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Chapter 1

Patricia Boyd loved him, more than life itself. She sat on the edge of his bed and brushed her fingers across his forehead, sweeping strands of dark brown hair away from his face. Eleven-year-old Dillon Hawk. Her son. Her heart and soul.

The morning sun shimmered through the blinds, illuminating the boy's room with slats of light. Patricia smiled. Dillon kept his room tidy. Each carefully constructed model car, battleship and airplane had its place, as did a favored pair of inline skates.

"Hey, Mom." He grinned sleepily. "Are you leaving for work?"

"No. Today's Sunday."

"Oh, yeah," he said, pulling himself up against the oak headboard. "Breakfast at Grandpa's."

Sunday breakfast was a family tradition in the Boyd household. Omelets, hash browns and fresh-squeezed orange juice. "I have something else to do this morning, but Grandpa will fix your eggs."

"Cool. He always makes those spicy Spanish kind." Dillon pushed the covers away. "Where are you going today, Mom?"

To see your father, she thought nervously. Jesse was back, twelve years later. He'd bought the old Garrett farm, a piece of property between Arrow Hill and Hatcher. Of course, Jesse wasn't expecting her. He hadn't made an attempt to contact the woman he'd shunned.

"I'm going to visit an old friend," Patricia told her son. My first love. The man who gave me you. "I'll drop you off, then stop by Grandpa's later."

"Okay, but we might be at the hobby store by then."

Another family tradition, Patricia thought. Raymond Boyd purchased his grandson a new model every Sunday. He spoiled the boy, but then Dillon was easy to shower with affection and expensive gifts. Her son appreciated every heartfelt hug as much as every toy he'd ever received.

She kissed his forehead. "Wash up and get dressed."

"I'll hurry."

Twelve years had passed. Thirty more minutes wouldn't make a difference. If anything, it would give her a chance to check her appearance again, maybe sip a cup of herb tea. Anything to calm her nerves. "That's all right. There's no need to rush."

Patricia left his 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.MarlowCountywas 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. She gripped the chair and steadied her breath. Dillon had flashed the same handsome smile earlier that morning. As their gazes met and held, Jesse's grin faded.

His eyes were guarded, she noticed, but still breathtaking. Most people would call them gray, yet Patricia knew they turned silver when he made love, glittered sensuously when he lowered his head to kiss a woman—touched his tongue to hers—filtered his fingers through her hair.

How many women had there been? she wondered. How many had watched those eyes change color, enjoyed that staggering touch?

Patricia smoothed her skirt. Jesse Hawk should have been hers. He should have come back, kept his promise. On the night he'd taken her virginity, he'd pledged his love forever. They had snuggled in each other's arms, tasted each other's skin, made secret vows. Young, romantic vows. And she'd kept hers, kept them locked in her heart until she'd cried herself to sleep at night. No, she hadn't agreed to move in with him when he'd asked, but she'd had her reasons—good reasons. The young man she'd loved needed a fair chance to pursue his career, and the baby in her womb needed some sort of financial stability. So she'd sent Jesse away, believing he'd return for her.

I'll never forgive you, she wanted to say. But Dillon has the right to meet you. She had told her son about his father, promising Jesse would be back someday. They just had to be patient and let him finish college.

"I'd heard this place sold a few months ago," she said, unaware then that Jesse had been the buyer. The property had been purchased under a corporate name.

"I've been coming back and forth from my rental inTulsa, spending weekends out here, trying to get the renovations done. I hired a crew to build the clinic, but I'm doing most of the work on the house myself."

Immediately she thought about Dillon's interest in architecture. "I didn't know you had experience in carpentry."

He shrugged. "I did a little construction work during college. It put foodonthe table, paid the rent."

Patricia wanted to ask him about his education, if his studies had been difficult. She knew dyslexia made reading a struggle. Her son suffered from the same confusing disability. But asking Jesse about college would probably rehash their past and the part her father had played in it—a moot point after all these years. "So I can assume the building out back is a veterinary clinic."

He nodded. "I share a practice with three other doctors inTulsa. We decided it was time to open a facility in the country."

That explained the company that had purchased his house. Apparently Jesse and his colleagues had formed a small corporation, the property serving as a tax deduction. "Looks like things worked out for you."

"Yeah."

They sat silent for a time, staring out at the dusty road. A butterfly winged by, and Patricia felt herself smile. As a toddler, Dillon used to chase the butterflies that graced his grandpa's abundant flower garden.

Jesse rocked his chair. "Are you sure you don't want a soda?"

"No, but if you're thirsty, go ahead."

His chair scraped the side of the house. "That's okay. I'm all right."

Think of something to say, she told herself, as they suffered through another bout of awkward silence. She tucked her hair behind her ears while he crossed one leg in male fashion, then uncrossed it, stretching both long limbs out instead. Physically, he'd changed. He'd put on weight, but the virile bulk suited his tall frame, considering it came in the form of muscle. And against the hard wall of his chest lay a small leather pouch, the medicine bag he'd always worn. She knew it contained items that were special to him. He had even placed a small lock of her hair within it. Surely he had discarded that romantic memento long ago.

"So, have you officially moved in?" she asked, not wanting to think about the past.

"Yeah, but I was inCalifornianot too long ago. My brother lives there, and his wife had a baby."

"Your brother? You mean you found him?" Patricia knew Jesse and his older brother, Sky, had been separated as children and taken to different foster homes when their parents died. Since Jesse was only two at the time, he hadn't known about Sky's existence until years later. At eighteen, Jesse had begun to search for his brother. But by then, Sky was long gone.

"Sky returned toMarlowCountylooking for me. So actually, we found each other." A warm smile touched his lips. "He's great. Everything a guy could want in a brother. And he has such a loving family. A sweet wife and an adorable baby daughter."

Hurt and envy pricked her skin. If you had come back for me, you could have had a loving family, too. "Sounds like you two got along well."

"Yeah. My brother and I talked about everything. Our heritage, our childhood, our work. He's been learning the Muskokee dialect." He rocked his chair again. "So what about you, Tricia. How's your life going?"

"Fine. I'm happy." I adore our son. He's my entire world. "I'm a real estate broker."

Jesse narrowed his eyes. "You buy and sell property for Daddy, right?"

Patricia lifted her chin. The sarcasm in his tone set her on edge. "Yes. I buy and sell property for my father's business." A highly successful company Dillon would inherit someday. "The income benefits the family trust."

"And what a tight little family it is," Jesse mocked. "Daddy and his precious daughter." He combed his fingers through his hair. "Or are you married, Tricia? Did you bring a suitable young man home for your father's approval?"

She waved her left hand. Apparently he hadn't noticed the absence of a wedding band. "I'm single," she snapped. "But I've matured, Jesse. Unlike you. Your childish grudge is most unbecoming."

"So sue me. Or better yet, try to run my life again."

She didn't want to have this conversation. Not now. Her father had been wrong all those years ago, but he'd made it up to her. He had loved her son from the moment the boy was born. And being a parent herself, she'd come to understand her father's motives, his overly protective nature.

"I didn't come here to dredge up the past."

He sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry. And I'm glad you're happy, Tricia."

Since the gentleness in Jesse's voice reminded her of the man he used to be, the youth she had loved so desperately, Patricia glanced up at the window for a diversion. Two dogs were perched there now, panting against the glass. She couldn't help but smile.

"You can let them out. I don't mind."

He grinned, flashing a set of straight white teeth. "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."

The dogs, three of them, barreled out the door in a whirl of fur and excited barks. Cochise sat, ears perked, watching the activity. Patricia was all but attacked, nuzzled and nudged with wet noses and hairy paws, so she tried to give each dog equal attention, petting them simultaneously. Jesse laughed as a small wiry brown-and-white mutt made its way onto her skirt.

Jesse knelt to stroke the dog on her lap while the other two lost interest and zoomed down the porch steps, Cochise staring longingly after them.

Jesse turned to his loyal companion. "Go on, boy."

The rottweiler instantly joined the strays.

While Patricia pretended to watch the dogs, she scanned Jesse's profile—features familiar yet changed—a man she no longer knew. A man, unfortunately, still capable of capturing her eye. The thought disturbed her. Patricia liked to think of herself as immune to tall, dark and rugged.

When he turned suddenly toward her, she focused her attention on the wiggling canine on her lap, hating that she'd been caught staring. "This one's cute," she said, scratching the dog's ears. "He looks like one of those movie dogs. You know, the sweet, scruffy stray."

His expression turned almost wistful. "You used to love those kinds of movies. They always made you cry."

She nodded, hoping she appeared less affected than she felt. "I remember. The happy-ending tearjerkers. My goodness, how many of those did we watch?"

Too many, Jesse thought, his heart clenching. Cuddling in front of the TV with Tricia was an image that still haunted him. How many times over the years had he thought about her, missed her, ached for her?

Tricia had changed, grown even more beautiful than in his memories. She wore her silky brown hair a tad more stylishly these days, a professional chin-length streaked softly with golden lights. Her body had blossomed into a womanly blend of cleavage and curves, and those legs, those long trimgams looked as though they had the strength and agility to wrap themselves around a man for hours. And they had, he remembered, as his groin tightened. Those were the most painful images of all. The youthful passion, the sensuality of shyness, the tender, inexperienced lovemaking.

