more colorful details from Dillon.
The boy picked up a decorative pillow and twisted the end. “What did he want?”
“We talked about you, and then he invited me to dinner.” That, she decided, was certainly a simplified version of the emotional meeting.
Dillon’s gray-blue eyes widened. “Dinner? Really? Are you going to go?”
“I thought it might be a good idea.” She sipped the mocha-flavored drink and tried to appear calmer than she felt. “He’s trying to make an effort to be friends.”
“Then I suppose you should go. Be kinda rude not to.”
She nodded. Apparently that was Dillon’s way of giving his permission. The thought relaxed her somewhat. “Do you think you’d like to meet your dad tonight? Maybe just say a quick hello?”
Fear crept into his eyes. “He’s coming here? To our house?”
Clearly Dillon wasn’t ready to face the man, the stranger, who had fathered him. “That’s all right, honey. There’s no hurry for you to meet him. You could stay at Elda’s while he’s here.”
The boy had a different suggestion, one that said he wanted to hide out—avoid even the slightest chance of running into Jesse just yet. Apparently Elda’s guest house was still too close. “Why don’t I go to Grandpa’s instead? I could spend the night there. Grandpa won’t mind.”
“Sure. That’s fine.” She could hardly blame Dillon for his panic. He’d been surrounded by a loving, familiar support group. And now, as he neared the beginning of adolescence, his missing father had returned, stirring raw emotion.
Patricia rolled her shoulders. “I guess I’ll go up and take a shower.” Or turn on the jets in her tub and soothe the ache in her muscles and the edge in her nerves. She, too, was panicked about spending time with Jesse.
Jesse straightened his jacket and eyed the outside of Tricia’s house with mounting anxiety. He’d never been completely comfortable in Arrow Hill, with its overly manicured yards and custom-built homes. The farther he’d traveled up the hill, the more uncomfortable he’d become. Maybe because the houses kept getting bigger, more extravagant. Jesse had always been a country boy at heart. A small ranch dwelling suited him fine.
Tricia’s sprawling two-story home was modern in design, with large bay windows and plenty of shrubbery illuminated by torchlights. He rang the bell, hoping his appearance would meet with Dillon’s approval. Jesse had banded his hair into a ponytail and wore dark jeans, a tan shirt and black jacket. He wasn’t a fancy man and never would be, but he had a frame that well suited the cut of Western-style clothing.
“Hi.” Tricia opened the door. “Come in.”
He stepped into the tiled entryway, feeling suddenly foolish. A man as tall and dark as he, carrying a bright yellow bouquet, probably looked a bit odd. He offered the sunflowers to Tricia quickly.
“I remembered that you used to like these,” he said. “Hope you still do.”
“They’re wonderful. Thank you.”
The familiarity in her smile made his heartbeat skip. And when she hugged the bouquet to her chest, she could have passed for a teenager again. But she wasn’t, Jesse reminded himself. Tricia was a woman now. He devoured her long, lean form in one slow, agonizing sweep. An incredibly sexy woman. A white knit dress, laced with tiny silver threads, shimmied down her curves, then stopped to expose those endless legs and a pair of wicked pumps.
“You look terrific,” he heard himself say.
“Thanks. So do you.”
He followed her past a cream-colored living room and into a kitchen that sparkled with white counters and slick black appliances. Beside a tall window, four black chairs circled a contemporary white table. She arranged the sunflowers in an ebony vase and placed it on the table.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asked.
“No, thanks. Is Dillon here?”
“I’m sorry, no. He decided to spend the evening with his grandpa.”
Immediately a rage of red-hot envy shot through Jesse’s gut, turning his stomach inside out. “You mean your father?”
Tricia flashed a challenging look. “That’s right. My father.”
He wanted to turn and walk away, then hire a sharp, city attorney to legally pry his son from Raymond Boyd’s child-stealing clutches. But that, he knew, would only end up hurting Dillon. Jesse would have to win the boy over with love and patience. Something he doubted Raymond Boyd was capable of offering. Boyd may have tainted Tricia with all that money, but Jesse would be damned if he’d lose his son to that cocky old bastard’s checkbook.
