JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  She watched as Dillon examined his father's medicine: the tip of a hawk feather, a sprig of sage, a small collection of gemstones, a wallet-size picture. A newborn baby, Patricia noticed.

  "This is Shawna," Jesse said, fingering the photograph. "She's my brother's daughter."

  Dillon took the picture. "So Shawna's my cousin."

  She heard the awe in her son's voice, understanding it well. She, too, had suffered the loneliness of being an only child, wishing for brothers, sisters, cousins and wild, wacky family reunions.

  Patricia sighed. Jesse had called her spoiled, but she didn't view herself that way. Being raised on a private street had its drawbacks. So when her father had offered her and Dillon a permanent home in his mansion, she'd politely refused. She couldn't bear to have her son rattling around in that house the way she'd done, longing for companionship or a friendly neighbor, kids playing out front. Beautiful as the mansion was, it seemed hollow at times. Haunted. Not by ghosts, but by seclusion.

  "What's in here?" Dillon asked Jesse, lifting a small square of waxed paper.

  "That's … um—" Jesse reached for the object, then dropped his hand, as though the tiny package had the power to singe his fingers "—a lock of your mom's hair."

  Patricia's heart soared to her throat. Jesse lifted his head and their eyes met.

  All at once, a flood of conflicting emotions rushed through her. She had offered that small clipping because Jesse had held her close one afternoon, wishing he could keep a part of her with him forever. "I miss you when we're not together," he'd whispered. "God, Tricia, I love you so much."

  When did you realize that you didn't really love me? she wanted to ask. That I was just an infatuation, a means to sate your youthful lust? And why on earth had he kept a lock of her hair tucked away in his medicine bag all these years? Surely he considered that bag much too sacred to house trophies from his sexual conquests, so there had to be another reason.

  She held his stare. His uneasy stare. He'd forgotten about it, she decided. Forgotten he had it until this awkward moment.

  "That's yours now," Patricia told Dillon while she continued to hold Jesse's gaze.

  Dillon slipped each item back into the pouch. "This is like a time capsule or something. It's pretty rad."

  Neither Jesse nor Tricia spoke. Dillon's words were all too true. A time capsule. Pieces of their past. Painful mementos. Jesse looked away, and Patricia wanted to scratch and scream, push him to the ground and fight for her honor—win back what he had taken from her. Not the lock of hair, but the love it represented. She had given herself freely to him: heart, body and soul. And now damn it, she wanted to destroy it all, every glorious, painful memory.

  Dillon stuffed the medicine bag back into his pocket. "Can we eat now, Mom?"

  "Of course, honey." She feigned a calm voice and proceeded to unpack lunch.

  They ate fried chicken, potato salad and strawberry parfait while Cochise gnawed on a barbecue-flavored rib bone Jesse had brought along.

  "Are you okay?" Dillon asked his mother as she picked at her food.

  Trust Dillon to sense her uneasiness. "I'm fine. I'm just not all that hungry."

  "The chicken's great," Jesse remarked. "You're quite a cook."

  Patricia balanced her plate on her lap. "I didn't make it. Elda did. She's our housekeeper."

  "Elda used to be my nanny," Dillon added. "But I don't need one anymore."

  "Yeah, I guess you're too old for that sort of thing." Jesse smiled at his son, but when he turned toward Patricia, the smile faded, telling her what he thought about Dillon being raised with a nanny.

  She sent him a defiant stare. "Elda has become a very dear friend."

  He held her gaze. "Well, she's a good cook. I'll say that much for her."

  "My mom's too busy to cook," Dillon said, as he took another helping of the strawberry parfait. "She works really hard."

  Patricia's stomach clenched. Was Dillon making excuses for her or offering a show of support? Suddenly, not knowing how to fry chicken made her feel inadequate.

  "She'd probably be a great cook if she had more time to learn how," Dillon offered, making Patricia aware of his motives.

  Her son wasn't condemning her. He was building her up for his father's benefit, trying to prove her worth to Jesse. Jesse, who had an I told-you-so look in his eye. A look that clearly said, "I knew you were a spoiled brat, Patricia. A pampered rich girl. You don't know how to cook because there's always been someone available to do it for you."