Fresh out of high school, Jesse had moved toMarlowCountyin search of his roots, but found Tricia instead. Nervous about college, he'd gone to the public library where he'd debated signing up for a free literacy program. When he'd walked away without joining, she had approached him—a sleek brunette in shorts and sandals claiming she had volunteered as a tutor. He'd lingered over her in one slow torturous gaze and fell instantly in love. And then three months later his world fell apart.

As Jesse gazed up at the porch roof, his mind drifted back to the day Tricia had betrayed him. She had come to his apartment that August afternoon, looking tired and pale.

"I shouldn't have told my father about your scholarship," she said, her voice shaky.

Jesse shook his head, dismissing her guilt. He'd just had a life-altering confrontation with her father—a man who despised him. "You didn't know he'd be able to use it against me." A cruel twist of fate had dealt that card, it wasn't Tricia's fault.

Her voice continued to quiver. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing." Pride had kept him silent, masking the rage. Jesse knew Raymond Boyd had been trying to destroy his relationship with Tricia since it started, but despite her father's wishes, she had continued to date him. That thought gave him hope. After all, it was modern-dayOklahoma, and they were both adults—strong-willed eighteen-year-olds. A poor Indian boy loving a rich white girl was no longer a crime. "Don't worry, I'm going to fight back."

Immediately her eyes filled with tears. "How? There's nothing you can do that will change any of this."

Jesse took a deep breath. He could go to a different college, one Raymond Boyd didn't have an affiliation with. It wouldn't be easy, but with Tricia by his side, he could accomplish anything. She was part of his strength, his soul.

"I want you to move in with me, Tricia."

The tears collecting in her eyes began to fall. "If I do that, how will you be able to go to college? You know my father meant what he said. He'll have your scholarship taken away."

Jesse's scholarship was from Winston College of Veterinary Medicine, a privately funded institution providing an education in conventional veterinary medicine as well as extended studies in holistic remedies, acupuncture and homeopathy. In spite of Jesse's reading difficulties, his advanced knowledge of herbal healing had earned him the rare scholarship. But now, Raymond Boyd had the power to take it away.

As it turned out, Tricia's father and George Winston, the founder of the college, were fraternity brothers. So if Jesse didn't end his relationship with Tricia, he'd lose his scholarship. Fraternity blood, as Raymond had put it, was thicker than water.

Jesse dried Tricia's tears, then took her in his arms, the fragrance of her hair, silk of her skin, creating an ache. Being that much in love scared the hell out of him, as did the fear of living without her.

"I know that if you move in with me, I won't be able to go to Winston," he said, explaining his frantic plan. "But I'll find another school that will accept me. And I'll apply for financial aid. There must be government grants available."

"Oh, Jesse." She blinked back another stream of tears. "You know how important the holistic care program is to the dean at Winston. So far, it's the only veterinary school in the nation that offers extended studies in alternative medicine. It's where you're meant to go."

Deep down he knew what she said was true. The ancient practice of herbal healing had been passed on to him by Tall Bear, a Creek medicine man, and it was Tall Bear who had introduced Jesse to the dean at Winston, offering a trade. Jesse would assist the director of the holistic care program in exchange for an education in conventional veterinary medicine. The dean had agreed to the unusual scholarship proposal, but if George Winston, the man who held the purse strings, suddenly changed his mind about funding it, the deal would crumble.

Jesse trapped her gaze. "I don't want to lose you, Tricia." Healing animals was his destiny. But so was Tricia. Choosing between them wasn't possible. He was willing to make sacrifices to have them both, work himself to the bone if he had to. And he knew Tall Bear would understand. The wise old medicine man would tell him to follow his heart. What Raymond Boyd proposed to do might not be illegal, but it was unethical. Morally wrong.

Jesse took Tricia's hand and squeezed it. "Somehow I'll find a way to make this right. Maybe the dean at Winston will help. Maybe he'll recommend me to another school." Jesse swallowed back his nervousness, his fear. "Please, Tricia, move in with me."

"Oh, God. I can't. Not now." She paused, inhaled a deep breath. "First of all, I would never expect you to prolong your education for me. You deserve that scholarship. Think about it, Jesse. We can be together after you finish college. You can come back for me." She closed her eyes, then opened them, blinking away her tears once again. "If we moved in together now, we'd never make it financially. We'd never earn enough money to survive, let alone get you through college."

Jesse pulled away.Money. The word alone clenched his gut. Once, Tricia had convinced him there was no dishonor in being born poor, orphaned or learning disabled. But suddenly the shame, the humiliation of being poor ripped through him like a knife, slicing his heart in two.

When Tricia lifted her hand to his cheek, her gentle touch made his skin burn—a sickening combination of love, hate, confusion and pain. She had just chosen her father's money over him. She wasn't willing to live in a tiny apartment or ride around town in a battered pickup. She wanted the luxury her father could provide, the fancy car and designer clothes.

"Come back after you finish college," she said, skimming her fingers over his jaw. "Come back for me, Jesse. Prove to Daddy that—"

"Damn it, Tricia," he interrupted, still hurting from her touch. "You should hate your father for this, but instead you expect me to prove myself to him."

She dropped her hand. "Daddy's wrong, but I could never hate him. He's raised me all by himself … and I…" She glanced away and clutched her stomach. "Please try to understand."

He did understand. Tricia didn't love him the way he loved her. They had no future. All he'd be to her in a few years was the guy who had taught her how to please other men. Rich men Daddy wouldn't scorn. Fine, he thought. He'd take advantage of that scholarship, go on with his life and leave Tricia to her daddy's money.

"You'll come back, won't you, Jesse?"

"Damn right, I will," he told her, deciding then and there that he'd return toMarlowCountysomeday, but not for the girl who had chosen her wealthy father over him. Jesse Hawk would come back to find his roots, make his home in the town where his parents had lived and died.

And that's what he'd done. Of course now, twelve years later, Tricia was here stirring all those painful memories.

Jesse sighed. He knew he should be a proper host and invite her into his home, but he wouldn't dare. He couldn't bear to see her among his belongings and then watch her leave. His house would seem far too empty afterward, and damn it, he'd suffered through enough loneliness.

All because of Tricia. And her father.

"Look," he said, "I know you didn't stop by to talk about the past, but there's something I need to say."

When he paused, she gazed up at him, her hair catching a soft breeze.

He focused on his next words, hating that she looked so beautiful. So ladylike. "I wasn't really in love all those years ago, and neither were you. I mean, we were only kids. Teenagers experimenting."

Her skin, that flawless complexion, paled a little, and Jesse felt a pang of regret from his perverse need for revenge. But he'd be damned if he'd ever admit that he had pined for her, missed her so badly he'd actually unmanned himself with tears.

"So," he said, finishing his speech, "I never should have asked you to live with me. What we had wasn't anything more than puppy love. A strong infatuation. It never would have worked."

"I'm well aware of that," she responded, her voice tight.

"That's just my point. I don't blame you for not moving in with me." And he didn't. Not now that he was older and wiser. The blame was in her loyalty to Raymond Boyd, in her expecting Jesse to come back to town and grovel at her old man's feet—worship the real estate tycoon as though he were some powerful pagan god. It still stung that Tricia had valued her daddy's money over Jesse's love. If she had asked him to come back to sweep her off her feet and tell Raymond Boyd to go to hell, Jesse would have been there with bells on. War paint and feathers, too.

"I should go." She placed the dog gently on its feet, stood and brushed off her skirt.

Jesse remained seated a moment longer, looking up at her. If he'd rattled her, she was doing her best not to show it. Aside from the loss of color in her cheeks, she appeared cool and professional. Aloof.

He rose slowly. "I'll walk you to your car."

"That's not necessary."

"I insist."

The gravel crunched beneath their feet. Her steps were light, his heavy, just like the ache in his chest. The strays circled Jesse and Tricia as they walked, barking playfully. Cochise took his place at Jesse's side, and he patted the dog's head for comfort. Cochise had been his companion for longer than he chose to remember, and more loyal than any woman could ever be.

They stopped at Tricia's car, an expensive white model. She'd graduated from a sporty convertible to four-door luxury. As she searched the interior of a leather handbag for her keys, Jesse caught a whiff of her perfume. The scent was unfamiliar, but it sparked a weakness in him he couldn't deny.

Damn her. Unable to stop himself, he cupped her face.

Her eyes flashed. "Don't touch—"

He silenced the rest of her protest with his lips, crushing them brutally against hers. The kiss was demanding, hard, hungry and lustful—filled with years of pain. He pressed her against the car and felt a shiver slide from his body to hers. She responded to his blatant tongue thrusts and melted like warm, scented wax, her hands gliding down his arms.

Satisfied that he'd made her as weak as he, Jesse tore his mouth away. "Don't come back, Tricia," he said, forcing air back into his lungs. "I don't want to see you again."

He turned and left her standing at the car, hating that a part of him still missed her—a flaw he intended to keep buried. Forever.
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Chapter 2

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After a long, shaky drive, Patricia parked her car in the circular driveway on her father's estate and willed herself to take control. Jesse's kiss had left her skin tingling and her heart pumping, conjuring needs and feelings that were best to ignore. She twisted the end of a lipstick tube, leaned toward the rearview mirror and attempted to camouflage his aftertaste with an icy-mauve hue.

