JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER Read online

  Patricia's heart rammed against her chest. The flower beds. The herb garden. Warm touches that weren't hers. "I—" She cleared her throat. Think, she told herself. Think of a proper way to tell this woman that you're not Jesse's wife. "It is a lovely home, but—"

  Dillon jumped in before she could complete her answer. "We don't live there. My mom and dad aren't married. Now can we just order? Please."

  A moment of stunned silence ensued but, much to Patricia's chagrin, the waitress recovered first. The friendly lady forced a smile, an overly polite gesture meant to ease the discomfort of everyone involved.

  "Looks to me like you've got a hungry one there."

  "Yes," Patricia responded as Jesse remained silent beside her. Apparently Dillon's blunt response had upset him even more than the waitress's misconception. She could see a slight tremor in his hands, hear a hitch in his breath. He looked hurt, confused, angry. All the same emotions stirring inside her.

  Their dinner arrived twenty minutes later. Patricia's food hit her stomach like a rock, even though she had only taken a few bites. She glanced at her son. Rather than meet her gaze, Dillon stared at his plate, painting ketchup swirls with his fries. She had already warned him in a tight but quiet voice to expect a parental talk after dinner. Correcting her child in a public setting wasn't her style, but then Dillon had never embarrassed her in public before. This experience was new. Painfully new.

  After Jesse paid the bill, he tipped the waitress personally. Patricia assumed he must have offered a simple apology, as well, because the woman squeezed his arm before he turned back toward her and Dillon.

  "What did you tell that lady?" Dillon challenged his father the moment they stepped outside. "What did you say to her?"

  Jesse continued toward the truck. "I told her that we were having some family problems," he answered in a quiet voice. "She's a client of mine, and I felt I owed her the courtesy of an explanation."

  "Family problems." Dillon snorted. "Yeah, right. You and my mom aren't family."

  Jesse stopped dead in his tracks as Patricia reached for her son's arm. Suddenly she knew exactly what troubled the boy. No one but Dillon could read her emotions and, tonight, he'd read them well—every last awful one. If she hadn't been so self-absorbed, she would have recognized his pain sooner.

  Dillon jerked free of her hold, then faced his father. "Do you think I'm stupid? I can tell that you don't like my mom. You didn't even want to sit by her." He turned to look at Patricia, his steely gaze boring into hers. "You're no better, Mom. You're a liar, too. You've only been pretending to be friends with my dad. You hate him as much as he hates you."

  Dillon's accusation hit her like a head-on collision. They stood in the middle of the parking lot, emotions racing by like drunk drivers on a single-lane highway. Dangerous and out of control. And wrong, so very wrong. "I don't hate your father," she said, "but there are times that I don't like him. And you're right, we're not friends, not in the way we led you to believe. But we tried, honey. Honestly we did."

  Jesse moved forward, his voice shaky, his stare humble but focused. The shamed warrior. "I'm sorry, son. I guess I haven't been a very good father; but I'd sure like a second chance. And as for your mom and me … well, we've got a lot of past between us. Things I can't explain. Things that just go wrong between a man and a woman."

  Dillon held his dad's gaze. "Do you hate her?"

  "No." The response came quickly, gently. Sadly.

  "Then how come you can't be friends?"

  Jesse reached over to touch Patricia. His hand brushed her shoulder, then fell. "I'm not sure. I think maybe it's because we haven't talked. I mean really talked. You know, about important stuff."

  Like why he didn't come back, Patricia thought. And why she had kept her pregnancy a secret. "We could do that now," she suggested, searching Jesse's gaze.

  "Yeah, we could." He managed a small smile. "If that's okay with Dillon."

  "It's okay with me," the boy replied, "but I think you should go someplace by yourselves. I don't want to be around in case you start arguing."

  "We won't." Patricia placed her arms around her son and hugged him tight, praying those words wouldn't come back to haunt her. There was a lot to rectify, possibly too much for one night.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

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  Jesse unlocked his front door and ushered Tricia inside. He had taken Dillon home where the boy would spend the evening with his former nanny, watching a rented movie and snacking on popcorn.

