Jesse Hawk: Brave Father. Sheri WhiteFeather

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СКАЧАТЬ room and entered her own, a bedroom that was neither frilly nor bland. Antique wood furnishings, accented with winter-white and splashes of royal-blue, complemented the stained-glass windows. Every morning the sun reflected prisms of light across the bed.

      She walked to the mirror and lingered over her reflection. She had chosen a straight white skirt, a pale-peach blouse and low heels—casual designer wear on a not-so-casual day.

      Would Jesse recognize her right away? Or would he look twice to be sure? Her body was still slim, but her hips flared a bit more—a testimony to maturity and motherhood. Her hair hadn’t changed much, she decided, aside from a slightly shorter cut and subtle caramel highlights framing her face.

      Her face. She touched her skin, remembering how Jesse marveled at what he called its “flawless texture.” Would he find flaws now? The skin of a thirty-year-old?

      What in God’s name was she going to say to him? I was pregnant when you left. I waited year after lonely year for you to come back. You were supposed to prove to my disbelieving father that you really loved me.

      “Mom?”

      She turned to the sound of her son’s voice, her heart leaping to her throat. “You’re finished already?”

      “Yep.” He stood grinning at her, his damp hair slicked back with gel, his baggy khakis sporting a trendy label. “Ten minutes flat.”

      How could she forget Jesse’s face when she saw a youthful replica of it every day? Dillon’s straight white smile enhanced ethnic cheekbones, a stubborn jaw and sun-burnished skin. But it was his eyes, Patricia thought, that were the true gift from his father’s mixed-blood heritage. Light-gray or a pale shade of blue, depending on the child’s mood.

      “I’m ready, too,” she said, wondering if she’d ever be ready to face Jesse Hawk again.

      The old Garrett farm came into view nearly thirty-five minutes later. It held an address in Hatcher, although the acreage spanned into Arrow Hill. How fitting, Patricia thought, that Jesse would choose a home located on the dividing line between dusty country living and opulent wealth.

      Opulent wealth? Good Lord, her father was the most successful man in the county. He owned real estate—houses, apartment buildings, neighborhood shopping centers.

      As Patricia steered her Mercedes down the graveled drive, she took note of the house and its condition. Habit, she decided, and a means to keep her mind on something other than her fluttering stomach. Although the wood structure had been neglected for some time, the splendor of the primitive architecture shone through. The house resembled a homesteader’s cabin, small and rustic, and currently, it appeared, under renovation. She parked where the driveway forked, the other path leading to a newly constructed building behind the house, not nearly as rustic, but still charming.

      She stepped onto the porch, fighting the urge to flee. Sooner or later she and Jesse would cross paths. It wouldn’t be long before people realized her son and the new resident in town shared the same last name. And then there were those who knew the truth. Wasn’t that how she’d learned he was back? A discreet female colleague had quietly mentioned that a man named Hawk was restoring the old Garrett place.

      When she knocked on the door, the sound of barking dogs followed. She waited, waited some more, then headed toward her car. If Jesse was home, surely he would have responded to the yapping hounds.

      “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here,” a deep voice said behind her. “I was working on the kennel out back. I’ve got a house full of strays.” He chuckled. “But then I always do.”

      Patricia exhaled a shaky breath. She turned to see a tall, dark-skinned man squinting in the sun, his hand shielding his eyes, a dog—a sturdy rottweiler—at his side. When he moved closer and lowered his arm, her knees nearly gave way.

      Jesse, in faded jeans and black construction-style boots, his bare chest a hard mass of sinew and muscle. The lean eighteen-year-old was gone. In his place stood a stranger.

      “Oh, God,” he said, and stopped dead in his tracks. “Tricia.”

      The nickname flowed through her like wine—a long-forgotten vintage. Sweet yet bitter. No one had ever called her Tricia but him. She lifted her chin, strode toward him, and extended her hand in a businesslike gesture. “It’s nice to see you, Jesse.”

      Clearly caught off guard, he placed his hand in hers. “I hadn’t expected you to come around here.”

      The handshake made them both uneasy, so she ended it quickly, choosing to adjust her purse strap instead. “Why not?”

      “Just didn’t.”

      “You could invite me in.” After all, damn you, I am the mother of your child. The innocent who waited for you all those years, believing like a fool, that you’d come back for me. Waited until hope turned to despair.

      He slid his gaze over her in one slow sweep, reminding her of the day they had met. Only this time, there was no glimmer in his eye, no young, flirtatious smile. “The other dogs will just jump all over you.”

      “I like animals.” She glanced at the loyal rottweiler beside him. It made no move toward her. It was an attractive dog, fit and muscular, its black coat gleaming in the sun. Jesse, too, had a gleaming mass of ebony hair. He still wore it long and flowing across his shoulders, but neatly trimmed sideburns added an air of maturity.

      “What are you doing here, Tricia?”

      “I thought it would be awkward if we ran into each other in town.” She shifted her feet, stirring the gravel below. “I was hoping we could talk. Catch up a little.” She needed to know what sort of man Dillon’s father had become. Eventually she’d have to introduce them. Marlow County was too small for secrets.

      Although Jesse frowned, he accommodated her. “We could sit on the porch a spell, I suppose.” As he turned in the direction of the house, so did the dog. “Do you want a cold soda? I’ve got a cooler out back.”

      “No, thank you. I’m fine.” She followed him up the stairs and sat beside him in a twig-style chair.

      The rottweiler curled up at Jesse’s feet, clearly content to be near its master. “What’s his name?” she asked, assuming the massively built canine was a male.

      “Cochise.”

      “That fits him. A warrior’s name.”

      “In a sense, he is a warrior,” Jesse said. “He’s trained to know the difference between friend and foe. And he’s been socialized since he was a pup.”

      Naturally, Jesse was a responsible pet owner. He wouldn’t own a dog as powerful as a rottweiler without having it professionally trained. As for the strays he claimed to have, they made sense, too. Tricia remembered how he used to bring abandoned kittens into his apartment and feed them, even though he could barely afford food for himself.

      “Are all the dogs inside the house strays?”

      “Yeah.” He tapped the windowpane and grinned. A curious mutt had its nose pressed against the glass. “I picked them up at the Humane Society just this week. I was in the process of building another kennel when you arrived.”

      He turned toward Patricia. СКАЧАТЬ