The feminine maneuver failed. Jesse was still there, hard, sexy and demanding. Patricia sighed and checked her appearance. Hopefully no one would know. She looked cool and polished, as always. She'd learned long ago how to keep her nerves inside where they belonged. She was, after all, Patricia Boyd, the daughter of the most prestigious man in the county. She had an image to uphold. And she'd fought to preserve that image even when she'd become the object of raised eyebrows and none-too-subtle whispers. Giving birth to an illegitimate child wasn't what the citizens ofMarlowCountyhad expected from Patricia Anne Boyd. AttendingPrincetonand marrying a Harvard man was more her style, but she'd done neither. Instead she'd stayed in Arrow Hill, become an active member of Boyd Enterprises and raised Jesse Hawk's son.

Patricia made her way to the front door and opened it, grateful her father's domestic staff didn't work on Sundays. Because she'd been raised with cooks, housekeepers, chauffeurs and nannies, she'd always wondered what being part of a "normal" family would feel like. Patricia's mother had died before Patricia's second birthday, and as far as she was concerned, there wasn't a nanny alive who could replace what she'd lost. Raymond Boyd had done his best, though. And Sundays were special in his house—no staff, just family—a union that now included Dillon.

The Boyd mansion was stereotypical of old money and power: fresh flowers at every turn, a marble foyer, a winding staircase with a slick wood banister. The white-tiled kitchen was a cook's delight with its industrial-size refrigerator, abundant counter space and center isle. Copper pots and pans dangled above the stove—a kitchen cliché that lent the massive room a homey appeal.

Patricia found her father in his office, a room rife with masculine furnishings. Since he rarely worked at home, the ornate antique desk seemed like a rich man's prop, decked with brass ornaments and a humidor filled with imported cigars. The French doors that led to an impressive flower garden were open, inviting a blend of summer fragrances.

He glanced up and smiled. He sat at the desk with impeccable posture, a handsome man nearing the age of retirement, trim and fit with manicured hands and neatly styled graying hair. He looked like what he was, Patricia thought, domineering and headstrong, yet, below the surface, capable of immense kindness. And from what she remembered, Jesse had similar personality traits, only the younger man's were packaged in a more rugged appearance with long, windblown hair and large, callused hands. Neither would appreciate the comparison, she knew, although under different circumstances, Jesse Hawk and Raymond Boyd might have found each other admirable.

"I took Dillon into town for a new model, then dropped him off at theHarrisonestate," her father said. "They called and invited him for a swim."

Mark Harrison was Dillon's best friend. He was a nice, enthusiastic boy, and her father approved of the family. TheHarrisons, too, came from old money. It sounded snooty, but things like that mattered in Raymond Boyd's world. Patricia also knew her father overlooked Dillon's illegitimacy, something theHarrisonfamily had done.

"That'sfine." She sat in a tuck-and-rolled leather chair and absently ran her fingers over the brass tacks. Not having to face Dillon immediately after facing Jesse seemed like a small blessing. At times, her eleven-year-old son appeared capable of reading her emotions, no matter how well hidden. No one but Dillon could do that.

"Did you eat?" Raymond asked. "It's past the lunch hour."

Patricia glanced at her watch. Food was the furthest thing from her mind. This was, she decided, a perfect opportunity to tell her father who and what occupied her thoughts. Dillon was gone, and the household staff wouldn't be poking about, dusting furniture or offering entrées from a carefully-selected luncheon menu.

She scooted forward. "Dad, Jesse's back."

He turned his chair slowly, although she imagined his heart had taken a quick, unexpected leap. "For good?" he asked.

Patricia nodded. "He bought the old Garrett place. I went by there this morning."

"So you've seen him, then?"

"Yes."

"Did he come back for you?"

She kept her eyes steady and her expression blank. The question hurt almost as much as the answer. She had insisted years before that Jesse would do right by her, and her father had called her young and naive for believing so. Jesse would forget about her. Eighteen-year-old boys often confused lust for love. For Patricia the lesson had been a difficult one. Jesse had seemed so sincere. He had even offered to sacrifice his scholarship to be with her. That alone had convinced her it was true love.

"No. He's opening a veterinary clinic behind his house."

Raymond squared his shoulders as though preparing for an emotional battle. "Did you tell him about Dillon?"

"No. Not yet." She held up her hand in a failed attempt to confront her father's disapproval. "Jesse and Dillon have the right to know each other."

"Oh, Patricia." He let out a long sigh. "Do you honestly think someone like Hawk is going to make a suitable father?"

"But Jesse was raised in foster care. Establishing roots was important to him. He wanted children more than anything." For Dillon's sake, she prayed that was still true.

"Really? So is he married with a family now?"

She dropped her gaze. "No." A happily married man wouldn't have kissed her like that. And as far as children went, the strays he took in were as close as he got, of that she felt certain.

Raymond drummed his fingers on the desk.

Tricia looked up. "What am I supposed to do? Keep my son a secret? His name is DillonHawk, Dad."

"Giving the boy that name was a mistake. Dillon should be a Boyd."

Patricia rubbed her temples. That useless argument always resulted in a headache. "It's too late to turn back the clock. And somehow I've got to get Jesse to agree to see me again."

Her father's eyes hardened. "What happened? Did he toss you off his property?"

"Not exactly, no." She pressed her temples again. Worse than having been told not to come back, was Jesse's admission that he'd never really loved her. After all these years, hearing it out loud had been like a blow to the heart. "He told me he didn't want to see me again."

"Mom? Grandpa?"

Patricia and Raymond turned simultaneously toward the open doorway to find Dillon staring into the room, his hair still wet from an afternoon swim.

Patricia slanted her father a nervous glance. How much had Dillon heard? "You're back early," she commented casually to her son.

"Mark ate too much candy and got sick, so his mom brought me back."

"Did you eat a lot of candy, too?" Raymond asked, smoothing his sideburns in what Patricia recognized as an anxious habit.

"Not as much as Mark." The boy moved a step closer, his ever-changing eyes a steely shade of gray. He turned to Patricia. "How come my dad doesn't want to see you again?"

Oh, God. So he had been eavesdropping. "Dillon, come sit down. We need to talk. Dad?" She looked at her father, dismissing him politely. Raymond Boyd didn't know how to be objective when it came to discussing Jesse.

"I'll take a walk." The older man stood, then squeezed his grandson's shoulder as the child took a seat next to Patricia. "I'll be in the garden if you need me." He exited through the French doors, his loafers silent as they touched the stone walkway.

Patricia reached for Dillon's hand and found it cold. She rubbed it between her palms. He shouldn't have heard what he did. She should have been more careful. "Just because your father and I parted ways doesn't mean that you shouldn't get to know him."

The boy's voice quavered. "But it's not fair that he doesn't like you anymore."

She sighed. Apparently Dillon had only overheard the tail end of the conversation. For that she was relieved. And she couldn't help but admire his attempt at chivalry. "Life isn't always fair, sweetheart."

"But he shouldn't have been mean to you." Dillon tugged his hand away, stood and paced in front of the desk, appearing suddenly older than his eleven years. "I don't want you to tell my dad about me. I don't care if I ever meet him."

Patricia drew a deep breath. "He lives here now, and one way or another, he's going to find out he has a son. He'll come looking for you, Dillon."

"Then let him." The boy stopped pacing and pushed his hair out of eyes that were clearly his father's. "Just promise that you won't go back to his house. Please, Mom. Promise."

"Okay." If Dillon needed time to deal with his feelings, then Jesse Hawk would have to wait.

* * *

"Yoo-hoo!"

Now what? Jesse rolled his shoulders and strode from the examining room into the reception area of the clinic. Half the supplies he'd ordered hadn't arrived, and the brand-spanking-new air-conditioning unit had decided to quit on the muggiest day of the decade. So what if it was under warranty? The inconvenience irked the hell out of him. He was not in the mood for visitors.

"The clinic isn't open yet," he said, then broke into a grin when he saw his guest cooling herself with an ornate fan. No one but Fiona Lee Beaumont wore rhinestoned glasses and carried jeweled fans. The woman's hair was still a gaudy shade of red, he noticed, and whipped around her head like a beehive. And she had to be pushing seventy these days.

"Jesse Hawk, as I live and breathe." She lowered the fan. "You grew into one hunk of a man. You look just like your daddy."

He hugged her frail frame, touched by the reference to his father. Fiona lived in the same trailer park where Jesse had spent the first two years of his life. She remembered his parents. Not well, but she knew their names and what they had looked like. Jesse didn't even have a photograph of his parents. "And you, dear lady, are still the love of my life. I've missed you."

She patted his cheek. "So you're an animal doctor, with your own practice and everything."

He shrugged. "Yeah. It's a step up from working at the pet store." How many pounds of kitty chow had he packed into Fiona's ancient Oldsmobile? She was what the town of Hatcher called "The Cat Lady," an eccentric old woman who shared her worn-out trailer with at least two dozen pampered felines, some that slept there, others that just came to visit.

"I have a brood of my own now, Fiona."

"Yes, I noticed. You've got six dogs in the yard, and that gelding back there's a real looker. Big, handsome paint."

"I've got a bird, an iguana and three ferrets, too." He sent her a playful wink. "Hell, I might even have a cat or two around here somewhere."

She smiled. "Your old boss told me you moved back. Also said he'd be sending business your way."

He leaned against the front counter. "Larry's a good man." Larry Milbrook of Larry's Pets and Feed had given Jesse a job twelve years before, when Jesse had drifted into town wearing holey jeans, time-worn boots and a tattered backpack with more of the same.