“Why don’t you give me a tour of the house,” he suggested, in an attempt to redirect his focus. For Dillon’s sake, he had to befriend Tricia, and arguing about her father would only cause a bigger rift between them.
Her expression softened. “All right.”
The house was too modern for Jesse’s taste, with too much glass and not enough wood. It was well crafted, he supposed, but it lacked the charm of older homes—the history and warmth. Tricia had chosen pale colors throughout, so when they stepped into her bedroom the shock of royal blue pleased him, as did the stained-glass window. Jesse scanned the room and noticed traces of the slightly careless Tricia he remembered: an open book, facedown on a nightstand, a coffee cup with lipstick stains, a discarded silk robe on the bed.
The rest of the house was proper, he realized, decorated to entertain those in her father’s staid circle. But Tricia’s bedroom rebelled from that mold—mixing bright colors and slightly scuffed antiques. She had even tossed in a trio of Western relics including a small wooden chair upholstered in calfskin, an ancient clay pot and a leather-covered trunk.
“This is nice,” he said, trying hard not to picture her slipping into that big bed at night, French lingerie barely covering smooth, creamy flesh.
“Thanks. It’s my sanctuary. The bathroom, too. Sometimes I work incredibly long hours so soaking in a whirlpool tub really takes the edge off.”
Great. Now he imagined her completely naked, immersed in a tub of bubbling water, eyes closed, legs slightly parted.
Get a grip, he told himself. She’s not your lover anymore.
Jesse turned away from the bathroom, struggling to ignore the hunger, the curiosity that had surfaced. What sort of lover had Tricia become? Was she still a sexually shy girl playing the sophisticate? Would she blush if he whispered his fantasies in her ear, or would she flash a siren’s smile and rake her nails across his back? Maybe a little of both, he decided, watching the graceful way she moved. Tricia was a lady through and through. But ladies, even the most properly bred, could be naughty at night.
He caught Tricia’s eye. She stood beside an antique dresser, head tilted, silky brown hair brushing her cheek. An almost-shy siren, he concluded, the kind of woman who could make a man beg.
“Jesse,” she said impatiently. “You’re not listening. I asked you a question.”
He swallowed. “What? I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”
She held out a square object. “Do you want to see a picture of Dillon?”
Immediately his heartbeat doubled. “Oh, God, yes.” Their son. The child they had created.
He strode toward her and took the framed photograph from her hands.
“It’s fairly recent,” she told him. “Last year’s school picture. He’ll be in sixth grade next semester.”
Jesse traced the boy’s face—a face, he noticed, that looked remarkably like his own. Younger, softer, but his just the same: deep-set eyes, high, slanted cheekbones, a jaw that would grow more square with age. And there was Tricia in him, too: the regal tilt of his head, silky hair a rich shade of brown, nostrils that flared with a smile.
“He’s perfect,” Jesse said. “He’s us, both of us.”
She nodded, her eyes a bit glazed. Watery. A mother’s pride, Jesse assumed, pleased by Tricia’s outward emotion for their child.
“Come on. I’ll show you Dillon’s room. I’m sure he won’t mind. He keeps it spotless.” She smiled and blinked away the glaze. “Unlike me. If I didn’t have a housekeeper, my room would be a disaster.”
“Yeah. You always were a little messy.” Just enough to mar that charm-school image, he thought. He used to like how she’d leave her sweater on a chair or kick her shoes into a corner.
“And your son is just like you,” she said, as he followed her down the hall. “Everything in its place.”
“Oh, yeah? You should have seen my kitchen today. It…” They stepped into Dillon’s room and Jesse forgot his last thought, letting his words drift.
The first thing he noticed were the models—airplanes, cars, ships—each one displayed on a wooden shelf and angled just so. A desk, a computer, a small television and a stereo system dominated one side of the spacious room, a bed and oak dresser the other. The double bed was framed with a sturdy headboard and covered with a quilt reminiscent of an Indian blanket. Jesse touched the colorful fabric, suddenly feeling closer to the child he’d yet to meet.
“He picked out that bedspread,” Tricia said. “And all the oak furniture, too.”
Jesse reached under his shirt and removed his medicine bag. “I want Dillon to have this.” He slipped the worn leather pouch over a post on his son’s headboard.
Tricia moved closer. “But that’s your protection.”
