"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 stop
ped 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.
JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER Page 4