JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  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.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  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."