He entered her there, against the wall, his heart pounding to the beat of native drums. She went as mad as he, locking her legs around him while he lifted her hips, pulling his hair, scratching, clawing, devouring him with frantic openmouthed kisses.
It was raw, primal. He felt her climax rip through him, felt his own rise and then crash into a feverish swell—a thundering, staggering scream of pure sex.
She gasped, her breath warm upon his neck. He turned his head and whispered her name, held her while she shuddered with tiny aftershocks. His limbs turned weak, his vision hazy, but he knew who was in his arms and how she affected his world.
They slid to the cool hardwood floor. He stroked her cheek and wondered inanely if his callused fingertips were too rough. Too hard. Too brutal. It mattered now. Tenderness after the storm, he thought. The peaceful lull of Tricia. He wanted to hold her forever.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked.
"No." She looked up at him. "Why, did I hurt you?"
He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. Equal-opportunity sex. She'd been just as rough, he supposed. Just as brutal. Sweet, wild, inexperienced Tricia. "No, baby, you didn't hurt me. I'm a big, tough guy. I can take it."
She nudged his rib for the barb, then snuggled closer. He shifted their positions so his back was to the wall, so she could rest against him. The incense had burned out, but the CD kept playing. And like their mood, the music had softened, drums giving way to flutes. He traced lazy circles on her stomach, content to be with his lover.
His lover. The mother of his child. "Are we going to go to another charity ball?" Jesse asked.
"If you want to," she answered.
"I do." He wrapped his arms around her. He wanted the society of Arrow Hill to see them together again. He wanted all those snooty jerks who had snubbed Tricia during her pregnancy to know that the man who had placed that baby in her womb hadn't abandoned her purposely. He still cared about her.
* * *
Patricia could almost see his heart. Tonight Jesse wore it on his sleeve, or his bare shoulder, she thought, leaning into his nakedness, the mass of muscle that formed his chest.
Something was happening between them, something more than friendship. She gazed around, studied the wood furnishings, the masculine warmth that dominated the room. Jesse was everywhere. She could feel him in the ancient weapons, the Native regalia, the traditional pottery, the contemporary art. She stared at a painting across the wall and wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. It was a sensual study, a man and a woman in each other's arms. Lovers. She knew the title, had seen it advertised in a Southwest magazine. Jesse didn't own the original. His framed copy was a print, but no less beautiful, she thought.
"It's new," he said, as though reading her thoughts. "I bought it yesterday."
Warmth spread through her like a balm, tears misted her eyes. Lovers. The picture could have been them. Not their looks, but their emotions. She understood the woman's need to touch her lover, keep him close. "It's us."
"Yeah." His response came out rough. Raspy.
Patricia slid her fingers through his and brought their joined hands to her lips. It scared him, she realized, what was happening between them. He knew it was there, but he didn't want to think too deeply about it. He had bought the picture, placed it in his home, but he was still protecting his heart.
"Want some dessert?" he asked. "I've got ice cream. Or sherbet, I guess."
He'd just switched gears, she thought. And he'd done it purposely. "That sounds good," she responded, taking care to keep her voice light.
She stood and watched him dress, watched him pull up his sweatpants and knot the drawstring tie. No, they wouldn't speak of it, but it was there, haunting them like a ghost.
Love.
Patricia Boyd and Jesse Hawk had fallen back in love. And in their state of denial, they clawed each other during sex, locked their hips and swept away the tenderness their hearts wanted so desperately to feel.
While Jesse went into the kitchen, Patricia slipped on her dress and opened her bag for the lace panties she'd brought along. They had a made a conscious decision to become lovers, spent one evening discussing birth control like responsible adults. He had been willing to keep a fresh supply of condoms handy, but she'd opted for the Pill instead. She didn't want anything between them, not even a lubricated film of latex.
He returned with two glass bowls. "Wanna sit on the porch?"
She nodded and accepted the orange sherbet offering.
The evening was warm, a clear summer night. A three-quarter moon shone in the sky, competing for brilliancy, it seemed, with a vast number of glittering stars.