She peered past his shoulder. "So have you hired someone to run the reception office?"

"No, not yet. I'll probably only have the clinic open three, maybe four days a week. The rest of the time I'll be out on ranch calls. Horses like me." And he liked them. Horses, it seemed, ran in the blood. Jesse's brother, Sky, made his living as a stunt rider, and their father had worked as a ranch hand and trainer most of his life.

Fiona walked around the counter, allowing herself access to the computer. She tapped the keys with bony fingers flaunting rings as bold asTexas. "So are you going to hire some pretty young thing?"

"No," he responded quickly, thinking about Tricia. Young and pretty still felt like heartache. Because he tried to avoid the Daddy's-girl type, he'd picked up the habit of dating women slightly older than himself, ladies who looked nothing like the long-legged, fine-boned Patricia Boyd. And even then, dating was rare. He'd become a bit of a recluse; he and his animals. There were times he'd considered building an ark, loading his pets and sailing to the ends of the earth to numb the pain associated with his lost love.

"So you're going to hire someone more mature, then?" Fiona pressed on, pulling Jesse back into conversation.

He eyed the old woman. Apparently she needed a job. Feeding dozens of cats and living on a fixed income couldn't be easy. He imagined the rent had increased in that trailer park she called home. Some thief owned the place, some slimeball slumlord fromTulsa.

"I could use a mature lady around here. Someone who has a way with animals. Say, you wouldn't be interested, would you?"

"Me?" Her eyes widened beneath the pointy-framed glasses. "Hmm." She played the drama out, patting the side of her bouffant and gazing up at the ceiling as though the offer needed consideration.

"Oh, why not?" she said finally. "I did take some computer classes at the Senior Citizens' Center, and quite frankly this place could use a little jazzing up."

Jesse looked around. The room was simple and sterile, mostly white with touches of gray. Well, he thought, if anyone could add color, it would be Fiona Lee Beaumont in her fake baubles, dyed hair and god-awful pantsuits. Lord help him.

"How about a cold drink to celebrate," he suggested. There was no turning back now. Fiona was already arranging the reception desk to her liking, her bracelets clanking in the process.

He brought her a canned iced tea and chose a soda for himself. She whipped out her fan again and drank the tea from a paper cup, fanning and sipping like an aging Southern Belle.

"So," she said, "have you been keeping in touch with the Boyd girl? She was so lovely. Always wanted legs like that."

He raised an eyebrow. "You know damn well her daddy hated me."

"Doesn't mean the two of you haven't been carrying on a secret rendezvous."

Jesse finished his drink. "Tricia came by last week, but nothing happened." Nothing but a kiss that had made him hungry for a thousand more. "That romance is history."

"Well, in any case, you must be proud that she gave the boy your name. It was gossip for a long while. This county flourishes on gossip, especially tidbits concerning the rich."

Jesse's heart nearly stopped. "What are you talking about? What boy?"

"Oh, my." Fiona chewed her fading lipstick line. "Oh my, oh my." She reached for his quaking hand. "You mean after all these years, she never told you about your son?"

* * *

"Miss Boyd," the receptionist said over the intercom, "there's a Mr. Hawk here to see you. He—" the young woman paused and lowered her voice "—seems quite upset. He threatened to find your office himself if I don't accommodate him. Should I call Security?"

Patricia straightened her spine, preparing for a battle Jesse would surely force her to wage. He knows, she told herself, taking a deep breath. He found out about Dillon.

"I'll see Mr. Hawk, Susan. There's no need for Security." Within seconds Patricia's door opened, and Jesse shouldered by the receptionist. Petite and pale, Susan looked like a quivering mouse next to him, eager to escape something even more dangerous than a surly tomcat. A grizzly, Patricia decided. A grizzly with long black hair and gunmetal eyes. When in God's name had Jesse gotten so big?

Avoiding his glare, Patricia rose and nodded to the receptionist. "Thank you, Susan. Please hold my calls." She glanced at her watch, determined to keep her manner professional. "I'll let you know when this meeting ends."

The woman cast a wary glance at Jesse, who kept his stare focused on Patricia. "Yes, Miss Boyd." She darted out the door and closed it soundly.

"Well…" Patricia smoothed her jacket. Did she look as nervous as she felt, or did her red suit boast confidence? She lifted her chin. If her designer apparel didn't, then certainly the plush office should.

"Can I get you some coffee?" she asked, sweeping her hand toward a wet bar. "Or would you prefer something cold?" Like the frost glazing your eyes.

"Cut the crap, Tricia."

He strode toward her, his faded denims and casual T-shirt mocking the decor. Suddenly the hours of labor spent perfecting the office seemed insignificant. He dwarfed the room and all of its high-powered pretense.

"Do you have a child?" he asked. "An eleven-year-old boy?"

She resisted the urge to remove the scarf draped around her neck. Deep, calming breaths were difficult as it was, and the flowing strip of silk felt like a noose. "Yes."

He stepped closer. Dangerously close. "And am I his father?"

"Yes."

"And tell me," he said, moving closer still, "did you know you were pregnant when I left town? Did you know then that you were carrying my child?"

"Yes," she stated once again, refusing to offer an explanation. She had begged him to come back for her. The fault was his.

He stood dead still, his metallic eyes boring into hers. "Do you know how hard it is not to hate you right now?"

"No harder than it is for me," she shot back. Love and hate were only a fine line apart. And she had loved him once. Loved him beyond comprehension.

She wanted to scream, claw his skin and make him bleed. But instead she stood facing him as years of pain stretched between them. God help her. Jesse was back, making her insides ache all over again. Everything hurt: her lungs as they battled for air, her heart as it pumped erratic beats. Yes, she struggled not to hate him. How could she not?

"By the way," she said, angry that he hadn't asked, "your son's name is Dillon."

He flinched, and those eyes, those slate-gray eyes lightened, softening his stare. He repeated the name in a near whisper, his voice cracking. "Dillon."

Patricia glanced away. She didn't want to see that side of Jesse, the vulnerable, gentle side she had loved. In that moment he could have been eighteen again—the teenage boy who had pledged "forever." The man she'd almost come to hate. The thought made her sad and sick inside.

Jesse raised his voice to a commanding level once again. "I want to see Dillon. As soon as possible. I have a right to see my son."

She reached toward the edge of her desk, felt for the ridge and leaned against it. "I'm sorry, but Dillon isn't ready to meet you." That truth intensified the sickness, especially when Jesse jerked as though he'd been struck.

"What?" He pulled his hands through his hair. "Oh, God, what are you saying? Does he know about me? Does he know I'm his father?"

"Yes, he knows, he's just confused right now." She gestured for Jesse to sit, and surprisingly he did, lowering himself onto a contemporary leather sofa. She seated herself beside him. "This isn't easy for Dillon." She thought about her son, about his sensitive, protective nature. "He used to ask about you, but now that so many years have passed, I think he's gotten used to the idea of not having a father."

Jesse scrubbed his hand across his jaw. "Did he tell you he didn't want to meet me, or are you just assuming—"

"He told me," she answered honestly. "And he asked me not to go back to your house. Made me promise I wouldn't."

Jesse's breath hitched. Big, strong and vulnerable, she thought. He looked as though he wanted to cry, bury his head in his hands and let the tears flow. Patricia touched his shoulder and felt it shake. He was, she realized, as hurt and confused as Dillon. He leaned toward her, reached up and skimmed his fingers across her cheek. She wanted to cry, too. Cry for their youth and what should have been.

Patricia closed her eyes as images of Dillon flashed through her mind—birthday parties, skinned knees, warm hugs, toothless grins, fevers, chicken pox. Years of motherhood. A sweet, loving little boy who had waited for his father to return.

She opened her eyes and pushed Jesse's hand away. "Damn you. Why didn't you come back?"

He clenched the hand that had touched her, his face still except for a twitching muscle in his cheek. "Because I didn't know I had a child," he hissed. "You stole him from me. Dillon is my flesh and blood as much as yours, but you kept him for yourself. You didn't want me involved in his life."

"Stole him?" She moved to the edge of her seat. "I gave birth to him. Loved him, rocked him, fed him from my breast. And I told him about his father. Good things. But you didn't come back and prove me right. So I'd say Dillon has the right to decide if you're worth meeting."

He rose and began to pace the room, the restless movement reminding her of Dillon. How alike yet different they were. Father and son. Strangers.

"Oh, God," he said, anguish vibrating his voice. "What if Dillon never wants to meet me?"

She took a deep breath, composing herself. Watching Jesse hurt didn't seem to ease her own pain, the ache he'd renewed. "Dillon will come around. He's just angry … upset that—" She paused, exhaled again. "He knows that you and I—that our reunion hasn't been a friendly one."

Jesse stopped pacing and turned to face her. "That's what's wrong? You and me?"

"Dillon's a sensitive child. It bothers him that we're not friends," she said, grateful she hadn't been forced to reveal the conversation Dillon had stumbled upon. She hadn't forgiven herself for that act of irresponsibility. Her son's emotional well-being had been jeopardized simply because she hadn't thought to close a door.

Jesse trapped her gaze. "I'm taking you to dinner tonight."

Patricia startled. "What?"

"Our son wants us to be friends."

Just like that? Sit down for a cozy dinner and wipe away years of pain? Two people who not more than ten minutes before had admitted they were battling hatred? She stood to face him. "You're crazy."

