JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "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."

  "Yeah, maybe." He toyed with his spoon. Should he admit that Tricia had been instrumental in his decision to join a support group? That he'd missed her encouragement, her early-morning tutoring sessions?

  Their waiter came by, removed their plates and offered another basket of warm bread. Grateful for the interruption, Jesse decided to skip the admission, choosing to comment on the view instead.

  "Pretty out, isn't it?" Their table faced a large window. Lights twinkled in the dark, making the dusty flats of Hatcher and the rolling green of Arrow Hill seem like equals.

  She gazed out the window and nodded, but when she turned back, a trio of men being seated at the table across from them captured her attention. Jesse tightened his upper lip. One of the men, a trim, executive type, eyed Tricia as he passed.

  "Do you know him?" Jesse asked under his breath when she had the audacity to show her discomfort. Tricia, who rarely revealed her emotions.

  "Peter is a business associate. An attorney."

  Jesse glanced over at Peter and caught a quick, hard stare in return. A territorial stare. Clearly the young, impeccably dressed lawyer had designs on Tricia. Business associate my foot, Jesse thought. Any fool could see Tricia was dating the guy. Why else would she be so damn edgy? She'd been caught in what seemed like a compromising situation—a candlelit dinner with another man, a roughneck, no less.

  Great. Just what he needed, some suave boyfriend of hers giving him the evil eye all night. Jesse had the sudden urge to rearrange the guy's snooty face. Peter looked to be the country club sort—proper, well-bred—a man who knew which wine to order and which fork to use.

  Jesse clenched his fists as the waiter brought their entrées. Was Tricia sleeping with Peter? Had that jerk touched her with those manicured hands? Jesse unclenched his fists and gazed at his own hands, at their crude texture. Had Tricia compared them as lovers? Weighed them against each other in her mind?

  Jesse cut into his halibut and decided he didn't give a rat's ass if he was using the proper utensil. And Mr. Country Club in the pinstripe suit could take his silk tie and shove it where the sun refused to shine.

  Tricia could tear up the sheets with whoever the hell she wanted. Jesse had no intention of resuming their love affair. None whatsoever. So what if she still made his heart hurt? That didn't mean a damn thing. He stole another bitter glance at Peter. Not a damn thing.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Patricia and Jesse stood beneath an archway outside the restaurant and waited for the valet to bring Jesse's truck. He drove one of those huge four-wheelers decked out with a shiny black paint job, enormous tires and flashy rims. A masculine vehicle, Patricia thought, one that suited his rugged appeal.

  "Looks like it may be a while," he said. "There are quite a few people ahead of us."

  She nodded. "It's a popular restaurant." And tonight they appeared to be short a valet.

  He moved closer as an elderly couple brushed by en route to their BMW. "I guess the wait won't kill us."

  Patricia caught a woodsy note of Jesse's cologne. She thought their "friendship" dinner had gone fairly well, aside from Jesse's quiet mood swings and intermittent scowls. But then he had always been sullen, a manner that matched his dark, dangerous appearance. Even as a lean, catlike youth, he still had that hard, feral charm—an edge that made women hungry and other men wary.

  "Your boyfriend and his buddies just came out."

  "What?" Patricia glanced over her shoulder. Peter Crandall sent her a practiced smile. She turned back quickly. "He's not my boyfriend."

  "Bull."

  Agitated, she straightened her spine. "Don't you dare pair me with that gold digger." She'd had the misfortune of being seated next to Peter Crandall at two long, dull charity dinners, and now the man phoned her office and sent roses. Roses. How unimaginative.

  "Gold digger?" Jesse's mouth twitched into a smile.

  "This isn't funny. I'm tired of men pursuing me for my father's money."

  Jesse kept his voice low. "Hell, I figured you were sleeping with the guy."

  Offended now, Patricia turned to face her ex-love and hissed beneath her breath. "How dare you think such a thing? I don't fall into bed with every man who looks my way. What kind of woman do you take me for?"

