Slowly, very slowly, he lifted their joined hands, then let go, drawing his fingers back. "I don't want… I can't—" His voice broke a little, but his expression remained blank. The stoic warrior, the lone hawk. "Don't love me, Tricia. Please. Just don't."
Because he couldn't love her back, she realized, couldn't bring himself to love Raymond Boyd's daughter again. A part of Jesse was still locked in the past—the callous, distrustful side that was impossible to reach.
She wanted to run, cry, let her heart bleed into the earth, but she stood tall instead. Pride was all she had now, and she intended to hold on to it until the bitter end.
She lifted her chin, set her gaze directly on his. "There's nothing more I can say. What I wanted for us was peace, but you're not willing to let that happen. I can't have a relationship with you anymore, Jesse."
He stood as motionless as the air, looking as though his world had just died and he intended to perish with it. Allow his venom to consume him. "You're going back to your father, aren't you?"
She pushed her hair away from her face. "Yes, I am. And I'm going to tell him what I told you. I love him, but I refuse to have a relationship with him, either. Not if he continues to wallow in hatred."
She forced her tears back, forced them with all her might. Her dad still owed Jesse an apology. She would face her father at work every day, but she wouldn't condone his malice, just the way she wouldn't condone Jesse's. "You know, my dad kept calling me naive, and I kept arguing that I wasn't. But he was right."
A muscle ticked in Jesse's cheek. "Why, because you got involved with me again?"
"No, because I believed in you. Believed what we had could conquer the hatred."
"Don't you dare blame me, Tricia. Your dad started this. He's the one who ruined what we had."
"And you're the one who can fix it." But won't, she thought. Because he refused to love her. The love was there, a tiny seed deep inside him, but rather than nourish it, he'd decided to let it decay.
Jesse didn't respond, so she continued, saddened by the denial she saw in his eyes, the emptiness. "I won't take Dillon away from you or his grandpa. And I'll do my best not to influence him to choose sides. That's not what this is about."
She turned and rounded the building, heading for her car and hoping that he'd follow, but knowing that he wouldn't. Patricia Boyd had just lost the love of her life. The man who was her heart and soul. And tonight when she was alone, she'd allow herself to cry. Grieve for what could have been.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
Jesse parked in front of Tricia's house and looked over at his son. "You rode well today." Better than expected, considering the circumstances and Dillon's sensitive nature. The child's parents hadn't seen each other in almost two weeks, hadn't spoken a word.
"I like riding. It makes me happy."
Jesse squeezed Dillon's shoulder. It probably helped the boy forget what was going on his world, too. Sometimes Jesse saddled Hunter for that very same reason. He'd ridden a lot in these past two weeks, blocking Tricia's image from his mind, trying to forget, forcing himself to go on with his life.
Tricia had kept her word. She hadn't taken Dillon away from him. Jesse suspected the boy was still visiting with his grandpa, too. And much to his credit, the child protected his mother's feelings, respected the choice she'd made by remaining silent. Not once in the past thirteen days had he tried to prod Jesse into a conversation about Tricia.
Dillon leaned in for a quick hug. "Bye, Dad."
"Bye." Jesse held on a little longer than usual, needing the closeness, the comfort. "I love you, son."
"I love you, too."
With a father's pride, he watched the boy open the truck door and walk to the house. I love you. Such easy words to say to his child. Easy to say. Easy to feel. Natural, like breathing.
Dillon waved, then disappeared through the front door, Jesse missing him already.
Instead of firing the engine, he sat in his truck and stared at the property. The gardeners had been there recently. The lawn, the flowers, the shrubs, everything was well tended, not a leaf out of place. Arrow Hill was like that, he thought. Pristine and white. Perfect. Overly manicured. He'd never been comfortable there. Jesse Aaron Hawk was far from being white or pristine, not with his sun-baked skin and faded denim clothes.
His gaze traveled from the lawn to the house itself. He couldn't see Tricia's bedroom from his vantage point, but he remembered every detail: the stained-glass window that illuminated color, the French door that led to a balcony, the full-length mirror that had reflected her beauty, her slim, sleek nakedness.