  "Can I get you some hot tea or something?" he asked, unsure of how to start this talk they'd decided to have.

  Tricia twisted a leather tassel on her handbag. "Yes, thank you. Tea sounds nice."

  Peppermint, he decided, heading for the kitchen. Peppermint soothed nervousness, something both he and Tricia appeared to suffer from at the moment. Poor digestion, too. The burger he'd eaten had pummeled his stomach like an angry fist. He imagined Tricia's dinner had upset her, too. Stressful situations and food didn't usually mix well.

  He set the water to boil while Tricia took a seat at the kitchen table.

  Jesse turned away from the kettle and leaned against the counter. "I deserved that lashing Dillon gave me tonight. He was right, you know. I didn't want to sit next to you. I guess I was the one behaving like an eleven-year-old."

  She angled her chin. "Don't most boys that age like girls? I know Dillon does. He's over that cooties stage."

  Jesse felt a boyish tug pull one corner of his lips, a kid smile, chock-full of admiration and anxiety. Tricia Boyd still made his heartbeat skip. "I never thought that you had cooties. That wasn't the problem."

  Her return smile was fleeting. "I know."

  The tug moved from his lips to his belly, causing it to clench. The problem, he decided, was their past, the subject neither of them knew quite how to broach.

  He turned back to the stove, grateful for something to do. The water wasn't boiling, but it was nearly there, hot enough. He pinched a handful of leaves from a windowsill plant and dropped them into an old-fashioned teapot he'd found at a flea market. It wasn't a delicate piece of china. It looked sturdy and weathered, like the house, like himself.

  He poured the water and brought the teapot to the table, along with two cups, two spoons and a jar of fresh honey he'd purchased from a local supplier.

  They sat for a short while and let the brew steep. He didn't have to explain the purpose to Tricia. He had schooled her about some of the more common herbs, taught her how to extract their healing properties. He had shared himself with Tricia during that ill-fated summer, offered her everything he'd had to give.

  She poured the tea and added honey to hers. "Peppermint," she said, upon tasting it. She took another sip, then tilted her head, her hair brushing her cheek. "It's supposed to be an aphrodisiac, isn't it?"

  That damned boyish pull returned, tugging his groin this time. "In large quantities, yeah. But that's not why I chose it." The idea of seducing her had merit, though. Sex was easier than talking. Tumble onto the sheets, sink into that temporary high, feel and forget.

  "Where should we start?" he asked, lifting his drink. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

  She watched him through eyes that had turned suddenly wary. "You're not good at the truth?"

  The accusation stung, a bite the warm brew couldn't ease. He placed his cup back onto the table. "What's that supposed to mean?" He'd been honest all along. She sure as hell couldn't make that claim.

  Tricia tucked her hair behind her ears. "It means you lied. Years ago and just recently."

  He leaned back in his chair, consciously distancing himself from her. "Maybe you'd better fill me in."

  "All right." She sat a little straighter, spoke a little sharper. "You lied to my father in the kitchen. You told him that you used to be in love with me. That wasn't the truth, not by a long shot."

  He brought his body forward, his heart pounding in his head. "That wasn't a lie
. I loved you, Tricia. So damned much." It still hurt, hurt to admit, talk about. "You were my life. Why do you think I asked you to live with me? I was willing to postpone my education for you." Sweep her off her feet, he added mentally, tell her dad to go to hell. "You refused. You sent me on my way."

  She shook her head. "You thought you loved me, but it was only lust. You figured that out soon enough. You even admitted it the day I came to see you, the week before you found out about Dillon. You told me that we were just kids experimenting. That what you had felt for me was nothing more than a strong infatuation."

  She was right. He had lied to her, and she'd believed that lie even after he'd retracted it. "What I told your father was the truth, I swear it. It wasn't about sex. I loved you." He took a deep breath. "I said those awful things to you that day on my porch because it was just so hard seeing you again."