  She hadn't fallen into bed with anyone since Jesse left town, but he didn't need to know the details about her nonexistent sex life. Like a fool, she'd remained faithful for years after his departure. The thought irked her. While she'd tucked their child into bed at night and waited for Jesse's return, he was probably rolling around with some bouncy, big-busted coed. Patricia cursed her stupidity. By the time she'd accepted the fact that he wasn't coming back, she'd become accustomed to sleeping alone.

  He slipped a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Sorry, okay? How was I supposed to know? Peter looks like your type."

  She sighed. Since when did she like fair-haired men with country-club tans? "It just seems like he's everywhere I go."

  Jesse's eyes darkened. "Do you think he's stalking you?"

  "No. We just run in the same circle. He comes from old money, only his playboy father lost most of their fortune in gambling debts. So now Peter intends to marry and rebuild the family dynasty."

  "With his wife's inheritance," Jesse added.

  Patricia nodded. And Peter had made subtle references to her past, as though her having an illegitimate child meant she was easy pickings. "I wish he would set his sights on someone else."

  "So you want to get rid of him?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Then put your arms around me."

  She glanced back at Peter. He was watching. "We're going to make him think we're lovers?"

  "That's right. Lovers."

  Suddenly she felt decadent, but then why wouldn't she? Jesse Hawk had that immoral effect on women. She stepped closer, lifted her arms and drew them around his neck, telling herself this was all for show.

  "Now what?" she whispered, as her heart skipped an unsteady beat.

  "Brush your lips over mine," he coaxed. "Kind of slow and sexylike."

  She slid her fingers through his ponytail, through that thick, gorgeous mass of dark hair. He had hair on his chest, too. Just enough to play with, she recalled. "What about all these people?" Couples and small groups waiting, some impatiently, for their vehicles.

  "What about them?"

  "They'll watch."

  Jesse shook his head. "They might glance our way, but they're too proper to stare. Peter, on the other hand, has a stake in this."

  She cupped the back of Jesse's head and drew his face closer at the same moment he slid his hands under her jacket, chasing chills up her spine. Their lips met in a soft, sensual tease. Patricia closed her eyes, felt his mouth move against hers.

  Were they kissing? she wondered. Or was this a prelude to a kiss? An erotic taunt of man, woman and warm aroused breaths?

  He tested the seam of her lips with his tongue as images from the past clouded her mind. He used to do wicked things to her with that tongue—things that made her body quiver and her skin tingle. Things that embarrassed her afterward.

  She wouldn't be shy now. Patricia was no longer a gullible, inexperienced teenager. No, she realized ironically, she was a grown woman who'd barely survived a broken heart—an inexperienced thirty-year-old.

  Damn him, she thought, moving closer, wanting to feel the ridge in his jeans. Maybe she would still blush. Or maybe she'd run her hands all over that hard, virile body and make Jesse Hawk beg for mercy. Make him miss her the way she'd missed him.

  Angry, Patricia plunged her tongue into his mouth and tugged a little viciously on his hair. He kissed her back, meeting her defiant strokes lustily. But much too
quickly he pulled back and caught his breath. For Patricia the kiss ended the way it had begun, like unprotected sex—exciting and risky. She wanted more.

  While she struggled to rein in her hormones, Jesse leaned forward again and pressed his lips to her ear. "You did well," he whispered, his voice tinged with arousal. "Now Peter will think we're headed to some cheap motel to tear each other's clothes off."

  Patricia sobered immediately. Somehow she'd forgotten all about Peter Crandall. Forgotten why she had agreed to kiss Jesse.

  Mortified, she tugged her jacket closed, hiding her distended nipples. How could she have gotten so carried away? In public, no less, standing in front of one of the most prestigious establishments in Arrow Hill.

  She dared a quick glance around. The crowd had lessened, but not enough to her liking. She felt like a first-class slut. Her. The woman who hadn't had sex in twelve years.

  Jesse reached for her hand. "Perfect timing. The truck's here."