  She wanted to throttle every gorgeous inch of him. She did work hard. Extremely hard.

  And so do millions of other single mothers, her guilty conscience said. Women who came home from a hard day at the office and made their children dinner rather than head for a luxuriously scented bath. Women who washed their own clothes, cleaned their own houses.

  So I'll learn to cook, she decided. And when she did, she'd jam the best damn meal Jesse Hawk had ever tasted right down his throat. How dare he come to town after the fact and criticize her life-style. Where was he when his son was cutting his first painful teeth? Off bumping hips with some college bimbo?

  The day wound down quietly, and when they parted ways, Patricia watched Dillon and Jesse shake hands, even though she could tell Jesse had hoped for a hug. Too bad, she thought. He'd have to earn his son's affection. Become the father he should have been all those years ago.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  On Monday morning Patricia sat across from her father in his office at Boyd Enterprises waiting for him to speak. An "emergency meeting" usually meant an important deal was in danger of collapsing.

  Raymond cleared his throat. He looked discomposed, Patricia thought. Although his suit was impeccably pressed, his tie had been loosened, which meant he'd been tugging at it. He rarely resorted to that nervous habit. She scooted to the edge of her seat. Something was definitely wrong.

  "I received a disturbing phone call this morning, Patricia." His words sounded uncharacteristically personal, as though the phone call had been her fault.

  Patricia held her breath. "And?"

  "And I'm appalled," he spouted. "How could you behave like that in a public place? And with him?"

  The air she'd been holding whooshed out. Him. Undoubtedly that bitter-sounding reference meant Jesse. And her behavior clearly meant that lusty kiss in front of The Captain's Inn. She straightened her posture defensively, a mix of shame and anger building inside her chest. "Peter Crandall called, didn't he? God, I hate that man."

  "Is that all you have to say for yourself, young lady?"

  "Don't speak to me as though I'm a child. I have the right to have dinner with whomever I choose," she retorted.

  "Dinner?" Her father drummed his fingers on the desktop. "Is that what it's called these days?"

  Patricia glanced away. She had practically devoured Jesse that evening, struggled to sate an appetite that raged blindly out of control—a sexual starvation of sorts. "I kissed him. So what? I haven't been out with a man in months." And the business associates she attended charity functions with didn't inspire her libido.

  "We're not talking about just any man." Raymond pulled at his tie. Patricia recognized it as the one Dillon had given him last Christmas. "I can't believe you've taken up with Jesse Hawk again."

  She blew another anxious breath, feeling like a chastised teenager, a girl who didn't have enough sense to come in out of the rain. Or in this case, stay out of Jesse's arms. "I haven't 'taken up' with him. The only reason we kissed that night was to make Peter think I had a lover so he'd quit pestering me."

  Raymond slanted one graying eyebrow. "And whose ridiculous idea was that?"

  Jesse's, of course, but she wasn't about to admit it. "I'm not a naive young girl anymore. I know what I'm doing this time." Nothing but befriending her son's father, she told herself.

  Raymond shook his head, blatant disapproval sending creases across his forehead—deep
, hard creases. "You're asking for trouble, that's what you're doing. And apparently where that man is concerned, you're as naive as before."

  I am not, Patricia chanted as she left Boyd Enterprises seven hours later and proceeded to Jesse's house. She had promised Dillon she and Jesse would try to be friends, and that was all she intended to do. No more hungry kisses or spine-tingling caresses. Her father was wrong. Dead wrong. She could handle herself just fine around Jesse Hawk. Eleven years as a single mother had taught her plenty. She didn't need a man in her life, especially the one who had left Marlow County without a backward glance.

  Then why, she wondered, had she just parked in Jesse's graveled driveway?

  To invite him to a charity function, she told herself a moment later, to fulfill her obligation to Dillon. And maybe, just maybe, to thumb her nose at her father for sticking his where it didn't belong. A grown woman shouldn't have to defend herself for one measly, out-of-control kiss.

  Patricia knocked, and Jesse answered the door wearing faded jeans and a pale-gray shirt, untucked and unbuttoned. The color of the fabric made his eyes appear silver, a metallic shade she used to love.

