"I could really use some food," he said. "Are you hungry yet?"
No, but she'd eat to appease him. Breakfast, he'd always told her, was the most important meal of the day. She pushed her chair back and rose. "I'll scramble us some eggs." It was the one thing she knew how to cook.
"How about eggs Benedict from the country club bistro instead?"
Patricia turned back toward her father. He was trying to get her out of the house, she realized. Trying to help her forget. "Okay, Dad, you're on."
At least she wouldn't run into Jesse at the country club. She wouldn't have to see him until after Dillon returned. "I'll get dressed," she said, praying her bedroom wouldn't trigger an onslaught of tears. The lovemaking that had occurred there still seemed fresh.
No, raw, she decided, as she tackled the stairs. An open wound that would probably never heal.
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
Jesse watched the white Mercedes roll onto the graveled driveway. It looked out of place on his property, he thought. It probably cost more than he made in an entire year.
He reached down to pet Cochise's head. "Dillon's here," he told the rottweiler. "Tricia, too," he added under his breath, his stomach clenching. He hadn't seen her since that kitchen confrontation with Boyd.
Dillon hopped out of the car, said hi, then grinned at the dog.
Cochise whined and wiggled.
"Go say hello," Jesse urged, knowing Cochise would receive the hug he longed for.
As Dillon knelt to embrace the dog, Jesse spotted a strip of leather beneath his son's shirt. The sight evoked an inner hug, a warm fuzzy feeling. Dillon was wearing Jesse's former medicine bag, the spiritual connection they shared.
He moved forward, then crouched beside the boy. "I was wondering if maybe you'd like to help with some chores," he said. The idea had stemmed from Jesse's own childhood, a fantasy of standing beside his father, doing ranch work. He used to conjure images of the father he'd never met, create his face, his mannerisms. "I haven't had the chance to feed the animals yet, and I've still got plants to water, a fence to mend."
"I can feed the animals," Dillon volunteered quickly. "Even clean up after the horse if you want. Muck the stall. That's what it's called, right?"
Jesse's heart did a big, floppy somersault. Dillon Hawk was his kid all right. Not too many eleven-year-olds would offer to shovel manure. He grinned. "Yeah, that's what it's called."
Dillon turned impatiently toward the car. "What's taking Mom so long?"
Good question. Jesse rose to his feet. Tricia sat behind the wheel, fumbling through a leather briefcase. "Guess she's looking for something." Or avoiding me for as long as possible.
"Mom, come on! I have to help Dad with some chores."
Tricia exited the car and placed her briefcase on the hood. "You two go ahead. I'll catch up."
Chicken, Jesse thought. She wouldn't even look at him. Wouldn't lift her eyes from the case. Instead she continued to dig through the damn thing as if her life depended on it.
"You lose something?" he asked, forcing a tone of normalcy into his voice.
She glanced up, and Jesse could have kicked himself. He would have been better off ignoring her. Her skin had that flawless appeal, the creamy glow that always made him itch to touch it. Sunlight suited her. The streaks in her hair sparkled like polished brass.
She stepped away from the car. "I brought some reports with me to go over, but it looks like some pages are missing."
He lifted an eyebrow. So she'd decided to flaunt her role today. Patricia Boyd, busy young executive. Beautiful, rich, important. Even her clothes emitted power. She'd paired sleek leather boots with a summer pantsuit, a classy beige number that probably sported a designer label. Her jewelry consisted of a delicate gold watch and tiny pearl earrings. The proper heiress, elegant, not too showy.
"Do you have a fax machine?" she asked.
I'm not a country bumpkin, he wanted say. I do run a business. "Yeah. It's in the clinic."
"Could I trouble you to use it?" She spoke in a professional tone. Although there was no bite, there was no genuine warmth, either. A voice that would neither alarm nor offend their son. A voice the child had probably heard her use a thousand times before. "I'd like to call my father and have him fax the missing pages."