Patricia tasted the sherbet, let it melt on her tongue. "Where are all the animals tonight?" she asked, realizing they were alone.
"Cochise is visiting with the other dogs, and Barney fell asleep in my room. Sally was in her cage, but I guess you didn't notice her. She's the quiet one of the bunch." He lifted his spoon and grinned. "And those sneaky little ferrets were probably hiding somewhere, watching us make love."
She returned his smile. Those sneaky little ferrets were an adorable trio of furry mischief makers with big, round eyes and pointy noses. "I'll bet they're making off with my bra as we speak."
He lowered his gaze to her breasts, sucked the sherbet from his spoon. "What bra?"
She felt her nipples harden. "I brought one with me, in my overnight bag."
"Panties, too?"
A familiar heat settled between her thighs. "I'm wearing them."
He cocked his head, so she crossed her legs. She was still damp from his seed. The thought embarrassed and excited her. She knew they would make love again before morning.
She glanced away, her chest suddenly tight. Making love wasn't the same as admitting to being in love. When, she wondered, had it happened? At what precise moment had she fallen back under his spell?
"What's the matter, Tricia?" Before she could answer, he left his seat and crouched before her. "You look sad."
"I'm fine. Just feeling melodramatic."
"We still have some past between us," he said. "Everything hasn't gone away."
"I know." They still had her father to contend with, the bitterness both men still harbored. "We could talk about it."
"No." He shook his head. "I want to talk about happy things. Things we can share. I want to know what your favorite movie is. If you have a hobby. What it felt like to breast-feed our baby." He gazed up at the sky. "And I want to know if you'll sleep under the stars with me tonight."
God, she loved him. Loved the catch in his voice, the expectation in his eyes as he turned back to her for an answer. Those ever-changing eyes. "Yes," she said. She wanted to cuddle in his arms, search for the Little Dipper, tell him how extraordinary it had felt to hold his son to her breast.
But most of all, she longed to share the rest of her life with him. Longed for the moment he would admit that he loved her, too.
* * *
Life was good, Jesse thought. Passion and friendship with Tricia and meaningful hours spent with his son. On this bright weekend afternoon, he sat on the corral fence with Dillon, sharing the day.
Hunter poked his head over the fence and nuzzled Dillon. The boy reached back to pet the horse. Jesse chuckled. Rather than pester his new riding partner, Hunter was supposed to be enjoying the freedom the corral provided, rolling around like horses did after a healthy workout. Dillon had taken the gelding through his gaits with a God-given talent, making Jesse beam like a new moon. Within three short weeks, Dillon Hawk had proved he was born to ride.
"Hey, Dad, when am I gonna get to meet Uncle Sky?"
"Soon, I hope. He mentioned coming for a visit in September." Jesse and Sky made weekly phone calls to each other. They were as close as two newly acquainted, long-distance brothers could be.
Dillon grinned. "I can't believe he's a trick rider. That's so cool."
Jesse ruffled his son's hair. "I'm sure Sky would be
glad to give you a few pointers. He's looking forward to meeting you."
The boy took a swig of water from one of the canteens they kept on hand to combat the heat. Dillon's skin had continued to tan to a rich, golden-brown, his hair a little lighter from the sun. "Does Sky speak Muskokee, too?"
"Yeah, but he learned it by himself, from a dictionary. Tall Bear taught me." And Jesse thanked the Master of Breath every day for the guidance Tall Bear had given him.
"Are you going to teach me?" Dillon asked.
"You bet I am. That language is part of your heritage."
Jesse had already been schooling Dillon about the Creeks, passing on songs and stories Tall Bear had shared with him. Just days ago they'd spent hours discussing the early culture of their tribe, including religious practices, the names and backgrounds of chiefs who had ruled, the acceptance of mixed-blood marriages.
Dillon had exhibited a special interest in the busk: the Green Corn Dance, a four-day event where Creek men would fast, then dance in the spirit of moral renewal. The busk signified a time of forgiveness, where old grudges were exonerated and brotherhood reigned supreme. The boy had asked numerous questions about the festival, anxious to hear every spiritual detail.
