JESSE HAWK: BRAVE FATHER Page 16

  Patricia gazed at the lady in the photograph, at her pretty smile and bright-blue eyes. No, she thought, Fiona wouldn't forget someone like this, wouldn't mix her up with someone else. This Rebecca was too beautiful, too unique to fade from someone's mind.

  "Oh, Jesse." She brought her hand to her mouth. Her father wouldn't have forgotten Rebecca, either. "My dad is at the office. I'll go back and talk to him. Ask him what you deserve to know." What they both had the right to know, she decided, fearful of the heartache Raymond Boyd's secret might reveal.

  "Your dad threw it away," Jesse said, his voice hard. "Tossed it out like it was trash. If it wasn't for Dillon, my mother's picture would have burned at the city dump years ago."

  "I'm sorry." Truly sorry for the actions of a father she couldn't begin to understand. Why would her dad pose for a picture, then dispose of it decades later?

  She met Jesse's gaze and noticed how tired he looked, dark shadows revealing a long, sleepless night. "Go home and wait for me. Maybe close your eyes for a few minutes."

  He shook his head. "I couldn't rest even if I wanted to. I've got appointments at the clinic."

  "Fiona can cancel them," she suggested. "Say it was an emergency."

  He released a heavy breath. "I'd prefer to keep busy. And besides, those animals need me."

  And he needed them, she thought. Healing God's creatures made him feel whole, gave him a sense of purpose in this world. Patricia knew that part of Jesse's heart would always belong to his work, and she loved him for it. Loved him more with each passing day.

  She swallowed around the lump in her throat. "I'll come by the clinic just as soon as I talk to my dad. I'll find out what this picture means, Jesse. I promise I will."

  He nodded and rose to his feet, his coffee still untouched. He looked wounded, she thought, trapped between pain and anger—someone on the brink of destruction. She could tell that his mother's smile confused him, maybe even made him hurt inside. Patricia lifted the photograph. Her father, it seemed, was the recipient of that gentle smile. Her father, the one man Jesse Hawk despised.

  * * *

  Patricia entered her dad's office, the photograph in question tucked safely into her handbag. His office was similar to her own: lush carpeting, a slick black desk, contemporary chairs, a fully stocked bar. The modern artwork decorating the walls matched the decor, but the man behind the desk, the father she suddenly didn't know, wore a traditional gray suit and an understated tie.

  "Are you on your way out?" he asked, taking in her appearance, her stiff posture and the handbag she clutched. "Did something go wrong after the meeting?"

  Yes, she thought, something went dreadfully wrong. "I've already been out, but it didn't have anything to do with the Whitman deal."

  Patricia stepped closer to his desk and sat when he motioned for her to do so. Smoothing her skirt, she took several deliberate breaths—inhale, exhale—a practiced relaxation method, slow and easy.

  "There's something I need to discuss with you, Dad. It's highly personal and I'd appreciate it if we weren't disturbed." She had decided to handle this like a business meeting, hoping to keep her emotions under control.

  He buzzed his secretary and told the woman to hold his calls. Afterward he sat forward in his chair, silent, giving Patricia the floor.

  She reached into her purse and handed him the photograph, willing her hand to remain steady, her voice level. "I want to know about the lady in this picture."

  Within a heartbeat, his expression went from shock to anger, then remained there, his lips drawn into a thin line, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Where did you get this?"

  She sat a little straighter. "Answer my question first." He met her gaze, and she felt their defiant wills clash, collide as they so often did.

  "Her name was Rebecca."

  "I'm aware of her name." Patricia took the photograph back. "It's written on the back. You know very well that I'm asking for more than that. I'm giving you the opportunity to defend yourself. Explain your side of the story."

  "My relationship with her does not warrant a defense, young lady."

  Patricia's pulse quickened. "How can you say that? She was Jesse's mother. His mother, Dad."

  Raymond's eyes hardened. "She wasn't his mother when I knew her. Now where in the hell did you get that picture?"

  "Your grandson gave it to Jesse. It seems you tossed it out years ago, along with some snapshots of your horses. Dillon fished them out of the trash, then hid them in his room for safekeeping."