Her dad. The last person on earth Jesse wanted dialing his fax line. He glanced back at Dillon. The boy still knelt beside Cochise, ruffling the dog's ears. "Sure, Tricia." He reached into his pocket and tossed her his keys rather than chance a touch. The gentle sweep of fingertips would be too familiar. Too painful. "The fax machine is in the front office. Help yourself."
She caught the keys, then closed her briefcase. "Is there an alarm?"
"No." In his opinion, alarm systems were for city dwellers. Or millionaires. He didn't fall into either category. "The light switches are in the break room."
Her overly polite smile struck him as feigned. "Thanks. I'll drive around back. Dillon, honey, I'll catch up. Okay?"
"Sure, Mom. Say hello to Grandpa from me."
Her gaze locked with Jesse's before she turned away. He watched her get behind the wheel, start the engine, pull forward.
"You ready, son?"
The boy popped up, dusted his jeans. "Yep. Ready and able."
Ready and able he was. Dillon smiled, listened, took direction, then squealed in delight when he entered the kennel area to feed Jesse's ever-changing array of four-legged friends.
"This one's new." Dillon squatted to cuddle a poodle-terrier mix that wiggled at his feet. "I don't remember seeing him last time."
Jesse smiled. "Yeah, except that little one happens to be a she."
"Oh. Where'd you get her?"
"The pound."
The boy looked up, cuddled the dog a little closer. "You saved her."
Jesse swallowed. The awe in the child's voice made him proud, a little misty-eyed. He used to imagine gazing up at his own dad like that. Imagine his dad smiling back at him. His mom, too. He pictured her as being the prettiest lady on earth. "I guess so, yeah. She'll stay with me until I can find her another home."
Dillon's voiced cracked a little. "They were gonna put her down, huh?"
"Yeah, but they don't like doing that." Jesse regarded the animals he rescued as orphans, and he knew firsthand what being orphaned had felt like. "I just couldn't leave her there. She's such a sweet little thing." He remembered children in foster care who were just as sweet, kids whose chances of being adopted were slim to none.
He ruffled the top of Dillon's head. "We better get these dogs fed. We've still got a horse to tend to."
The boy grinned and lunged to his feet. "Yes, sir."
Thirty minutes later Dillon stood inside the gelding's stall, stroking the animal's nose like an old friend. The equine bonding, much to Jesse's delight, happened instantly.
"Does Hunter like sugar cubes?" Dillon asked.
"Yep. Carrots, too." Jesse had given the horse his mother's maiden name since the gelding wasn't registered and didn't have a family history of his own. He thought the powerful name suited the sturdy paint. But then, Hunter hadn't always been packed with muscle. Five years before, Jesse had rescued the neglected gelding from a rental stable that had been charged with animal abuse.
Dillon climbed onto a pipe rail and let Hunter nuzzle him. "I've always wanted a horse. It's sort of my secret wish."
Surprised by Dillon's admission, Jesse joined his son on the rail. The boy came from millions. Why would he secretly long for something his mother could certainly afford to buy? "Do you know how to ride?"
"No." Dillon shook his head. "But my grandpa does. I saw pictures of him with his horses. The pictures were from a long time ago, before my mom was born." He gave a sad smile as Hunter nudged him for more attention. "Grandpa hates horses now."
Jesse smelled a rat. A big, rich one. "How do you know that?"
"'Cause he said so when I asked him about those pictur
es. He seemed real upset that I found them. He said I wasn't supposed to go snooping through his stuff. That was a few years ago, but he told me never to talk to him about horses again, that he hated them." Dillon hugged Hunter's beefy neck. "Grandpa threw those pictures away, but when he wasn't looking, I took them out of the trash."
And the boy probably had them hidden in his room somewhere, Jesse thought, hoping someday Boyd would change his mind. Damn that old man. "You know, Dillon, I can teach you to ride. You can learn on Hunter." The gelding was as gentle as a rocking horse and just as smooth. "I'll talk to your mom about it and then she can tell your grandpa so everybody knows what's going on." He reached over to touch a lock of his son's hair. Dillon deserved the right to explore his dream.