"Damn it, Tricia. Don't you dare fight me on this." He took one of her business cards off the desk and handed her a pen. "Write your address down. I'll pick you up at seven."

She did as he asked and shoved the card back at him. For Dillon, she told herself. She'd do it for Dillon. Deep down she knew the boy wanted a father.

"We'll go to The Captain'sInn." Scowling, he grabbed the pen and tossed it back onto her desk; it rolled off and landed on the floor. "But remember, this isn't a date. We're making peace with each other for the sake of our son."

Well, she thought as he left her office and shut the door with a smart bang, we're off to one hell of a start.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 3

«^»

Jesse came home to find Sally, a six-foot iguana, speculatively eyeing Barney, an animated African gray parrot. Apparently in the mood to show off, the chatty bird sat atop the lizard's terrarium reciting gibberish he'd picked up from the television. Since Barney had figured out the buttons on the remote control, he spent his days switching channels. He adored the clatter of game shows and cartoons, but occasionally Jesse caught the bird tuned in to a soap opera, his head cocked curiously.

"Hi, guys," Jesse said, as he passed. Barney and Sally didn't know that in the real world, lizards and birds weren't supposed to be friends. Although Jesse's woodsy home boasted plenty of greenery and primitive artifacts, it was hardly a jungle. Barney and Sally had been hand raised in captivity.

Turning the corner, he strode into the kitchen. Uneven stacks of dirty dishes cluttered the chopping-block counters. He blew a windy sigh and filled the sink with warm water, adding a fair amount of soap. Dissolving dried pancake syrup and crusty chili would take some elbow grease. He wasn't the sort to ignore chores, household or otherwise, but his organized existence had gone to hell and back since he'd set eyes on Tricia again.

Keeping busy was important, he decided, and pacing the floor with cigars in his pocket wouldn't do. He might be a new father, but his son wasn't an infant. Dillon Hawk was eleven years old. And although it wrenched his heart, he couldn't blame the boy for being apprehensive about meeting him. Apparently Dillon respected his mother enough to stand up for her honor, something a young brave had the right to do.

He dunked another set of dishes and wondered how he and Tricia were going to tackle friendship. It was, of course, Jesse's only optionif he wanted a healthy relationship with his son.

What was the boy like? he wondered. Was he tall for his age? Dark or fair in coloring? Shy? Outgoing? Did he wear his baseball caps reversed, or did he avoid hats altogether? What television shows did he watch? Was there a girl in the neighborhood he had a painful crush on, or was Tricia the only female who had yet to influence his life?

As Jesse scoured a frying pan, he tried to envision the items on Tricia's shiny black desk. Had there been a framed photograph he'd missed—a snapshot of his son? He'd been too keyed up to even think about searching for a picture, much less grill Tricia for sentimental facts.

Her secret had blinded him from anything but rage. Damn her for not telling him about their baby—for making him miss the first eleven years of his son's life. She knew how badly he had wanted children, how he longed for a family of his own. But Jesse had given up on that dream soon after Tricia's betrayal. Children meant a wife, and a wife meant falling in love—something he never intended to do again. Sure, maybe the weak part of him had never quit missing Tricia, but the other side, the proud, willful side, had suffered from her disloyalty—almost to the point of hating her for it. And now, God help him, he had no choice but to befriend her.

A deafening sound drew Jesse's attention. He dried his hands and went back into the living room where Barney had decided to blast the volume on the TV.

Having abandoned the iguana, the African gray patrolled the coffee table, protecting the remote control like an armed guard.

"Come on, pal, that's too loud." Jesse reached for the remote, then scolded Barney when the parrot went for his hand. "Don't even think about."

Barney ducked his head in what looked like shame. Jesse set the volume on mute and grinned at his feathered friend. "Want to learn a new word?"

The bird stepped closer, inching its beak toward the remote in Jesse's hand. He hid the device behind his back. "No TV. A new word."

"Cochise," Barney squawked.

"Cochise is outside with the other dogs." Although some would disagree, Jesse believed parrots did more than mimic. They were extremely intelligent birds, and Barney knew that Cochise was the dog that shared their home.

"Dill-on," Jesse said, emphasizing each syllable. He wanted Barney to learn his son's name, as he intended to introduce Dillon to all of his pets—hopefully soon. While the bird listened, Jesse sat on the edge of the coffee table and continued to repeat the name in a slow, patient tone.

A short time later, the African gray fluffed his feathers. "Hello, Jesse."

Jesse smiled. Was Barney's parrot-voice spiced with anOklahomatwang, or was that his imagination? "Dillon," Jesse coaxed once again. "Hello, Dillon."

"Hello, Jesse," came the quick reply.

No. No. No. "Hello, Dillon."

Barney bobbed his head. "Hello, Jesse. Hello."

Jesse set the remote down. "We'll try later, okay?"

"Okay." The bird repeated the familiar word, then pecked at the buttons until he discovered sound once again.

Jesse's mind drifted back to his son. Would he meet Dillon tonight, or would the child refuse an introduction until he felt certain his parents had worked through their differences? He removed Tricia's business card from his pocket and gazed at the address she'd written. What would Dillon think of him? Jesse wondered as he studied the card. Would he fit the boy's image of a father? Or would Dillon be expecting someone suave and sophisticated, like the kind of men Tricia probably dated?

Jesse combed his fingers through his hair. He couldn't enter his son's home for the first time empty-handed. He should bring the boy a gift. But what? He had no idea what would interest an eleven-year-old, especially one born into wealth. Dillon probably had every video game and computer software available, not to mention sports equipment. The thought nagged him. How was he going to compete with Tricia's money?

You're not even going to try, a sensible voice in his head said. Parents shouldn't compete for their child's affection. Love comes from the heart, not the wallet.

Even so, he still intended to take his son a present. He felt for the leather strap around his neck and reached under his shirt for the medicine bag he'd worn since his own youth. Yes, he'd take Dillon a gift.

And what about Tricia? Should he offer her something as well? Flowers perhaps? She used to love sunflowers. Their bright yellow heads always made her smile.

Jesse went back into the kitchen and began scanning the phone book. He'd make dinner reservations first, then locate a florist for the biggest, brightest sunflower arrangement he could find. Tricia had given birth to his child, and for that he should thank her.

* * *

"Hi,Elda." Patricia set her briefcase on the kitchen counter and greeted her friend. She preferred to think of the nurturing woman as a friend rather than an employee. Raymond Boyd had hired Elda Yacabucci as a nanny for Dillon while Patricia suffered the stigma of being an unwed mother in an affluent, but narrow-minded, community. Patricia had protested at first, not wanting her son raised by nannies. But she'd given in soon enough when she'd realized Dillon needed care while she furthered her education.

The year Patricia and Dillon moved out of the Boyd mansion and into their own home, they'd takenEldaalong, offering her accommodations in a guest house located on the property. These days,Eldadid more cooking and cleaning than baby-sitting, but the older woman didn't seem to mind.

"Dillon's having a snack in the den,"Eldaoffered, as she headed toward the laundry room, basket tucked against an ample hip. "I made lasagna for lunch, and now that boy's hungry again."Elda, a nonjudgmental woman who attended mass every Sunday and routinely wore her salt-and-pepper hair in a tidy bun, glanced back and sent Patricia a pleased smile. "I fixed him another plate."

Patricia returned the smile. For most kids a snack would consist of crackers and cheese or a piece of fruit, but then, Dillon wasn't most kids. He thrived onElda's leftovers.

Patricia poured herself a cup of decaf and went to the room they referred to as the den. Dillon watched TV from the sofa, a tray of half-eaten food on a glass-topped coffee table. He appeared relaxed in the brightly lit surroundings, his feet tucked under him. Patricia didn't think dens should be dark and brooding, so she'd decorated the room with printed fabrics and blond woods. The pale decor suited the rest of the house with its high ceilings and whitewashed walls.

"Hi, honey."

He turned away from the TV. "Oh, hi, Mom. You're home kinda early."

Patricia sat in a recliner and placed her coffee on a nearby end table. No point in wasting time, she thought. "I came home to talk to you. I saw your father today. He stopped by the office." Barged in was more like it, but she'd have to withhold the more colorful details from Dillon.

The boy picked up a decorative pillow and twisted the end. "What did he want?"

"We talked about you, and then he invited me to dinner." That, she decided, was certainly a simplified version of the emotional meeting.

Dillon's gray-blue eyes widened. "Dinner? Really? Are you going to go?"

"I thought it might be a good idea." She sipped the mocha-flavored drink and tried to appear calmer than she felt. "He's trying to make an effort to be friends."

"Then I suppose you should go. Be kinda rude not to."

She nodded. Apparently that was Dillon's way of giving his permission. The thought relaxed her somewhat. "Do you think you'd like to meet your dad tonight? Maybe just say a quick hello?"

Fear crept into his eyes. "He's coming here? To our house?"

Clearly Dillon wasn't ready to face the man, the stranger, who had fathered him. "That's all right, honey. There's no hurry for you to meet him. You could stay atElda's while he's here."

The boy had a different suggestion, one that said he wanted to hide out—avoid even the slightest chance of running into Jesse just yet. ApparentlyElda's guest house was still too close. "Why don't I go to Grandpa's instead? I could spend the night there. Grandpa won't mind."