Dillon studied his father with a serious expression, a look Jesse had come to recognize. "Uncle Sky must be a good reader if he learned the Muskokee language from a dictionary. That seems like it would be hard to do."
"Yeah." Sky's ability to absorb the ancient dialect on his own had impressed Jesse, as well. "My brother likes to read. It's one of his favorite pastimes." He shifted his feet, hooking his boot heels onto the fence rail. "But, you know, just because you and I are dyslexic doesn't mean that we're not as smart as everybody else. I used to think that about myself, but I know better now."
Dillon placed the cap back on his canteen. "Mom says that all the time—about people like us being smart. She tells everybody who will listen that Einstein was dyslexic."
"Well, he was. And it's good that she spreads the word." Tricia's devotion to literacy made Jesse proud. "I plan on getting involved with the dyslexic society your mom organizes fund-raisers for." He took a drink of water, then glanced up to catch Dillon's approving smile. "She said they need someone to head up an adult support group."
Dillon scooted closer. "I help out with the younger kids at the charity picnics. We're thinking of having pony rides for them this time. That'd be cool, huh?"
"Yeah. Cool," Jesse agreed, enjoying his son's youthful enthusiasm. He could see Dillon leading bright-eyed four-year-olds around on stubby little ponies.
They sat quietly for the next few minutes, enjoying the Oklahoma sunshine, the country smells permeating the air. Hunter still had his head over the top rail, begging Dillon for attention. The boy complied, stroking the gelding like a favored pet. Jesse smiled. Those ponies were going to adore his son, follow him around like overgrown puppies.
"Dad?"
"Hmm?"
"I wish my grandpa still liked horses."
Immediately Jesse's blood ran cold. Raymond Boyd was a name he'd just as soon forget. He couldn't think of an appropriate response so he lifted the canteen to his lips instead. Although Dillon knew Jesse and his grandpa weren't friends, the boy had been spared the brunt of their hatred.
Dillon reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a small white envelope. "I brought those pictures with me. The ones of Grandpa from a long time ago." He opened the envelope. "Grandpa looks so happy in them. I don't understand what could have happened to make him hate horses." The child glanced at the top photo. "Mom says that maybe he took a bad fall or something. But I don't think that's it, 'cause he doesn't seem scared for me, now that I'm riding."
"How does he seem?" Jesse managed to ask.
The boy shrugged. "I don't know. Okay, I guess. We don't really talk about it." He held the pictures out in an innocent offering. "What do you think, Dad?"
Jesse drew a deep breath and accepted the small stack of photos, unsure of what else to do. He couldn't very well refuse to look at them, not with his son waiting anxiously for his opinion.
He lowered his gaze to the first snapshot. It depicted Boyd striding a well-groomed mount, a muscular quarter horse. Jesse flipped to the next picture. Boyd again, this time with a different mount, an equally impressive palomino. Boyd did look happy—a man in his twenties, full of life and vitality. A contradictory image, Jesse decided, recalling the older man's bitter demeanor in Tricia's kitchen during that awful confrontation.
He continued to look through the photos hastily until one in particular caught his attention, made him stop and stare. Boyd stood beside a striking young woman, his arm around her waist. Jesse studied her, resisting the compelling, unexplainable urge to touch her image. She wore jeans and a Western shirt, blond hair spilling over her shoulders like spun gold. Her skin was fair, her features delicate, but it was her eyes that held him captive. Kept him riveted to her face. They were as blue as the sky, the brightest, most dazzling color he had ever seen.
A chill raced up his spine. That wasn't true. He had seen eyes that blue before. His brother's eyes sparkled like azure diamonds—just like the woman's in the photograph.
With a quivering hand, he turned the picture over. Would there be a note, a date, an indication of who she was?
Rebecca.
The feminine name scripted on the back jolted through him like lightning. Rebecca was his mother's name. Sky's mother's name. Sky, his brother with the bright-blue eyes.