"Really?" The child's eyes lit up, suddenly more blue than gray. "That would be so cool. Can we start today? Right now?"
Jesse smiled, pleased by Dillon's youthful enthusiasm. "We can start with ground rules today. You've got to know how to handle a horse on the ground before you can climb on his back."
"But Hunter likes me."
"Yeah, he does, but he's a lot bigger than you, and he can take advantage if you let him." Jesse hopped off the rail. "Why don't you go into the house and get some carrots for Hunter, and I'll go talk to your mom."
Tricia was sure as hell going to get a piece of his mind. How could she allow her father to dictate Dillon's life because of his own selfish problems? In Jesse's opinion, a man who had owned horses, then hated them later, was no kind of man at all.
* * *
Patricia felt like a coward—a disorganized one. She'd misplaced more things that week than she cared to admit. She rolled her shoulders. She hadn't planned on hiding out in Jesse's clinic, but now that she was there, she dreaded leaving. It hurt to look at him, see him looking back at her.
She closed her eyes. She'd barely been eating, sleeping. And checking her reflection in the mirror in her bedroom was the worst kind of torture. Jesse still lingered there, on his knees, making love to her.
"Tricia?"
Startled, she opened her eyes and righted her posture. She sat at the reception desk in Jesse's clinic, and he stood on the other side staring down at her. She lifted her papers and shuffled them. "I was just getting ready to leave."
"Well, you might as well stay put, because I need to talk to you."
Not now, she thought. His voice had that confrontational edge. "This isn't a good time. We agreed to behave in a civil manner when we were with Dillon."
"I am being civil, damn it. And what I have to say is important."
She rose from the desk and walked around to the other side. If he was going to persist, then she didn't intend to give him the advantage of peering down his nose at her. She removed her jacket and placed it on the counter. She'd changed her clothes three times that morning. Three times in front of that mirror. "All right. What's on your mind?"
"Your dad has no right to squelch Dillon's dreams."
Patricia blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"Dillon wants a horse, Tricia. He's wanted one for years."
She leaned against the counter, silently stunned. "He told you that?"
"Yeah, just now."
"But he's never said anything to me." And since she hadn't been raised with horses, she'd never thought to offer her son riding lessons. Arrow Hill had an equestrian center, but she'd never been part of the horsy set. Most of the Arrow Hill equestrians were the polo type, a little too showy for her taste. The struggling ranchers and cowboys lived down below, in Hatcher, but she'd steered clear of them, as well, knowing she didn't fit into their world, either.
"What does this have to do with my dad?"
Jesse's voice took on a bite. "He's the reason Dillon never said anything. Apparently your old man hates horses."
"Oh, goodness. I never knew that he and Dillon had talked about that." She was aware that her father had owned horses at one time, but that had been before he'd married her mother. "I don't think he hates them exactly. I think something happened, like maybe he took a bad fall." Fear, she thought, would make a man like Raymond Boyd testy. "I never pursued the subject because I wasn't interested in riding."
"Well, Dillon is, and your dad should have been more considerate."
"You're right, of course. I'll—"
Jesse interrupted briskly. "You'll tell your father that I'm going to teach my son to ride. That Dillon will come here twice a week for a lesson." He softened his expression, then blew a tired-sounding breath. "I'm not doing this to spite your old man, Tricia. I'm doing this for Dillon."
"I know." She didn't doubt that Jesse loved their son, that Dillon was the number-one priority in his life.
"Come on." He headed toward the break room. "If you're done, let's lock up. I promised Dillon he could start his lessons today."
After Jesse turned out the lights and secured the door, Patricia started toward her car.
"What's the matter? Afraid to walk with me?"
She stopped and turned. Yes, she thought, she was. Strolling next to him on a beautiful summer day held too many memories. Sunshine, shady trees and moist kisses used to be a favored combination. "Of course not. I was just going to put my briefcase away. My jacket, too." The morning chill, she noted, was gone. At least in the air.
His gaze swept over her, and suddenly she felt naked. Exposed and raw.