"Sure. That's fine." She could hardly blame Dillon for his panic. He'd been surrounded by a loving, familiar support group. And now, as he neared the beginning of adolescence, his missing father had returned, stirring raw emotion.

Patricia rolled her shoulders. "I guess I'll go up and take a shower." Or turn on the jets in her tub and soothe the ache in her muscles and the edge in her nerves. She, too, was panicked about spending time with Jesse.

* * *

Jesse straightened his jacket and eyed the outside of Tricia's house with mounting anxiety. He'd never been completely comfortable in Arrow Hill, with its overly manicured yards and custom-built homes. The farther he'd traveled up the hill, the more uncomfortable he'd become. Maybe because the houses kept getting bigger, more extravagant. Jesse had always been a country boy at heart. A small ranch dwelling suited him fine.

Tricia's sprawling two-story home was modern in design, with large bay windows and plenty of shrubbery illuminated by torchlights. He rang the bell, hoping his appearance would meet with Dillon's approval. Jesse had banded his hair into a ponytail and wore dark jeans, a tan shirt and black jacket. He wasn't a fancy man and never would be, but he had a frame that well suited the cut of Western-style clothing.

"Hi." Tricia opened the door. "Come in."

He stepped into the tiled entryway, feeling suddenly foolish. A man as tall and dark as he, carrying a bright yellow bouquet, probably looked a bit odd. He offered the sunflowers to Tricia quickly.

"I remembered that you used to like these," he said. "Hope you still do."

"They're wonderful. Thank you."

The familiarity in her smile made his heartbeat skip. And when she hugged the bouquet to her chest, she could have passed for a teenager again. But she wasn't, Jesse reminded himself. Tricia was a woman now. He devoured her long, lean form in one slow, agonizing sweep. An incredibly sexy woman. A white knit dress, laced with tiny silver threads, shimmied down her curves, then stopped to expose those endless legs and a pair of wicked pumps.

"You look terrific," he heard himself say.

"Thanks. So do you."

He followed her past a cream-colored living room and into a kitchen that sparkled with white counters and slick black appliances. Beside a tall window, four black chairs circled a contemporary white table. She arranged the sunflowers in an ebony vase and placed it on the table.

"Can I get you a drink?" she asked.

"No, thanks, Is Dillon here?"

"I'm sorry, no. He decided to spend the evening with his grandpa."

Immediately a rage of red-hot envy shot through Jesse's gut, turning his stomach inside out. "You mean your father?"

Tricia flashed a challenging look. "That's right. My father."

He wanted to turn and walk away, then hire a sharp, city attorney to legally pry his son from Raymond Boyd's child-stealing clutches. But that, he knew, would only end up hurting Dillon. Jesse would have to win the boy over with love and patience. Something he doubted Raymond Boyd was capable of offering. Boyd may have tainted Tricia with all that money, but Jesse would be damned if he'd lose his son to that cocky old bastard's checkbook.

"Why don't you give me a tour of the house," he suggested, in an attempt to redirect his focus. For Dillon's sake, he had to befriend Tricia, and arguing about her father would only cause a bigger rift between them.

Her expression softened. "All right."

The house was too modern for Jesse's taste, with too much glass and not enough wood. It was well crafted, he supposed, but it lacked the charm of older homes—the history and warmth. Tricia had chosen pale colors throughout, so when they stepped into her bedroom the shock of royal blue pleased him, as did the stained-glass window. Jesse scanned the room and noticed traces of the slightly careless Tricia he remembered: an open book, facedown on a nightstand, a coffee cup with lipstick stains, a discarded silk robe on the bed.

The rest of the house was proper, he realized, decorated to entertain those in her father's staid circle. But Tricia's bedroom rebelled from that mold—mixing bright colors and slightly scuffed antiques. She had even tossed in a trio of Western relics including a small wooden chair upholstered in calfskin, an ancient clay pot and a leather-covered trunk.

"This is nice," he said, trying hard not to picture her slipping into that big bed at night, French lingerie barely covering smooth, creamy flesh.

"Thanks. It's my sanctuary. The bathroom, too. Sometimes I work incredibly long hours so soaking in a whirlpool tub really takes the edge off."

Great. Now he imagined her completely naked, immersed in a tub of bubbling water, eyes closed, legs slightly parted.

Get a grip, he told himself. She's not your lover anymore.

Jesse turned away from the bathroom, struggling to ignore the hunger, the curiosity that had surfaced. What sort of lover had Tricia become? Was she still a sexually shy girl playing the sophisticate? Would she blush if he whispered his fantasies in her ear, or would she flash a siren's smile and rake her nails across his back? Maybe a little of both, he decided, watching the graceful way she moved. Tricia was a lady through and through. But ladies, even the most properly bred, could be naughty at night.

He caught Tricia's eye. She stood beside an antique dresser, head tilted, silky brown hair brushing her cheek. An almost-shy siren, he concluded, the kind of woman who could make a man beg.

"Jesse," 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'sInnsat on a hilltop, presenting a view ofMarlowCounty. 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'sInnwas the only restaurant inMarlowCountythat 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 disability. Jesse knew firsthand how being dyslexic would affect Dillon for the rest of his life.

"I joined a dyslexic support group in college. It really helped to know there were others out there."

Her eyes brightened. "Our chapter has been talking about organizing adult support groups. Maybe you could get involved."

"Yeah, maybe." He toyed with his spoon. Should he admit that Tricia had been instrumental in his decision to join a support group? That he'd missed her encouragement, her early-morning tutoring sessions?

Their waiter came by, removed their plates and offered another basket of warm bread. Grateful for the interruption, Jesse decided to skip the admission, choosing to comment on the view instead.

"Pretty out, isn't it?" Their table faced a large window. Lights twinkled in the dark, making the dusty flats of Hatcher and the rolling green of Arrow Hill seem like equals.

She gazed out the window and nodded, but when she turned back, a trio of men being seated at the table across from them captured her attention. Jesse tightened his upper lip. One of the men, a trim, executive type, eyed Tricia as he passed.

"Do you know him?" Jesse asked under his breath when she had the audacity to show her discomfort. Tricia, who rarely revealed her emotions.

"Peter is a business associate. An attorney."

Jesse glanced over at Peter and caught a quick, hard stare in return. A territorial stare. Clearly the young, impeccably dressed lawyer had designs on Tricia. Business associate my foot, Jesse thought. Any fool could see Tricia was dating the guy. Why else would she be so damn edgy? She'd been caught in what seemed like a compromising situation—a candlelit dinner with another man, a roughneck, no less.

Great. Just what he needed, some suave boyfriend of hers giving him the evil eye all night. Jesse had the sudden urge to rearrange the guy's snooty face. Peter looked to be the country club sort—proper, well-bred—a man who knew which wine to order and which fork to use.

Jesse clenched his fists as the waiter brought their entrées. Was Tricia sleeping with Peter? Had that jerk touched her with those manicured hands? Jesse unclenched his fists and gazed at his own hands, at their crude texture. Had Tricia compared them as lovers? Weighed them against each other in her mind?

Jesse cut into his halibut and decided he didn't give a rat's ass if he was using the proper utensil. And Mr. Country Club in the pinstripe suit could take his silk tie and shove it where the sun refused to shine.

Tricia could tear up the sheets with whoever the hell she wanted. Jesse had no intention of resuming their love affair. None whatsoever. So what if she still made his heart hurt? That didn't mean a damn thing. He stole another bitter glance at Peter. Not a damn thing.
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Chapter 4

«^»

Patricia and Jesse stood beneath an archway outside the restaurant and waited for the valet to bring Jesse's truck. He drove one of those huge four-wheelers decked out with a shiny black paint job, enormous tires and flashy rims. A masculine vehicle, Patricia thought, one that suited his rugged appeal.

"Looks like it may be a while," he said. "There are quite a few people ahead of us."

She nodded. "It's a popular restaurant." And tonight they appeared to be short a valet.

He moved closer as an elderly couple brushed by en route to their BMW. "I guess the wait won't kill us."

Patricia caught a woodsy note of Jesse's cologne. She thought their "friendship" dinner had gone fairly well, aside from Jesse's quiet mood swings and intermittent scowls. But then he had always been sullen, a manner that matched his dark, dangerous appearance. Even as a lean, catlike youth, he still had that hard, feral charm—an edge that made women hungry and other men wary.

"Your boyfriend and his buddies just came out."

"What?" Patricia glanced over her shoulder. Peter Crandall sent her a practiced smile. She turned back quickly. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Bull."

Agitated, she straightened her spine. "Don't you dare pair me with that gold digger." She'd had the misfortune of being seated next to Peter Crandall at two long, dull charity dinners, and now the man phoned her office and sent roses. Roses. How unimaginative.

"Gold digger?" Jesse's mouth twitched into a smile.

"This isn't funny. I'm tired of men pursuing me for my father's money."

Jesse kept his voice low. "Hell, I figured you were sleeping with the guy."

Offended now, Patricia turned to face her ex-love and hissed beneath her breath. "How dare you think such a thing? I don't fall into bed with every man who looks my way. What kind of woman do you take me for?"

She hadn't fallen into bed with anyone since Jesseleft town, but he didn't need to know the details about her nonexistent sex life. Like a fool, she'd remained faithful for years after his departure. The thought irked her. While she'd tucked their child into bed at night and waited for Jesse's return, he was probably rolling around with some bouncy, big-busted coed. Patricia cursed her stupidity. By the time she'd accepted the fact that he wasn't coming back, she'd become accustomed to sleeping alone.