  "Oh, Lord." He reached for his tie, tugged at it. "I didn't realize. Did Dillon ask who Rebecca was?"

  "No." Patricia shook her head, grateful her father's tone had softened. "He was more concerned about the horses. I guess he just assumed she was an old friend."

  Raymond continued to loosen his tie. Clearly he needed to breathe. "Rebecca was a waitress at the country club bistro," he said quietly. "And I fell madly in love with her."

  Pain filled her father's eyes, an ache Patricia recognized all too well. The hurt that came with losing a loved one, she thought. The loneliness that followed.

  "This was before you met my mother?"

  "Yes, a long time before."

  "Was Rebecca your lover?" she asked, believing Jesse had the right to know.

  He shook his head. "Premarital sex wasn't as common then as it is today. And Rebecca was an old-fashioned girl, waiting for her wedding night, I suppose." He smoothed his sideburns and glanced away. "I wanted to marry her, but I didn't get the chance to propose."

  "Why? What happened, Dad?"

  "Michael Hawk took her away from me."

  Michael Hawk. Jesse's father.

  Patricia gripped her chair, despair clouding her vision. "Oh, Dad, no." Her father had taken his revenge out on Jesse. Punished him for being Michael Hawk's son. "How could you do that to Jesse? And to me?"

  "Because you're too good for him, Patricia. He used you. And he's still using you. You're just too naive to see it. Too trusting."

  "I love him," she shot back. "And he loves me."

  "Does he?" Raymond leaned forward. "Are you certain of that? Has he asked you to be part of his life? Marry him? Share his future? Legitimize Dillon's birth?"

  No, her mind said. Jesse had done none of those things. "I'm not naive, Dad. I know he loves me." He just hadn't said it yet.

  Weary, she slipped the photograph back into her purse. She couldn't cope with the anger anymore, the resentment and bitterness. And she knew she'd never have a future with Jesse until her father's part in their past was resolved. She stood, ordering her legs to hold her.

  "You owe Jesse an apology. What you did to him was despicable."

  Raymond laughed sardonically. "You expect me to apologize to Hawk? For destroying you? For making promises he didn't keep? I can't do that. I won't."

  "My heart's recovered," she said, knowing her statement lacked conviction. Her heart still waited for Jesse to bare his.

  She turned away from her father so he wouldn't see the truth, the tiny fear that maybe she was wrong. Had Jesse fallen back in love with her? Or was it only hope on her part? Desperation?

  She walked to the door, but before she could open it, her dad spoke, catching her attention.

  "I know what love is, young lady. Rebecca was my world."

  She turned. "Then why did you throw away her picture?"

  "Because I was afraid Dillon would ask me about her, who she was and what she meant to me." He rose from his desk. "I have more photographs. They're at home, in my safe."

  Understanding, she nodded. Her father couldn't bring himself to let Rebecca go, not completely. A part of him still loved her. Loved her the way Patricia loved Jesse. What a mess, she thought. What a horrible, soul-shattering mess.

  * * *

  Jesse sat in the break room at the clinic, scrubbing his hands across his jaw. A life-altering morning had turned into a humid, motionless afternoon. Energy-sapping weather, he thought, for an already tiring d
ay.

  He looked up to see Fiona enter the room, her signature hair teased into its dated bouffant, a big purple bow attached. Despite his emotional exhaustion, Jesse couldn't help but smile. His first patient of the day, a sweet but excitable poodle named Pudding, had bonded instantly with Fiona, straining its leash to reach her. And since Pudding had sported a similar hair bow, he assumed the pampered little poodle had viewed Fiona as a kindred spirit.

  "Patricia just called from her car," the older lady said. "She's on her way."

  His nerves leaped to attention, righting his posture. "Thanks. Point her in this direction when she gets here."

  Fiona placed her hands on her hips in a strong female stance. "You should eat something. It is, after all, your lunch hour."

  Jesse decided not to argue the fact that he wasn't hungry. Fiona would only hover nearby—a self-appointed grandmother in a purple jumpsuit ready to spoon-feed nourishment into him if necessary.

  "There's some yogurt in the fridge," he said. "Is that sufficient?"