  "Hi," he said, peering around her, apparently hoping to see Dillon.

  "I just got off work," she offered, explaining their son's absence.

  "Yeah, me, too."

  He didn't need to say that he'd been out on ranch calls. She could tell he'd spent his day around horses. He had that cowboy-veterinarian look about him: scuffed Western boots covered his feet, and hard-earned sweat trickled down the center of his chest.

  He followed her gaze. "Sorry. I haven't showered yet."

  No apology necessary, Patricia thought. She couldn't help but appreciate his rugged appearance. A man who tended horses on a hot summer day had the right to sweat. She'd always believed doctors were a noble breed, especially the ones who cared for sick children and ailing animals.

  "I won't keep you long," she said.

  He stepped away from the door. "That's okay. Come on in."

  * * *

  Much like the man, his house exhibited a primitive charm: hardwood floors had been polished to perfection; chinked log walls and hand-crafted tables displayed a collection of tribal artifacts. A long headdress hung on one wall trailing brightly colored feathers, while weavings, baskets and pottery emphasized American Indian traditions.

  "Your home is beautiful, Jesse." She knew he had been responsible for a good portion of its restored beauty, refinishing tables and stripping ancient floors.

  "Thanks." He motioned toward the hallway. "The addition is almost done. I plan on using it as a guest room. This place has two bedrooms, but one of them is pretty tiny."

  Patricia glanced down the hallway, then startled as a squawking noise sounded behind her. She turned to see a gray parrot perched atop a tall, wire cage, its feathered head cocked at a curious angle. Below the cage sat a large glass terrarium inhabited by a bright-green iguana. The top of the lizard's cage was open, offering the reptile the same freedom the bird had, only the iguana chose to remain within the security of its home, nibbling on a platter of fruits and vegetables.

  Jesse grinned. "That's Barney and Sally. Barney, say hello to Tricia."

  The parrot ruffled his feathers, then whistled like a construction worker checking out a babe on the corner.

  Patricia burst into a girlish giggle. Barney had puffed himself up, pretty and proud, like a peacock. "I'm flattered, Barney. Thank you."

  Jesse shook his head. "That bird watches way too much TV. I swear I didn't teach him that."

  She almost laughed again. Jesse looked embarrassed by the parrot's flirtatious behavior. But then, Jesse had never been overly flirtatious. He wouldn't think of whistling at a woman. His methods were much more subtle. And effective, she decided, remembering the first time she had allowed him to slip his hands under her blouse. He had actually asked for permission to touch her, his voice low and alluring. Refusing hadn't seemed like an option. She had wanted to feel his hands on her breasts.

  "Tricia?"

  She snapped to attention, jerking her shoulders in the process. "What?"

  "Do you want to sit down?"

  "Oh, yes. Thank you." She lowered herself onto a tan-colored sofa and told her memories to behave. They had just been teenagers experimenting. Or he had been, anyway. She had been a girl in love. A foolish girl, too young to know better.

  Patricia gazed at Jesse's naked chest. How dare her father accuse her of being naive now. Hadn't she told Jesse off after that kiss? She lifted her gaze to Jesse's sun-bronzed face. They both knew Dillon was their only bond, their reason for socializing. Their romance had ended long ago.

  "I came here to invite you to a charity ball this Friday," Patricia said. "I have an extra ticket and thought you might like to go." She hadn't actually planned on attending, at least not until today. She had only purchased the tickets because the money was being donated to an important cause. She was tired of attending charity functions with business associates, men who idolized her father's money.

  Jesse sat across from her in a leather chair. "A ball?"

  "Dinner, dancing, that sort of thing," she explained. "The chief of staff at the hospital arranges it every year. The proceeds are used for cancer research." Patricia's mother had died of a cancer that had gone undetected until it was too late. The thought made her sad, homesick for a woman she didn't remember. "I only bought the tickets to help out with the charity," she admitted, to let Jesse know he hadn't been invited because a previous escort had bowed out. "But truthfully, I could use a night out."

  "Sure. Okay. But a ball sounds kind of fancy. Am I supposed to wear a tux?"