He slipped a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Sorry, okay? How was I supposed to know? Peter looks like your type."

She sighed. Since when did she like fair-haired men with country-club tans? "It just seems like he's everywhere I go."

Jesse's eyes darkened. "Do you think he's stalking you?"

"No. We just run in the same circle. He comes from old money, only his playboy father lost most of their fortune in gambling debts. So now Peter intends to marry and rebuild the family dynasty."

"With his wife's inheritance," Jesse added.

Patricia nodded. And Peter had made subtle references to her past, as though her having an illegitimate child meant she was easy pickings. "I wish he would set his sights on someone else."

"So you want to get rid of him?"

"Of course I do."

"Then put your arms around me."

She glanced back at Peter. He was watching. "We're going to make him think we're lovers?"

"That's right. Lovers."

Suddenly she felt decadent, but then why wouldn't she? Jesse Hawk had that immoral effect on women. She stepped closer, lifted her arms and drew them around his neck, telling herself this was all for show.

"Now what?" she whispered, as her heart skipped an unsteady beat.

"Brush your lips over mine," he coaxed. "Kind of slow and sexylike."

She slid her fingers through his ponytail, through that thick, gorgeous mass of dark hair. He had hair on his chest, too. Just enough to play with, she recalled. "What about all these people?" Couples and small groups waiting, some impatiently, for their vehicles.

"What about them?"

"They'll watch."

Jesse shook his head. "They might glance our way, but they're too proper to stare. Peter, on the other hand, has a stake in this."

She cupped the back of Jesse's head and drew his face closer at the same moment he slid his hands under her jacket, chasing chills up her spine. Their lips met in a soft, sensual tease. Patricia closed her eyes, felt his mouth move against hers.

Were they kissing? she wondered. Or was this a prelude to a kiss? An erotic taunt of man, woman and warm aroused breaths?

He tested the seam of her lips with his tongue as images from the past clouded her mind. He used to do wicked things to her with that tongue—things that made her body quiver and her skin tingle. Things that embarrassed her afterward.

She wouldn't be shy now. Patricia was no longer a gullible, inexperienced teenager. No, she realized ironically, she was a grown woman who'd barely survived a broken heart—an inexperienced thirty-year-old.

Damn him, she thought, moving closer, wanting to feel the ridge in his jeans. Maybe she would still blush. Or maybe she'd run her hands all over that hard, virile body and make Jesse Hawk beg for mercy. Make him miss her the way she'd missed him.

Angry, Patricia plunged her tongue into his mouth and tugged a little viciously on his hair. He kissed her back, meeting her defiant strokes lustily. But much too quickly he pulled back and caught his breath. For Patricia the kiss ended the way it had begun, like unprotected sex—exciting and risky. She wanted more.

While she struggled to rein in her hormones, Jesse leaned forward again and pressed his lips to her ear. "You did well," he whispered, his voice tinged with arousal. "Now Peter will think we're headed to some cheap motel to tear each other's clothes off."

Patricia sobered immediately. Somehow she'd forgotten all about Peter Crandall. Forgotten why she had agreed to kiss Jesse.

Mortified, she tugged her jacket closed, hiding her distended nipples. How could she have gotten so carried away? In public, no less, standing in front of one of the most prestigious establishments in Arrow Hill.

She dared a quick glance around. The crowd had lessened, but not enough to her liking. She felt like a first-class slut. Her. The woman who hadn't had sex in twelve years.

Jesse reached for her hand. "Perfect timing. The truck's here."

Perfect timing for whom? She had to climb into that enormous beast. Last time there hadn't been a curious army watching.

The valet opened her door, but Jesse gave the young man a tip and sent him on his way. "I'll help her up."

He held Patricia's waist while she attempted to keep her balance and her hemline down at the same time. She failed. Miserably. Her dress hiked just as her bottom hit the seat.

Jesse stood staring at the tops of her thigh-high hose. She pulled the dress down and glared at him. "Shut the door."

He blinked and lifted his gaze. "Huh?"

"The door. Close it."

"Oh. Sorry."

He hopped into the driver's seat with ease, but he wasn't wearing a short skirt and high heels. If she were in a better mood, that ridiculous visual would have made her laugh. But as it was, she'd checked her humor at the curb.

He turned toward her. "How do those things stay up like that?"

She snapped the seat belt into place. "What things?"

"Your nylons."

Good God. "They just do. Now will you drive?" She wanted to put as much distance between The Captain'sInnand herself as possible.

He kicked the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. "Are they uncomfortable?"

Patricia rolled her eyes. Men and their weird obsessions. "Why? Are you in the market for a pair of hose?"

"Yeah, if they've got legs like yours attached." He stopped at a red light and flashed a naughty country-boy smile, his gaze melting over her like a pad of honey-flavored butter.

An unwelcome heat settled between her thighs. That sexy smile had probably seduced half the women inTulsa. She'd be damned if she'd let it work on her. "Don't act like a stallion in the process of mounting a mare, Jesse. It's ungentlemanly."

His smile faded. "Hey, you're the one who wore that skimpy dress."

Did he have any idea how much designer fashions cost these days? "This is a perfectly respectable garment."

"It's short," he challenged. "And tight."

Patricia stared straight ahead. "Is that why you thought you had the right to make that crack about cheap motels?"

He pulled the truck over, cut the engine and killed the lights in one angry motion. They were in the residential area of Arrow Hill, parked in front of a large limestone house that belonged to a doctor her father golfed with occasionally.

"As I recall," he said in a low, seething tone. "You were the one who jammed your tongue down my throat."

She raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist and cuffed it with a deadly grip. "You're a spoiled brat, Tricia. How the hell I'm ever going to be friends with you, I'll never know."

"You're just acting like this because you want to sleep with me," she blurted out, jerking her arm free.

Her words managed to silence them both. Too late to bite them back, she thought, as Jesse turned away. He knew she'd spoken the truth. And she was certain he knew she craved him, too. Somehow, they'd rekindled an unwanted sexual attraction—a need they couldn't fill.

He drove her home, without a response. Patricia refused his offer to help her exit his truck, so, to avoid breaking her neck, she removed her shoes before climbing out. She walked to the front door in her stocking feet, and upon entering the house, heard his truck roll out of the driveway.

They would have to see each other again, she realized with an emotional sigh. They had a child to consider and twelve years of pain that could never be forgotten.

* * *

The following evening Patricia sat across from Dillon in the kitchen, watching her son study the leather pouch Jesse had left behind. Dillon had returned from his grandfather's house not more than twenty minutes before. He'd found the gift and brought it downstairs.

"So the stuff inside is medicine?" he asked, handling the worn buckskin carefully.

She nodded. Although she had a limited knowledge of Jesse's culture, she knew enough for a simple explanation. "Yes, but it's not drugstore medicine. People place items in a spirit bag that are special to them, objects they feel will protect them in some way. Everyone's bag contains something different."

"So what's in this one?"

"I don't know, but your father said it was okay for you to open it. He also said you could remove anything you wanted to, and put your own special items inside."

"I don't think I want to open it." He placed the bag on the table, fingering the beaded pattern in the center. "It looks kind of old. Like my dad's had it a long time."

A swell of pride warmed her heart. Clearly Dillon respected the gift he'd been given, honored it in his own youthful way. Most kids would have dumped the contents onto the table without the slightest regard for their sentimental value. "Your dad made that bag when he was about your age."

And Jesse had worn it always, Patricia recalled, even when they'd made love. Although the pouch served as a spiritual totem, it had also been like an extension of Jesse's physical being. She was glad Dillon had it now. It seemed right somehow.

Patricia tried not to think about how her dinner with Jesse had ended, or what a distraction he'd become. She'd had the most unproductive day of her life. She'd gone into work and stared at the office walls, returning only a few mandatory calls. Luckily her father hadn't witnessed her slump, since he'd taken the day off to be with Dillon. In the last few years Raymond Boyd spent most of his time engaging in recreational activities. Patricia assumed that was his way of gearing up for retirement, as well as preparing her to take his place.

"Are my dad's feelings hurt?" Dillon asked, jarring Patricia from her thoughts.

"You mean because you don't want to meet him?"

"Uh-huh."

She studied her son's serious expression. "Your father was orphaned when he was only two. Besides a brother inCalifornia, you're his only family. So I would imagine he's hurting. But he's also willing to give you the time you need."

"I think I should meet him," the boy said. "As long as you'll be there, Mom. I don't want to hang out with him all by myself."

"Of course I'll be there." Patricia smiled. It seemed as though Jesse's medicine had touched Dillon already, opened a small door between father and son. Yesterday Dillon had panicked, but tonight he'd made a mature decision, even if he was still afraid. "When do you think we should have this meeting?" she asked him.

"I don't know. This weekend, maybe. Does he have weekends off?"

She had no idea what Jesse's schedule was like. "I could stop by his house before work tomorrow and find out." She could call, of course, but that would be the coward's way. And Patricia had never been a coward. "Maybe I could invite him to a picnic. We could meet at the park." A neutral place surrounded by tall trees, fuzzy squirrels and ducks gliding across a man-made pond.

"Okay." Dillon picked up the medicine bag. "Eldacould fry some chicken and make potato salad."