Was she home today? Sipping iced tea in her modern kitchen? Working on her laptop? Possibly curled up on a chair in her den, reading a suspense novel, those long, shapely legs tucked beneath her?
He pulled a hand through his unbound hair. How long would it be before she dated another man? Took him to her bed? She wouldn't love Jesse forever, wouldn't wait like before. There was no misunderstood promise between them this time.
His stomach tightened as he started the truck. Tricia with another man was an image he couldn't bear.
He headed down the hill, away from the heights of Arrow Hill and into the flats of Hatcher. God, he missed her. Missed the length of her body, the curve of her smile, the exotic fragrance she wore. Like a fool he'd taken to burning jasmine-scented candles, filling his home with a bittersweet reminder.
Jesse gripped the steering wheel. What good would it do to admit that the ache in his chest was love? Saying it out loud would solve nothing. Absolutely nothing. Love was not the cure-all, the magic formula for happily ever after. Jesse Hawk didn't believe in fairy tales. Life had dealt him reality—a strong, hard, lonely dose.
Unwilling to go home to the lingering jasmine, he continued to drive, passing other homes, other people. He turned to see a rugged old rancher schooling a young horse, then caught sight of two barefoot kids in a neighboring yard, lapping ice cream that had probably come from the local dairy. Familiar sights. Country folk in a country setting. They should have brought him comfort, yet they didn't. He felt more alone than ever.
Within twenty minutes Jesse found himself at a place he hadn't been to since his brother had come to visit. A quiet place with acres of grass and unseen angels whispering through the wind. The cemetery where his parents had been laid to rest.
He parked the truck and walked onto the lawn. Sporadic bouquets of flowers colored the terrain, and while some had wilted in the sun, others remained fresh. Recent gifts, he thought, Sunday offerings.
His parents had been buried near a tree, their graves marked with simple headstones, two flat rectangles side by side. No statues, poems or loving verses etched their memorial—only their names, the years of their births, dates of their deaths. Jesse knelt on the grass, the ache in his heart bleeding like an open wound.
Michael Aaron Hawk.
Rebecca Mane Hawk.
They'd married, made two children, then died together one tragic summer night when another vehicle collided with their truck. They'd taken their last conscious breaths while an elderly baby-sitter probably read fairy tales to their sons—two young boys, separated just days later.
"I'm sorry I didn't bring flowers," he said quietly, "but I didn't know I was coming here." He brushed several leaves away from the stone markers, then wondered if he should have left them instead. The leaves had fallen from the ancient oak that protected his parents, shaded them in the summer, watched over them on cold winter nights.
He fingered his mother's name and pictured her delicate features, her flowing blond hair. "I saw a photograph of you. You were with Raymond Boyd."
A man I hate, he thought. Tricia's father. The very reason he couldn't go to Tricia and tell her what she longed to hear. Loving her meant forgiving Boyd, something he refused to do. Boyd had tainted everything, even the memory of his parents.
"Why were you with him, Mom? Why were you smiling?"
But he's Boyd's grandson, as well, Jesse thought bitterly. Damn that old man. Almost everyone that he loved, Boyd had claimed, too.
Jesse heard a rustle in the tree and looked up. A red-tailed hawk had lit upon a high branch, its glorious wings fanned. He followed the bird's graceful movement, a lump forming in his throat. Hawks were messengers, couriers from the heavens. And this red-tipped angel had undoubtedly come with the tree—a beautiful spirit that belonged to his parents. His blue-eyed mother, his Creek father.
He scrubbed his hand across his jaw and closed his eyes, knowing that the hawk watched and waited, its message clear. Angels didn't send tidings of hatred.
What have I done?
He opened his eyes, heard his own voice—a low whisper—a disgraced confession. "I taught Dillon about the busk. The ceremony of forgiveness."