“And now it will be his.” A person rarely offered his personal medicine to another, but Jesse wanted to give his son a spiritual piece of himself. “He doesn’t have to wear it if he doesn’t want to.” Just knowing the bag and its contents would be in the child’s room were enough. Modern-day spirit bags were often kept in homes, cars, purses, backpacks. “And tell him it’s okay to touch the objects inside and add his own special items. He can even remove things if he wants to.” He ran his fingers over the leather. Jesse had made the bag when he was about Dillon’s age; stitched the buckskin and cut the fringe.
“Are you going to start another bag for yourself?” Tricia asked, as though tuned in to his thoughts.
“I don’t think so.” An inner awareness told him that that pouch had the power to benefit him still; protect him and his son.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For giving Dillon such a special gift.”
Jesse released the leather and watched the fringe dance. He looked up at Tricia. She stood silent, her gaze following his every move. He glanced away. The moment felt too intimate, he realized. Much too tender between him and the woman who had broken his heart. Jesse squared his shoulders. He would keep his vow to befriend Tricia, but nothing more.
“We should leave for the restaurant,” he said in a polite yet unemotional tone.
She turned away, her voice equally detached. “I’ll get my jacket.”
The Captain’s Inn sat on a hilltop, presenting a view of Marlow County. Jesse had never eaten there before, but knew Tricia was accustomed to its fine linen tablecloths and nautical decor. She nibbled on a hearts-of-romaine salad while he spooned into a bowl of clam chowder.
Jesse preferred casual dining, since things like choosing the correct fork to use still managed to elude him. But proper fork or not, lobster tail, he remembered, was one of Tricia’s favorite meals, and The Captain’s Inn was the only restaurant in Marlow County that served lobster. A sense of masculine satisfaction washed over him. This time around, he could afford to take Tricia out for a pricey dinner that included a bottle of good wine. Jesse couldn’t tell by the taste, but since the waiter had suggested it, he assumed the chardonnay was a decent vintage.
“Does Dillon like school?” he asked. So far they’d kept the conversation centered on their son.
She tilted her head as though mentally forming an answer. “He does now. But he didn’t always.” She raised the napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. “By the second grade, Dillon wasn’t keeping up with his peers anymore. He could barely read.”
A knot of guilt formed in Jesse’s chest. “Is he like me? Did he inherit my—”
Tricia interrupted gently. “Learning disabilities aren’t always hereditary, but yes, Dillon has been diagnosed as dyslexic.”
Jesse pushed his soup away. He knew how painful elementary school could be for a child who couldn’t read. For a while Jesse had slipped through the cracks, pouring all of his youthful energy into finding ways to hide his disability. And being a foster child who’d gone from home to home and school to school, he’d played the game well. But anonymity hadn’t lasted forever. Eventually the other students poked fun and called him “dumb,” while teachers began complaining to his foster parents that he wasn’t trying hard enough. By the time he’d been diagnosed with dyslexia, he was a quiet, somewhat brooding loner.
“So how did you handle it with Dillon?” Jesse asked, still feeling responsible for his child’s disability. Why, damn it, did that gene have to surface?
“At first I looked into enrolling him in a special school,” Tricia responded. “There are a few private schools that specialize in educating dyslexic children. None are particularly close by, but I was willing to commute.” She sipped her water and continued, “But I ended up hiring tutors instead. Dillon wanted to go to school with his friends, with the kids he’d known since kindergarten.”
For once Jesse was grateful for Tricia’s money. Hiring tutors was a luxury most families couldn’t afford, and he was certain Tricia had found the most qualified educators available. “So he’s doing okay now?”
“Much better.” She smiled. “And Dillon and I are both involved in a nonprofit organization that educates parents and schools about learning disabilities. We’ve organized quite a few fund-raisers.” Her smile faded. “I remember how difficult it was for you, Jesse. I never forgot the things you told me.”
He wanted to change the subject, but knew that would seem disrespectful to Dillon—the child burdened with his father’s disability. Jesse knew firsthand how being dyslexic would affect Dillon for the rest of his life.
“I joined a dyslexic support group in college. It really helped to know there were others out there.”
Her eyes brightened. “Our chapter has been talking about organizing adult support groups. Maybe you could get involved.”
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