  "It'll do." She marched over to the refrigerator, removed the carton and handed it to him along with a plastic utensil and a napkin.

  He lifted the top and took a bite, realizing he hadn't eaten since the day before. The yogurt adhered to his stomach like strawberry glue. He spooned in another mouthful and swallowed. "I guess I needed this."

  "You need some sleep, too," she commented, studying the shadows beneath his eyes.

  Sleep, he thought, produced dreams—nightmares. And his subconscious was primed, ready to distort that photograph of his mother and Raymond Boyd. His mother with Tricia's father—the image made him sick.

  Fiona came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Everything's going to be okay, Jesse."

  He didn't think so, but he appreciated her attempt to comfort him. He feared the truth, the devastation Tricia's talk with her father might bring. Had his mother cared about Raymond Boyd? Had there been a relationship? A love affair? Had Boyd used her in some way? Flaunted his money to take advantage of an innocent young woman?

  "Jesse? Fiona? Am I interrupting?"

  He glanced up from the yogurt container he'd been staring at. Tricia stood in the doorway, looking delicate and tired. Fragile, he thought, like an angel who'd lost her wings. The weather had wilted her blouse, the white silk clinging helplessly to her skin.

  "There was no one at the front desk, so I hope you don't mind that I—"

  "Of course, we don't," Fiona answered readily. "You're welcome anywhere in this clinic." She gave Jesse's shoulders one last squeeze. "He's been waiting for you."

  The older woman exited the room quietly, leaving Jesse and Tricia alone.

  She sat across from him. "How are you holding up?"

  He shrugged. "I've had a busy morning." He turned and looked out the window, wishing for a breeze. Suddenly he needed air, the kind that rustled leaves on the trees and tousled a person's hair. The man-made gust from the air-conditioning unit wasn't the same. He turned back and searched Tricia's gaze. "So what happened?"

  "My dad opened up the best he could, I suppose." She unzipped her purse, removed the picture and placed it gently on the table. "Apparently he knew your mother well."

  A knot formed in his gut. "How well?"

  Tricia touched a corner of the photograph. "They weren't sleeping together, but he wanted to marry her." She expelled a heavy breath. "He said that he was in love with her, that Rebecca was his world."

  Rage, confusion, disbelief, disdain.

  Conflicting emotions warred within him. He didn't know what to do, what to say. The relief that came with knowing that Boyd hadn't been his mother's lover didn't loosen the knot in his gut. "Your dad's lying. He didn't love her." Boyd couldn't have, he thought. Love was too sacred, too pure to be tainted by Tricia's father.

  Her response slipped out in a broken whisper, a sound as frail as a baby bird falling from its nest. "He wasn't lying. I could see it in his eyes."

  In the stillness that followed, the walls closed in. Jesse jumped to his feet and backed himself against the window, attempting to escape her words. It wasn't fair, he thought, that Boyd had known his mother well enough to love her.

  "I don't remember her," he said, his chest constricting. Not one gentle memory or comforting image. He had nothing but a photograph of his mother being held by a man he despised.

  "I know. I'm sorry." Tricia stayed where she was, although he could tell she wanted to reach out, hold him, protect him from the pain. Why didn't she? he wondered.

  "There's more you haven't told me, isn't there?" Something that shamed her, Jesse decided. Something keeping her at bay.

  She nodded. "My dad blamed Michael Hawk for taking Rebecca away from him. I think maybe our fathers were rivals. Or at least were in love with the same woman at the same time."

  Jesse stepped forward, an immediate burst of fury racing through his blood. "Oh, God, that's it. The reason he tore us apart. Your dad hated me because he hated my father." He pounded his fist on the table, sending the yogurt spilling to the floor. "We didn't stand a chance, Tricia. He destroyed us because my father married the woman he wanted."

  She picked up the photograph and brought it to her chest, protecting it from his wrath. "I know. I'm so sorry. I told him that what he did to you was despicable, that he owed you an apology, but he—"

  Jesse stared at her in disbelief. Did she actually think he would accept an apology even if Boyd was willing to offer one? The storm brewing in his heart left no room for forgiveness. None whatsoever.