Dear God. His heart pummeled his chest, threatening to pound its way out. Could it be? Could the woman standing beside Raymond Boyd be his mother? His Rebecca? Sky's Rebecca? She'd been a blue-eyed blonde, slim and pretty, he'd been told. A delicate fine-boned lady.
He looked up at Dillon. "Can I hold on to this picture for a while?" he asked, struggling to contain the fear in his voice. The despair. The rage that Boyd may have been associated with his mother.
Dillon nodded. "Sure, Dad. You can keep as many as you want."
"I only want this one," he answered. He would show it to Fiona. The older lady had been his mother's neighbor. She would know if the woman in the photograph was Rebecca Hawk.
Yes, Fiona would know. And then Jesse would know, too.
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
On Monday morning Patricia gazed out her office window. Boyd Enterprises had been bustling with activity: an early meeting, the closure of a profitable deal. She enjoyed the pace, the shift from fast to slow, noisy to quiet. An hour before, men and women in power suits had crowded the conference room. And now she stood alone, admiring the view from a third-story window, her computer screen glowing behind her.
The buzz of the intercom caught her attention. She turned and pressed the button.
"Yes?"
"Dr. Hawk is on line two."
"Thank you." Patricia smiled and pushed the second line. "Jesse?"
His voice rasped through the receiver. "Tricia, I need to see you. Meet me at Delany's as soon as you can."
"Why? What's wrong?" Delany's was a coffee bar located about two blocks from Boyd Enterprises, but Jesse's urgent tone didn't sound like an invitation to sample one of their international brews.
"I don't want to talk about it over the phone. Just hurry, okay?"
She stared at the screen-saver rolling across her computer. Apparently Jesse was already at Delany's, an odd place for him to be on a Monday morning. "Give me fifteen minutes."
She made it in ten, anxiety racing as fast as her car. She spotted Jesse immediately. He sat at one of the wooden tables, a frown furrowed deep in his brow.
Patricia took the chair across from him and noticed that his coffee appeared untouched, strong and black with steam rising from the cup.
"I was on my way to your office," he said. "But I decided to stop here instead. You know, take a deep breath, count to twenty, try to stay calm. Besides, I didn't want to take the chance of running into your dad. Not
the way I'm feeling."
His expression was a combination of anger and despair, she thought, a devastating kind of rage. His hands were fisted on the table, but his eyes looked hollow, a dark empty gray. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"
He opened one of his hands and dropped a piece of paper onto the table. Patricia reached for it. It was a photograph, she realized, as she unrolled it to view the subject. Her heart bumped hard and fast. The slightly crumpled image depicted her dad many years before, standing beside a stunning blonde, an equestrian setting in the background. They looked like a happy couple, friends or maybe even lovers, their faces alight with radiant smiles.
"Why are you carrying around an old photograph of my dad?" she asked. A picture she had never seen before.
Jesse met her gaze, his voice rough. "The woman your dad has his arm around is my mother, Tricia."
Her heart thumped again, a violent knock against her chest. She glanced down at the photo. A happy couple. Friends or maybe even lovers. "That's not possible. What makes you think—"
"Damn it, I don't think it's her. I know it is. Even Fiona said so," he snapped back, then lowered his voice to avoid alarming the other patrons. "I tried to reach Fiona last night after I dropped Dillon off, but she wasn't home. So I showed that picture to her this morning when she came in to work. And she confirmed what I already suspected."
Patricia moved her chair forward. "You're not making sense. Start at the beginning, please. I'm not following you."
He dragged his hand through his hair and explained in a shaky voice how he had come by the photograph the day before, and why he had chosen to remain silent until Fiona saw it. "Dillon doesn't know anything about this. Of course he knows I kept the picture, but he doesn't know why."
She struggled to grasp his words—Dillon hiding old snapshots of his grandpa, her father clinging to a woman named Rebecca, Jesse's odd sensation that he recognized the color of Rebecca's eyes.
"It can't be," she heard herself say, as she tried to make sense of the situation. Fiona was old, even a little ditzy at times. Her memories must be confused.
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