  Perfect timing for whom? She had to climb into that enormous beast. Last time there hadn't been a curious army watching.

  The valet opened her door, but Jesse gave the young man a tip and sent him on his way. "I'll help her up."

  He held Patricia's waist while she attempted to keep her balance and her hemline down at the same time. She failed. Miserably. Her dress hiked just as her bottom hit the seat.

  Jesse stood staring at the tops of her thigh-high hose. She pulled the dress down and glared at him. "Shut the door."

  He blinked and lifted his gaze. "Huh?"

  "The door. Close it."

  "Oh. Sorry."

  He hopped into the driver's seat with ease, but he wasn't wearing a short skirt and high heels. If she were in a better mood, that ridiculous visual would have made her laugh. But as it was, she'd checked her humor at the curb.

  He turned toward her. "How do those things stay up like that?"

  She snapped the seat belt into place. "What things?"

  "Your nylons."

  Good God. "They just do. Now will you drive?" She wanted to put as much distance between The Captain's Inn and herself as possible.

  He kicked the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. "Are they uncomfortable?"

  Patricia rolled her eyes. Men and their weird obsessions. "Why? Are you in the market for a pair of hose?"

  "Yeah, if they've got legs like yours attached." He stopped at a red light and flashed a naughty country-boy smile, his gaze melting over her like a pad of honey-flavored butter.

  An unwelcome heat settled between her thighs. That sexy smile had probably seduced half the women in Tulsa. She'd be damned if she'd let it work on her. "Don't act like a stallion in the process of mounting a mare, Jesse. It's ungentlemanly."

  His smile faded. "Hey, you're the one who wore that skimpy dress."

  Did he have any idea how much designer fashions cost these days? "This is a perfectly respectable garment."

  "It's short," he challenged. "And tight."

  Patricia stared straight ahead. "Is that why you thought you had the right to make that crack about cheap motels?"

  He pulled the truck over, cut the engine and killed the lights in one angry motion. They were in the residential area of Arrow Hill, parked in front of a large limestone house that belonged to a doctor her father golfed with occasionally.

  "As I recall," he said in a low, seething tone. "You were the one who jammed your tongue down my throat."

  She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist and cuffed it with a deadly grip. "You're a spoiled brat, Tricia. How the hell I'm ever going to be friends with you, I'll never know."

  "You're just acting like this because you want to sleep with me," she blurted out, jerking her arm free.

  Her words managed to silence them both. Too late to bite them back, she thought, as Jesse turned away. He knew she'd spoken the truth. And she was certain he knew she craved him, too. Somehow, they'd rekindled an unwanted sexual attraction—a need they couldn't fill.

  He drove her home, without a response. Patricia refused his offer to help her exit his truck, so, to avoid breaking her neck, she removed her shoes before climbing out. She walked to the front door in her stocking feet, and upon entering the house, heard his truck roll out of the driveway.

  They would have to see each other again, she realized with an emotional sigh. They had a child to consider and twelve years of pain that could never be forgotten.

  * * *

  The following evening Patricia sat across from Dillon in the kitchen, watching her son study the leather pouch Jesse had left behind. Dillon had returned from his grandfather's house not more than twenty minutes before. He'd found the gift and brought it downstairs.

  "So the stuff inside is medicine?" he asked, handling the worn buckskin carefully.

  She nodded. Although she had a limited knowledge of Jesse's culture, she knew enough for a simple explanation. "Yes, but it's not drugstore medicine. People place items in a spirit bag that are special to them, objects they feel will protect them in some way. Everyone's bag contains something different."

  "So what's in this one?"

  "I don't know, but your father said it was okay for you to open it. He also said you could remove anything you wanted to, and put your own special items inside."

  "I don't think I want to open it." He placed the bag on the table, fingering the beaded pattern in the center. "It looks kind of old. Like my dad's had it a long time."

  A swell of pride warmed her heart. Clearly Dillon respected the gift he'd been given, honored it in his own youthful way. Most kids would have dumped the contents onto the table without the slightest regard for their sentimental value. "Your dad made that bag when he was about your age."