Yes, he'd taught his son about the Green Corn Dance. He'd spouted the words while storing contempt for the boy's grandfather. He had dishonored his son, he thought, shamed the child Tricia had given him. And he'd dishonored Tricia, as well, the gentle woman for whom his soul ached. He'd broken her heart once again, refused the love she'd offered, the peace and beauty. He stood motionless, their last conversation reverberating in his head.
Don't you dare blame me, Tricia. Your dad started this. He's the one who ruined what we had.
And you're the one who can fix it.
Jesse stared up through the branches of the tree and saw the hawk settle into its nest, certain now of what he must do.
* * *
A long private road led to the Boyd mansion. Jesse took the winding turns with ease since his truck had been built for a tougher terrain. As the hilltop estate came into view, his heartbeat quickened. The house sat like a proud monument. A bed of indigenous flowers lined a circular driveway, while white pillars supported the front door, tall round columns one would expect on a mansion. The grounds were exceptional, green and lush with a carpet of grass that went on forever.
Tricia and Dillon had both lived there, so he tried to accept the opulence, tried to make it feel homey by imagining them picnicking on the lawn.
He parked and rang the bell, then waited anxiously to announce himself to a butler or a maid. Would Boyd refuse to see him? Jesse stood tall and resisted the urge to dust his jeans. He didn't want to be caught fussing over his appearance, even though he probably looked more like a cowboy than a country veterinarian. He had dressed this morning for Dillon's riding lesson and still wore a simple ensemble of Western attire.
Boyd answered the door himself, a shock to Jesse's system. He stared at the other man, and before his mouth could form a word, Boyd belted out a gruff question.
"Is Patricia with you?"
"No. I came alone."
"What do you want?"
"To talk."
The older man scowled and stepped away from the door in a silent, unfriendly invitation. Jesse would have preferred to stay outside with the grass and the trees. Cowboy boots didn't belong on a marble floor, he thought, as he entered the mansion, feeling instantly out of place.
He followed Boyd into a room that boasted tradition and elegance: a crystal chandelier, a gold mantel over the fireplace, cream-colored sofas and ornate wood furnishings that had probably been in the family for generations. Words like Queen Anne and Chippendale popped into Jesse's head, antiques he'd heard of, but wouldn't recognize.
Once again, he tried to picture Tricia and Dillon there, tried to fill himself with their medicine—Tricia's feminine beauty and Dillon's youthful innocence—the warmth he felt for both.
Boyd pointed to a chair. "You came to talk. So talk. There's no one here but us. My staff has Sundays off."
Jesse sat, even though he would have preferred to stand. His towering height gave him an advantage over the other man. At six-two, he stood several inches taller than Tricia's father, the cowboy boots adding yet another inch.
He watched Boyd take a chair opposite him and realized how ridiculously macho his last thought had been. This wasn't about who had what advantage. So he was taller and Boyd had more money. So what? Neither one of them had Tricia in their lives, and loved ones mattered more than an intimidating stance or an overflowing bankbook.
"Do you miss Tricia?" Jesse asked.
"My daughter's name is Patricia. And if you came here to gloat because you finally managed to ruin her relationship with me, you can get the hell out now."
Prone to being hot-tempered, Jesse clenched his fists, then took a deep breath and relaxed his fingers. The hawk had sent him, the hawk and his lonely heart. Anger would only destroy what he'd come to repair. "She's Tricia to me. And believe me, I'm far from gloating. I miss her something awful."
Boyd sat upright in his chair. "She hasn't been here in two weeks, and she only speaks to me at the office when it's absolutely necessary. I never knew she had it in her to be quite this stubborn."
Yes, he missed her. Jesse could see the loss in the other man's face, hear it in his tone. He inhaled another deep breath, then exhaled slowly, preparing his next words. "I'm in love with your daughter, Mr. Boyd. And I'm here because I want your blessing before I ask her to marry me."
"I should have known." Tricia's father tugged at his collar, the fear in his voice creeping into his eyes. "You're going to take her away from me. That's what this is all about."
Boyd's uncharacteristic burst of panic left Jesse momentarily speechless. Earlier the older man had seemed emotional but stern, impeccable in tan slacks and a matching pullover, as haughty and distinguished as the house.