  Her eyes glazed with unshed tears. He wanted to go to her, hold her, but he knew she wouldn't welcome his touch. There were more issues. He could see them in her eyes, as she battled her tears. He placed his hands around his cup and held on to that warmth instead. He had issues, too.

  She bit down on her bottom lip as though it could stop the tears, keep her in control. Cool, sophisticated Tricia, he thought. She didn't like to cry.

  "If you loved me, Jesse, why didn't you come back before now?" Her voice broke a little. "I asked you to come back for me. And you promised you would."

  He gripped the cup, white-knuckled it. She'd just raised some of his issues, twisted them into hers. "You asked me to come back to prove my worth to your father. That's not the same thing as coming back for you."

  She glanced up at the ceiling. "Your worth?" She brought her gaze back down, blinked. "What does that mean? I wanted you to prove to my father that you loved me. Show him that what we'd had was real, that it was the kind of love that would withstand the test of time." She exhaled a ragged breath. "I argued with Dad over it. I insisted he was wrong about you, that you weren't just using me for sex. And I made him promise that when you came back for me—" she paused for another shaky breath "—he'd have to make things right somehow."

  Make things right. Jesse pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He needed to move, pace, release his own pent-up breath. "I thought it was about power and money. I'd go to college and come back a better man. Educated, but not too independent. The kind of man your dad could order around. The puppet son-in-law. I honestly thought that's what you wanted."

  He stopped pacing and caught her wounded look. "What was I supposed to think? You refused to move in with me. You told me that we didn't have enough money to make it on our own." She'd hurt his pride, his stupid male pride. "You were rich and beautiful, with a flashy convertible and fancy clothes. I figured you weren't willing to give all that up."

  "I was in love with you," she said softly. "More than life itself."

  Jesse walked over to her and knelt at her feet, his emotions riding his body like a roller coaster. "Then why didn't you tell me about Dillon? Why did you send me away knowing you were carrying my child?"

  * * *

  Tricia touched Jesse's face. Would he understand her decision to keep Dillon a secret? Could she make him understand? "I didn't tell my father about the baby, either. Not at first. On the day that I discovered I was pregnant, I told him about your scholarship instead." She had taken a home-pregnancy test in the morning, then spoken to her father just hours later, certain everything would be all right. "I thought that if my dad knew about your scholarship, he'd see you in a different light. I wanted so badly for him to accept you. Even more so since I was pregnant."

  She lowered her hand to Jesse's shoulder and clutched his shirt. The devastation from her father's reaction had changed her life, altered her decision. "I had intended to tell you about the baby, but when my dad threatened to have your scholarship taken away, I knew I couldn't."

  "But why?" Jesse placed his palm against her stomach, as though reliving that awful day, changing it in his mind. "I would have married you, Tricia. You knew how much I wanted a family."

  "And my father would have destroyed your scholarship, your future, what you'd worked so hard for. I couldn't live with that on my conscience."

  "But you could live with me not knowing about my son?" She covered his hand with hers, held it tight against her tummy. "I lived with it because I felt I had to. But a day didn't go by that I didn't hurt over my decision."

  "You could have contacted me at school, Tricia. You knew where I was."

  She had thought about it, so many times. She had considered doing just that. "Even after Dillon was born, my father's opinion of you didn't change. So I knew that if I contacted you, he'd make good on that threat, and you'd lose your scholarship." Surviving the degree of her father's hatred toward Jesse hadn't been easy. In the beginning, he'd seemed obsessive, beyond protective. "I was so certain you'd come back for me." And then her father would have been proved wrong. "I was so young, so inexperienced in life." Sheltered by an overpowering parent. "In my mind everything would be all right once you came back."

  Jesse met her gaze, his eyes suddenly clouded with dismay. "You asked me to return after college. You knew how long it would take for me to become a vet. Are you saying that you waited for me all those years?"

  She nodded. "In my heart, you were my husband. The man who gave me a son, my soul mate, the person I was destined to spend the rest of my life with." She caught her breath as the pain of all those years welled up inside of her. "I was faithful, Jesse. You're still the only man I've ever made love with."