  And Jesse had worn it always, Patricia recalled, even when they'd made love. Although the pouch served as a spiritual totem, it had also been like an extension of Jesse's physical being. She was glad Dillon had it now. It seemed right somehow.

  Patricia tried not to think about how her dinner with Jesse had ended, or what a distraction he'd become. She'd had the most unproductive day of her life. She'd gone into work and stared at the office walls, returning only a few mandatory calls. Luckily her father hadn't witnessed her slump, since he'd taken the day off to be with Dillon. In the last few years Raymond Boyd spent most of his time engaging in recreational activities. Patricia assumed that was his way of gearing up for retirement, as well as preparing her to take his place.

  "Are my dad's feelings hurt?" Dillon asked, jarring Patricia from her thoughts.

  "You mean because you don't want to meet him?"

  "Uh-huh."

  She studied her son's serious expression. "Your father was orphaned when he was only two. Besides a brother in California, you're his only family. So I would imagine he's hurting. But he's also willing to give you the time you need."

  "I think I should meet him," the boy said. "As long as you'll be there, Mom. I don't want to hang out with him all by myself."

  "Of course I'll be there." Patricia smiled. It seemed as though Jesse's medicine had touched Dillon already, opened a small door between father and son. Yesterday Dillon had panicked, but tonight he'd made a mature decision, even if he was still afraid. "When do you think we should have this meeting?" she asked him.

  "I don't know. This weekend, maybe. Does he have weekends off?"

  She had no idea what Jesse's schedule was like. "I could stop by his house before work tomorrow and find out." She could call, of course, but that would be the coward's way. And Patricia had never been a coward. "Maybe I could invite him to a picnic. We could meet at the park." A neutral place surrounded by tall trees, fuzzy squirrels and ducks gliding across a man-made pond.

  "Okay." Dillon picked up the medicine bag. "Elda could fry some chicken and make potato salad."

  "Sure, I'll talk to her after I see your dad." Dillon's former nanny prepared all of their meals, so it was only natural for him to suggest Elda's fried chicken. Patricia h
ad never learned to cook. Scrambling eggs and boiling hot dogs, she could handle. Beyond that, she didn't have a clue.

  Dillon put the leather pouch in his pocket and went to the refrigerator. He poured a glass of milk and looked back at his mom. "Did my dad give you those flowers?"

  Patricia reached for the sunflower arrangement. "Yes, he did."

  "So you're friends now, right?"

  Friends? No. They were ex-lovers caught between hunger and hatred. "We're working on it," she answered, then changed the subject hastily. "Do you want to go into town for a hot-fudge sundae? I'm dying for dessert." She needed to sink her mouth into something rich and creamy, something that would curb her craving for Jesse.

  "Sure." Dillon abandoned his milk. "But I have to get my shoes."

  "No problem. I need my purse." She followed her son upstairs, her mind straying once again to Jesse—the man she'd never really gotten over.

  * * *

  The next morning Jesse stared at the reception area in his clinic. Good Lord. He'd attempted to unlock the door, only to find Fiona had beat him to it. And now he could do nothing but gape, his jaw feeling as though it were inches from the floor.

  She smiled, her red bouffant higher than usual this bright summer day.

  He closed his mouth. "You redecorated?" Stupid question, he thought. The clinic looked as though a litter of dalmatians had befriended a jungle cat.

  A tiger-print valance decorated the top of each window, and the vinyl chairs, formerly all white, wore black doggy spots. Framed pictures of well-known cartoon animals littered the walls.

  Fiona began arranging a tall display stocked with rawhide chews and squeaky toys. "It looks great, doesn't it?"

  The wall display looked just fine, but he knew she meant her other handiwork. "It's … colorful," he managed to say, forcing a smile. She looked so pleased with herself, he couldn't bear to burst her bubble. Maybe his clients would appreciate her efforts. The place did have charm—in an animated sort of way.