Jesse Hawk: Brave Father. Sheri WhiteFeather

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СКАЧАТЬ she said impatiently. “You’re not listening. I asked you a question.”

      He swallowed. “What? I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

      She held out a square object. “Do you want to see a picture of Dillon?”

      Immediately his heartbeat doubled. “Oh, God, yes.” Their son. The child they had created.

      He strode toward her and took the framed photograph from her hands.

      “It’s fairly recent,” she told him. “Last year’s school picture. He’ll be in sixth grade next semester.”

      Jesse traced the boy’s face—a face, he noticed, that looked remarkably like his own. Younger, softer, but his just the same: deep-set eyes, high, slanted cheekbones, a jaw that would grow more square with age. And there was Tricia in him, too: the regal tilt of his head, silky hair a rich shade of brown, nostrils that flared with a smile.

      “He’s perfect,” Jesse said. “He’s us, both of us.”

      She nodded, her eyes a bit glazed. Watery. A mother’s pride, Jesse assumed, pleased by Tricia’s outward emotion for their child.

      “Come on. I’ll show you Dillon’s room. I’m sure he won’t mind. He keeps it spotless.” She smiled and blinked away the glaze. “Unlike me. If I didn’t have a housekeeper, my room would be a disaster.”

      “Yeah. You always were a little messy.” Just enough to mar that charm-school image, he thought. He used to like how she’d leave her sweater on a chair or kick her shoes into a corner.

      “And your son is just like you,” she said, as he followed her down the hall. “Everything in its place.”

      “Oh, yeah? You should have seen my kitchen today. It…” They stepped into Dillon’s room and Jesse forgot his last thought, letting his words drift.

      The first thing he noticed were the models—airplanes, cars, ships—each one displayed on a wooden shelf and angled just so. A desk, a computer, a small television and a stereo system dominated one side of the spacious room, a bed and oak dresser the other. The double bed was framed with a sturdy headboard and covered with a quilt reminiscent of an Indian blanket. Jesse touched the colorful fabric, suddenly feeling closer to the child he’d yet to meet.

      “He picked out that bedspread,” Tricia said. “And all the oak furniture, too.”

      Jesse reached under his shirt and removed his medicine bag. “I want Dillon to have this.” He slipped the worn leather pouch over a post on his son’s headboard.

      Tricia moved closer. “But that’s your protection.”

      “And now it will be his.” A person rarely offered his personal medicine to another, but Jesse wanted to give his son a spiritual piece of himself. “He doesn’t have to wear it if he doesn’t want to.” Just knowing the bag and its contents would be in the child’s room were enough. Modern-day spirit bags were often kept in homes, cars, purses, backpacks. “And tell him it’s okay to touch the objects inside and add his own special items. He can even remove things if he wants to.” He ran his fingers over the leather. Jesse had made the bag when he was about Dillon’s age; stitched the buckskin and cut the fringe.

      “Are you going to start another bag for yourself?” Tricia asked, as though tuned in to his thoughts.

      “I don’t think so.” An inner awareness told him that that pouch had the power to benefit him still; protect him and his son.

      “Thank you,” she whispered. “For giving Dillon such a special gift.”

      Jesse released the leather and watched the fringe dance. He looked up at Tricia. She stood silent, her gaze following his every move. He glanced away. The moment felt too intimate, he realized. Much too tender between him and the woman who had broken his heart. Jesse squared his shoulders. He would keep his vow to befriend Tricia, but nothing more.

      “We should leave for the restaurant,” he said in a polite yet unemotional tone.

      She turned away, her voice equally detached. “I’ll get my jacket.”

      The Captain’s Inn sat on a hilltop, presenting a view of Marlow County. Jesse had never eaten there before, but knew Tricia was accustomed to its fine linen tablecloths and nautical decor. She nibbled on a hearts-of-romaine salad while he spooned into a bowl of clam chowder.

      Jesse preferred casual dining, since things like choosing the correct fork to use still managed to elude him. But proper fork or not, lobster tail, he remembered, was one of Tricia’s favorite meals, and The Captain’s Inn was the only restaurant in Marlow County that served lobster. A sense of masculine satisfaction washed over him. This time around, he could afford to take Tricia out for a pricey dinner that included a bottle of good wine. Jesse couldn’t tell by the taste, but since the waiter had suggested it, he assumed the chardonnay was a decent vintage.

      “Does Dillon like school?” he asked. So far they’d kept the conversation centered on their son.

      She tilted her head as though mentally forming an answer. “He does now. But he didn’t always.” She raised the napkin from her lap and dabbed her lips. “By the second grade, Dillon wasn’t keeping up with his peers anymore. He could barely read.”

      A knot of guilt formed in Jesse’s chest. “Is he like me? Did he inherit my—”

      Tricia interrupted gently. “Learning disabilities aren’t always hereditary, but yes, Dillon has been diagnosed as dyslexic.”

      Jesse pushed his soup away. He knew how painful elementary school could be for a child who couldn’t read. For a while Jesse had slipped through the cracks, pouring all of his youthful energy into finding ways to hide his disability. And being a foster child who’d gone from home to home and school to school, he’d played the game well. But anonymity hadn’t lasted forever. Eventually the other students poked fun and called him “dumb,” while teachers began complaining to his foster parents that he wasn’t trying hard enough. By the time he’d been diagnosed with dyslexia, he was a quiet, somewhat brooding loner.

      “So how did you handle it with Dillon?” Jesse asked, still feeling responsible for his child’s disability. Why, damn it, did that gene have to surface?

      “At first I looked into enrolling him in a special school,” Tricia responded. “There are a few private schools that specialize in educating dyslexic children. None are particularly close by, but I was willing to commute.” She sipped her water and continued, “But I ended up hiring tutors instead. Dillon wanted to go to school with his friends, with the kids he’d known since kindergarten.”

      For once Jesse was grateful for Tricia’s money. Hiring tutors was a luxury most families couldn’t afford, and he was certain Tricia had found the most qualified educators available. “So he’s doing okay now?”

      “Much better.” She smiled. “And Dillon and I are both involved in a nonprofit organization that educates parents and schools about learning disabilities. We’ve organized quite a few fund-raisers.” Her smile faded. “I remember how difficult it was for you, Jesse. I never forgot the things you told me.”

      He wanted to change the subject, but knew that would seem disrespectful to Dillon—the child burdened with his father’s СКАЧАТЬ