Читать книгу Jesse Hawk: Brave Father - Sheri WhiteFeather, Sheri WhiteFeather - Страница 9

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 cliché 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 entrées 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.