"You better get yourself a pair of jeans and Western boots if Dillon wants you to stay for his lessons in the future. Either that or keep clear of the barn. Suits and spiky boots don't cut it around here."
She ignored the sarcasm in his tone. Apparently he thought she'd overdressed for the day. He hadn't, she noticed. He wore a country uniform of faded denim and tanned leather. His hair, dark as a moonless night and free as the Wind, fell about his shoulders. He looked rooted to the land, the rugged surroundings.
The old Garrett farm was certainly a charming place, she thought, as they continued toward the barn. Although it was no longer a working farm, the soil still seemed rich and fertile. Jesse's garden bloomed with tall, flowering plants and herbal aromas.
When they neared a small red building, Patricia smiled. Dillon sat outside on a pipe corral that extended from the barn, babying a huge brown-and-white horse. She'd never seen her son look so happy, so relaxed.
"He needs this," she said.
"Yeah." Jesse stared straight ahead. "He's a terrific kid. You did a good job with him, Tricia."
"Thank you."
They moved forward in silence. Patricia knew this was as civil as things were going to get. Forgetting or forgiving didn't seem possible. The welfare of eleven-year-old Dillon Hawk was their only tie.
* * *
Four days later Patricia sat in Jesse's truck, jammed against the door. She could feel his animosity toward her, knowing he resented her presence. Jesse had called and invited Dillon out for a casual dinner, apparently hoping for some time alone with his son, but the plan had backfired. Dillon had insisted she come along.
He pulled into a parking stall and cut the engine. "Hope this place is okay," he said, not quite masking the strain in his voice.
Patricia opened her door. "It's fine." She knew his comment had been directed toward her. Did he think she was too snooty for cheeseburgers and a milk shake? Or was that his hurt talking? His disappointment that Dillon had refused to be alone with him?
They entered the restaurant, a family-type diner in Hatcher with red vinyl booths and waitresses darting by in crepe-soled shoes. The atmosphere was too friendly for Tricia's mood, too lively to ease the tension between old lovers. The lights were bright, the crowd noisy. While elderly couples ate pie and drank coffee, young parents studied their menus in haste, their children either chattering mindlessly or banging on metal high chairs.
Tricia scooted into the corner booth first. She used to imagine places like this, wondered what it would feel like to be a part of a middle-class family who shared household chores and dined on a budget.
She'd tried to give Dillon and herself a sense of normalcy in their lives, but, looking around, she knew their lives had never been this normal, this lovingly chaotic.
"Go on, son," Jesse said, directing Dillon into the circular booth.
Dillon shook his head. "I want to be on the end. You can sit next to Mom. I hate being squeezed in the middle."
"Come on, Dillon. I'm bigger than you. I don't want to be squeezed in the middle, either."
The boy refused to budge. "I had to sit in the middle in the truck."
"Yeah, well, I was driving so that doesn't count."
Patricia narrowed her eyes. Jesse and Dillon had the same stubborn scowl etched upon their faces, the same brooding expression. Dillon's stemmed from youth, but Jesse's was a clear indication that he didn't want to sit next to her. At least clear to her, anyway.
"Will you both please sit down. You're causing a scene." They weren't, of course. No one in the noisy restaurant paid them any mind, but Jesse's childish reaction intensified her displaced sense of belonging. The lonely rich girl on the hill, wondering how the other half lived.
"Fine." Jesse scooted in and bumped her arm, as Dillon took his place. "Sorry," he muttered.
She stiffened. "That's all right." But it wasn't. Not any of it. Not the faint woodsy note of his cologne or the broad feel of his shoulder pressing hers.
Things couldn't get much worse, Patricia thought, until their waitress turned out to be a client of Jesse' s—an overly talkative lady who chatted about her truck driver husband, their three rambunctious kids and a pug named Bruno that Jesse had treated for kennel cough.
"Doctor Hawk," she beamed, "I'm so glad you brought your family." She smiled at Patricia next. "You've done a wonderful job fixing up the old Garrett place. Those gorgeous flower beds and that garden. You must love it there."
JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER Page 12