  "Oh, my God, Tricia." He dropped his head onto her lap. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

  She stroked his hair, gave comfort even though his response made her ache. He was apologizing for his sudden guilt, for having been with other women while she'd remained faithful. "You promised you'd come back for me," she said finally, her voice broken. "You promised."

  He lifted his head, skimmed her cheek with his fingertips a painful, familiar touch. "I didn't. Not in the way you thought. I never said that I was coming back for us to make a life together, not after you refused to move in with me. You misunderstood. We both did."

  A misunderstanding. Could it be that simple? That horribly simple. "I made promises to Dillon based on what I believed. He waited for you, too. We included you in our prayers every night." Patricia willed the tears burning her eyes not to fall. Crying would only shatter what was left of her emotional stability. "But eventually we both gave up. Too much time had passed." Too much heartache, she thought. But now she understood why Jesse had stayed away for so long. He had felt as if she had made her choice by refusing to share a life with him then—a decision she had to live with now.

  "Will we ever be able to get past this?" he asked. "Be the kind of friends Dillon wants us to be?"

  "I hope so."

  "I'd like to try."

  Patricia's heart clenched. He meant it this time, truly meant it. She could see the sorrow in his expression. "We can't change what we've been through."

  He remained at her feet, on his knees as though pleading for forgiveness. "No, we can't. But we can start over. Are you willing to be my friend, Tricia?"

  She nodded. "I think I'd like to get to know you. Not who you were, but who you are now." She didn't want to recapture their youth. She couldn't bear reliving all that pain, all those memories.

  "I'd like to get to know you, too." He stood, then stepped back a bit awkwardly as though unsure of what to do next. He looked manly yet boyish, almost shy. "I think our tea's cold," he said, glancing at the table.

  "That's all right." Because her heart was warm, she realized. Still a little sad, but warn. She smiled and got to her feet. "Can I have a hug, Jesse?"

  His answer came in the form of a gentle embrace, a sweet rocking motion that sent those dreaded tears down her cheeks. She let them fall, let them soak his shoulder like a cleansing rain.

  She had never cried in his arms, never experienced the comfort
that came with being coddled, thoroughly comforted by a man. He was whispering, words she didn't recognize, Creek words, guttural but soft. They rose like a song, then drifted over her like a native balm, an ancient healing.

  "Jesse." She lifted her head and kissed him, tasted him, ran her hands over his face, his hair.

  Their tongues met and then mated. But not in lust, she thought. The feeling, the warm, moist sensation was something more. Something she couldn't name. "It can't be love," she whispered. "Not anymore."

  "It's need," Jesse told her simply.

  "Yes, need." A condition requiring relief, substance. She reached for the buttons on his shirt, undid them one by one. She needed to feel his heartbeat beneath her fingers, the heat of his skin, strength of his muscles. "Your bed," she told him. She wanted him there, on the pine bed he had crafted. She wanted him to caress her body the way he'd stroked the wood, shaped it with his hands.

  He nuzzled her neck, buried his face in her hair. "No regrets, Tricia. We take what we need with no regrets."

  "No, not take. Give," she said, as he swept her up and carried her to his room. "New friends giving." Everything but their hearts, she thought. They would protect their hearts.

  He placed her on the bed and covered her with his body. His chest was bare, his pants unfastened. He looked sexy, tousled and hungry, a man she was anxious to know.

  Feel.

  She slipped her hand into his jeans, smiled as he grew harder. Hungrier. He shifted his hips, rocked against her touch. A sense of newness washed over her, a sense of discovery. He kicked off his boots and tumbled her across the bed, undressing her as she freed his erection. Her blouse fell to the floor, her bra flew across the room. He tugged her skirt down, groaned in masculine appreciation when he unveiled her nylons, the thigh-high stockings she often wore.

  Rather than remove them, he stroked the length of her legs, thigh to ankle, kissing as he went. "I've had fantasies about you," he said, pulling her panties down and plunging a finger deep inside her. "Fantasies just like this."