  She nodded. "It's a black tie event. You don't mind taking me on a friendship date, do you?"

  "No, not at all."

  She stood to leave. "Thanks. I'll let you go." He was probably anxious to shower and change. Patricia knew she was. Her feet ached from a new pair of pointed-toe pumps.

  He walked her onto the porch. "I'm still going to get to see Dillon on Sunday, right?"

  "Of course." After she and Dillon had their customary breakfast with her father. "I'll bring him here, okay?"

  He smiled. "That'd be great. He can meet Barney and Sally."

  Patricia watched as a warm wind stirred Jesse's hair, and tried to picture him in a tuxedo. Would he look more handsome than most? "Will you pick me up at seven on Friday?" she asked.

  He nodded, and she thought for a moment to ask him if they could take her car, but immediately decided against the suggestion. It would probably sound uppity to a man like Jesse. Besides, she could handle riding in Jesse's enormous truck, just the way she could handle being near him. He'd look like any other man in a tuxedo, only taller and broader, with eyes the color of lightning.

  * * *

  Jesse had never worn a tux, been to a charity ball, nor stepped foot in a mansion, but tonight he was doing all three.

  He offered Tricia his arm as they entered the Milford estate, then waited while she checked her wrap. Tricia could have been a goddess, he thought, a creature as perfectly formed as the hothouse orchid he'd attached to her wrist. A beaded gown flowed over her curves like a lavender waterfall, each iridescent ornament reflecting tiny rays of light. The fabric draped in back, exposing the top of her spine in an enchanting display of delicate bones and creamy flesh. She belonged in this environment, was born to grace its overwhelming finery. She had grown up in a house like this, been raised by nannies and had eaten meals prepared by French cooks. For her, charity balls came as naturally as breathing.

  Jesse, on the other hand, felt as though he was choking. Drowning in fear. He had been a ward of the state, a dyslexic foster child struggling to read—a boy who'd lived in modest homes with families that weren't really his. And since he had pretty much avoided social functions, his high school prom included, he'd never envisioned himself at a charity ball with a wealthy socialite on his arm. A woman who could point out original works of art as e
asily as reciting the alphabet.

  As Tricia led Jesse toward the staircase, she told him about the Milford Estate. The Dutch Colonial structure, built in 1928, was the oldest mansion in Arrow Hill. The original owner, an elderly oil heiress, had willed her home to the Arrow Hill Historical Society, an organization she had founded. She had also left a sizable trust with instructions that the money be used to maintain the mansion for private tours and charity functions. Just like this little soiree, Jesse thought, anxiety mounting.

  The entire third floor housed the ballroom. It was grand, historic and scary as hell. Sparkling chandeliers winked from the ceiling. Intricately carved moldings boasted 1920s craftsmanship, and leaded-glass doors accessed, twin terraces laden with statues, wishing wells and potted greenery.

  An old-fashioned bandstand awaited the arrival of an orchestra, and linen-draped tables displayed floral arrangements, silverware and crystal goblets. But most intimidating were the people—women in glittering gowns being escorted by men who probably owned their tuxedos. Jesse had rented his.

  Tricia accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter carrying a small tray. Jesse took one, as well, even though beer was more to his liking. Of course, he knew better than to expect frosty mugs of domestic ale.

  "Most of these people live in Arrow Hill," Tricia said as she scanned the room. "I've known a lot of them since I was a child."

  It was a diverse crowd, some younger than Jesse, others old enough to be grandparents. Since there were no other Indians present, Jesse knew he would not go unnoticed. His height alone set him apart as did his ponytail and a tiny silver hoop that pierced his left ear.

  Tricia guided him through the ballroom, introducing him to doctors and lawyers, local politicians and women sporting diamond necklaces as big as squash blossoms. He shook hands with the men and smiled at the ladies, then chatted with a trio of board members from the Historical Society. They questioned him politely, inquiring about the purchase of his home. It appeared as though they appreciated his efforts to renovate the nineteenth-century farmhouse. Of course they did, Jesse thought with a wry smile as he dutifully answered their questions. The old Garrett homestead wasn't exactly a historical mansion, but some of its acreage bordered the green peaks of Arrow Hill.