Jesse glanced down at his hands, then back up, Tricia's words filling his head. My dad blamed Michael Hawk for taking Rebecca away from him.
"I resemble my father, don't I?" he asked.
The other man nodded, still struggling to maintain his composure. "Yes, you favor him. It's difficult to look at you and not see Michael."
Jesse steered the conversation down a road that made him as jittery as Boyd, as panicked, in a way. But he knew deep down that they both needed to travel that road, the painful highway leading to the past. "Will you tell me about my mother? Please," he added when the older man frowned. "It's important to me. I don't remember her."
"I…" Tricia's father hesitated, then cleared his throat. "I met her at the country club. She was a waitress at the bistro. She was new in town and didn't know anyone."
"I saw her picture. The one of the two of you together. She was beautiful. A lot like I'd imagined." Blond and delicate with a warm smile and bright-blue eyes. A mother other children would admire. The mother Jesse had always dreamed of having, someone angelic and caring.
"Yes. Rebecca was beautiful. Sweet and a little shy at times. I, umm…"
"Took one look at her and fell madly in love?" Jesse provided.
The older man managed a strained nod. "I began eating at the bistro everyday. I was determined to get to know Rebecca. Figure a way to win her affection."
Jesse remained silent while Boyd continued, surprised by his ability to listen without resentment. Maybe it was because he, too, had fallen madly in love the first time he'd seen Tricia. He understood masculine obsession.
"I learned that Rebecca adored horses, which was precisely why she had moved to Hatcher. She'd heard that Hatcher was an affordable cowboy town, a place where she might be able to board a horse for a reasonable fee." He smoothed his sideburns with edgy fingers, his composure not quite regained. "She didn't have a horse, but she planned on buying one just as soon as she saved enough money."
Jesse scooted to the edge of his seat. Boyd's hatred of horses was linked to his mother somehow. "You owned several horses, didn't you? The ones from the pictures?"
"No. I mean yes, they were mine, but I bought them to impress Rebecca. And since I wasn't familiar wi
th the equestrian world, I hired a trainer. Someone to teach me everything I needed to know, including how to ride." Boyd looked directly at Jesse, right smack into his eyes. "I was a quick study, and the young man I hired was the best. Tall, good-looking Creek fellow. His name was Michael Hawk."
Jesse held the other man's piercing gaze. "My father."
"Yes, your father." Boyd's voice went tight. He rose and stood beside the fireplace. "We became friends, the three of us. We spent every free moment together—laughing, talking, riding. I didn't tell Rebecca how I felt about her, but I sensed that Michael knew. In the same way that I picked up on what was happening to him."
They both loved her, Jesse thought. Friends in love with the same woman.
"It wasn't a deliberate competition, in fact it didn't seem like a competition at all. I felt brotherly toward Michael, and I was certain that he'd get over Rebecca. I intended to ask him to be my best man when I married her."
"I'm sorry," Jesse said.
Boyd's stance went rigid. "You're apologizing for your father?"
"No." Jesse stood, resisting the urge to pace. The conversation had taken a turn he'd never expected. "I'm sorry that you got hurt. I know what it feels like to love someone. To hurt over them."
The older man sighed and made a humbling confession. "I was arrogant. So damn arrogant. Not once did Rebecca encourage me to be anything more than her friend. I'd see the way she would look at Michael and say to myself, 'But I have more to offer her than he does. I'm successful. I inherited a grand house.'" He gestured to the opulent surroundings. "Such an arrogant fool."
"You're not a fool." Jesse's eyes turned watery. "You've taken good care of Tricia and Dillon. And you cared about my parents. That makes you special in my eyes."
"How can you say that after everything that's happened?"
"Because it's time for forgiveness. And I want to marry your daughter and raise Dillon with her. I love them, Raymond," he said, using the other man's given name for the first time. "They mean everything to me." And he understood that Raymond Boyd had acted out of fear rather than true malice. He had been afraid of losing Tricia the way he'd lost Rebecca. "I want us to be a family. All of us."
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