  "I need some air." He turned and headed for the back door, his pulse pounding furiously in his head.

  Once outside, the sweltering humidity hit him like a fist, a stifling, suffocating punch. There was no relief, he thought. No solace anywhere. Jesse sank to the ground beneath a gnarled old tree. Even Mother Earth had abandoned him.

  * * *

  Patricia covered her face, then burst into tears. Hatred could mutilate a person's soul, rip it to shreds. She had refused to let it happen to her, although she had been close many times. Loving Jesse, then almost hating him. Loving her father, then wondering this morning if he had ice running through his veins. What sort of man would threaten to destroy an eighteen-year-old boy's academic future? Then keep that grudge alive for twelve years?

  One hell-bent on despising the boy—the man—who looked too much like Michael Hawk, her mind answered. Her father had crossed that fragile line between love and hate. He had loved Rebecca, yet he couldn't find it in his heart to embrace her orphaned son.

  Michael's orphaned son.

  Patricia wiped her eyes. "This has to stop," she said out loud. Raymond Boyd and Jesse Hawk were not going to live out the rest of their lives consumed with hatred. She was going to save them, no matter what the emotional cost.

  When Patricia spotted Jesse beneath the tree, her courage almost faltered. He looked like a stranger, withdrawn and unapproachable, his eyes dark and cold. A contradiction to the sun's glaring rays, she thought, a defiance to the elements.

  She took a direct path toward him, her chin held high, her heart hammering with anxiety. What if he turned away from her, refused to accept the love she'd come to offer?

  She stopped in front of him, the fear of losing him more unbearable than the heat. A thin line of perspiration trailed between her breasts.

  He gazed up at her from the dusty patch of earth he'd claimed beneath the tree. "You're not dressed for the farm, Tricia. You should go back to your office."

  "Don't do this, Jesse."

  "Don't do what?" He rose to his feet, but didn't dust his jeans. "Blame you for taking your dad's side again?" He pulled his hand through his hair. "Do you honestly think an apology is going to make what he did to me go away? I wouldn't accept one if he got down on his hands and knees and begged for my forgiveness." A sarcastic laugh barked from his chest. "Of course we both know that's not going to happen, don't we? Your dad isn't the least bit sorry."

  A
nother line of perspiration rolled down her chest. She felt hot and sticky and so very alone. "My father's hurting, Jesse, just like you are. But you're right, he's not going to approach you and apologize. He's been carrying this bitterness around for so long, he doesn't know how to let it go."

  Jesse leaned against the tree, his stance cocky and defiant. A rebellious pose, she thought, like an eighteen-year-old mad at the world. Which, deep down, he probably still was. That boy her father had shunned remained inside him, a boy still struggling for acceptance.

  "Do you think I give a damn how your dad feels?" he asked.

  "You should," she answered sternly, battling her decision to enforce tough love. A part of her wanted to wrap Jesse in her arms and tell him whatever he wanted to hear. But she couldn't, because what he wanted to hear wasn't right. Wallowing in hatred would only destroy the good in him, the Godliness. "My father loved your mother. That should matter to you."

  Before he could answer, she reached out and stroked his cheek, buckling from the urge to touch. Comfort. "You should go to him, Jesse, and ask him about your mother. He only threw that photo away because he was afraid of facing the truth in front of Dillon. He has more pictures of her. They're in his safe." A sign, she thought, that her father still needed Rebecca to be a part of his life. Something Jesse needed, too.

  He jerked, flinching from her words. "You expect me to make amends with your dad? Go to him like some street urchin, begging for tidbits about my mother? I can't do that. I won't."

  I can't do that. I won't. Her father had said the same thing when she'd asked the older man to apologize to Jesse. How alike they were. How stubborn and pained.

  She grabbed hold of his hand and held tight when he attempted to pull free. "I love you, Jesse Hawk," she said, her voice quaking. "I've fallen back in love with you. I don't know exactly when it happened, I just know that it did."

  Time stood still. Nothing moved. His hand froze in hers, lifeless and still, like his features. Like the fear stealing her breath.

  Say it, her heart begged. Say you'll go to my father and prove to him that you love me, too. Prove, once and for all, that true love can abolish hatred.