"Sure, I'll talk to her after I see your dad." Dillon's former nanny prepared all of their meals, so it was only natural for him to suggestElda'sfried chicken. Patricia had never learned to cook. Scrambling eggs and boiling hot dogs, she could handle. Beyond that, she didn't have a clue.

Dillon put the leather pouch in his pocket and went to the refrigerator. He poured a glass of milk and looked back at his mom. "Did my dad give you those flowers?"

Patricia reached for the sunflower arrangement. "Yes, he did."

"So you're friends now, right?"

Friends? No. They were ex-lovers caught between hunger and hatred. "We're working on it," she answered, then changed the subject hastily. "Do you want to go into town for a hot-fudge sundae? I'm dying for dessert." She needed to sink her mouth into something rich and creamy, something that would curb her craving for Jesse.

"Sure." Dillon abandoned his milk. "But I have to get my shoes."

"No problem. I need my purse." She followed her son upstairs, her mind straying once again to Jesse—the man she'd never really gotten over.

* * *

The next morning Jesse stared at the reception area in his clinic. Good Lord. He'd attempted to unlock the door, only to find Fiona had beat him to it. And now he could do nothing but gape, his jaw feeling as though it were inches from the floor.

She smiled, her red bouffant higher than usual this bright summer day.

He closed his mouth. "You redecorated?" Stupid question, he thought. The clinic looked as though a litter of dalmatians had befriended a jungle cat.

A tiger-print valance decorated the top of each window, and the vinyl chairs, formerly all white, wore black doggy spots. Framed pictures of well-known cartoon animals littered the walls.

Fiona began arranging a tall display stocked with rawhide chews and squeaky toys. "It looks great, doesn't it?"

The wall display looked just fine, but he knew she meant her other handiwork. "It's … colorful," he managed to say, forcing a smile. She looked so pleased with herself, he couldn't bear to burst her bubble. Maybe his clients would appreciate her efforts. The place did have charm—in an animated sort of way.

"I'll have to bring Barney in," Jesse said. "He'll feel right at home."

Fiona adjusted her glasses. "Barney?"

"My parrot. He loves cartoons. Watches TV all day."

She beamed. "He sounds delightful. Just delightful."

As the front door opened, they both turned to see a sleek brunette walk into the room, black heels clicking on the sterile white floor.

Jesse's heart took a sudden leap. Tricia.

He couldn't think of anything to say. Last night Tricia had accused him of wanting to sleep with her, and this morning there she stood—his living, breathing, walking fantasy. Of course he wanted to sleep with her. What man wouldn't? Especially a guy like himself, he decided, who had already known her touch. Unfortunately, twelve years didn't seem all that long to his libido.

"Oh, my." Fiona's Southern drawl interrupted the silence. "Don't you look lovely, Patricia." The older lady turned toward Jesse. "Doesn't she look lovely?"

His gaze locked with Tricia's. "Yeah. Lovely."

Sexy would have been his word choice—long-legged Tricia decked out in another of her classy business suits. This one, a striking emerald-green, sported simple gold buttons. The jacket hugged her waist, and the skirt rode several inches above her knees. Jesse's blood warmed. Was she wearing those thigh-high nylons underneath?

Tricia broke their riveting stare. "You look lovely yourself," she said, turning to Fiona with a smile. "It's been ages since we've seen each other."

Of course it had, Jesse thought. Fiona Lee Beaumont and Patricia Ann Boyd didn't dine at the same restaurants or shop in the same stores. The eccentric Cat Lady and the richest girl in Arrow Hill came from different worlds.

"I work for Jesse now," Fiona responded, her smile equally friendly. "And I'd offer you a seat, but the paint's not dry."

Tricia glanced at the spotted chairs. "That's all right. I don't intend to stay long. I just stopped by to talk to Jesse for a few minutes." She continued to study the chairs. "I assume he put you in charge of decorating."

"Fiona surprised me," Jesse offered before the elderly woman could respond.

Tricia met his gaze once again, only this time with a spark of amusement in her eye. "You did a wonderful job," she told Fiona. "Very clever, painting the chairs."

"Why, thank you." The older lady patted her starched bouffant. "Always had a flair for the arts."

Jesse stole a glance at the chairs, hoping that shiny black paint wouldn't eventually rub off on people's behinds. Spotted butts weren't exactly the rage.

After the women exchanged a few more pleasantries, Jesse excused himself and Tricia, then escorted her to the break room for some privacy.

Playing the proper host, he poured two cups of coffee, offered her cream and sugar, and watched while she sweetened her drink. She took a sip and placed the cup on the card table that dominated the small room.

He wondered if she'd come by to address their strange relationship—enforce some rules for future "friendship" dinners, like keeping their hands and their mouths off each other. Would he be able to follow those rules? Sexual spontaneity wasn't Jesse's usual style, but with Tricia he found himself acting on impulse and not liking it one damn bit. That's why he hadn't responded to her accusation last night. She'd damaged his heart, yet he still wanted to sleep with her. What did that say about his character?

Tricia seated herself in a fold-out chair and crossed her legs, her voice as feminine as the silky blouse beneath her jacket. "Fiona is a gem, isn't she? I always liked her."

Jesse lifted his cup and sipped the hot brew in an attempt to act casual. He hadn't expected small talk, but he'd play it Tricia's way. She didn't need to know those legs of hers had become his obsession, that visualizing them wrapped around his waist was a fantasy he couldn't seem to shake.

Besides, he had to agree, Fiona was a gem. The nutty old lady was fast becoming his dearest friend. "Yeah, she's a doll, but I nearly had a heart attack this morning when I came in and saw the waiting room."

"I'll bet."

A smile brightened Tricia's face. God, she was pretty, he thought. A classic beauty who wore her sensuality with style and grace. Jesse scrubbed his hand across his jaw. Damn her. Why didn't she just get to the point?

"So is the clinic officially open yet?" she asked.

More small talk? Jesse struggled to keep his cool. Offering her coffee had been a mistake. People tended to linger over coffee. Her legs and his libido weren't good company over a steaming cup of Java. "No. I had to reorder some supplies that never arrived. And besides that, I've been busy on ranch calls. I picked up some new accounts since I came to town. Nothing major, just some recreational riders, but every little bit helps."

"You always did love horses. I should have known you'd specialize in equine care."

"Yeah." And last night she'd accused him of acting like a stallion in the process of mounting a mare. "What's on your mind, Tricia? Why did you stop by?"

"I was getting to that," she said, rising to stand on those gorgeous limbs. "I was hoping you had time for a picnic this weekend."

"A picnic?"

"Dillon wants to meet you."

Immediately Jesse's heart soared into parental heaven as a smile spilt across his face. "A picnic sounds great." He reached out to touch to her hand. "I promise I'll be a good dad."

She brushed his knuckles. "I'm sure you will, Jesse. But you have to remember how much time has passed. You can't expect a relationship to develop overnight."

He nodded. Jesse knew how much time had passed, and he also knew it was Tricia who had kept him from being a father to his son. Forgiving her, even for Dillon's sake, might not be possible. So wanting to make love to her again, he decided, was sheer insanity. Tackling friendship would be challenge enough. He turned his back and rinsed his coffee cup. More than enough.
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Chapter 5

«^»

OnSaturday afternoon Jesse sat beneath a shady tree inArrowPondPark, Cochise lolling at his side.

"I'm nervous," he told the dog. More nervous than he'd ever been in his life.

Cochise lifted his head, then nudged Jesse's knee as though offering comfort. Jesse stroked the rottweiler's coat. He'd brought the dog along for moral support. Waiting by himself would have been far too lonely.

Cochise was attached to a leash, although the rotty was much too well behaved to run off. The park did seem a bit lax about the animals-on-leashes rule. Jesse noticed a few mutts were loose, trotting playfully after their families. But Cochise didn't look like most mutts. The rottweiler was built like a prizefighter, his head the size of a basketball. Jesse chuckled. Most folks cleared the sidewalk when they saw Cochise coming. Little did they know the big dog would have whined at their feet if given half the chance.

Jesse gazed at Cochise. The rotty perked up his ears in response. Did they look alike? Supposedly dog owners were notorious for choosing breeds that resembled their own appearance.

"Tricia probably thinks I'm a dog," Jesse said. He knew she was as hurt and angry over their past as he. Supposedly she had expected him to return after college to prove his worth to Raymond Boyd, yet she had kept their baby a secret. That made no sense.

He turned his attention to the pond, to the ripple of sunlight shooting across the water. This was not the time to dwell on his dispute with Tricia. This perfect summer day belonged to Dillon.

As though his mind had conjured their images, Jesse turned to see a slim brunette in the distance, a young boy at her side. "Oh, God, they're here."

When Jesse hopped up, so did Cochise. The rotty waited patiently as Jesse took a deep, cleansing breath and tried his damnedest to look dadlike.

He gripped the dog's leash and strode in their direction, his focus on Dillon, on the boy's straight posture and somewhat baggy, casual clothes. He looked healthy, his hair longer and his skin darker than in the photograph Jesse had seen. Summer seemed to suit Dillon Hawk.

"Hi." Tricia spoke first as they came face-to-face. And although she made the introductions in a warm voice, they sounded odd. "Dillon, this is your dad. Jesse, this is Dillon."

Jesse droppedCochise's leash and stepped forward a little as Dillon placed the basket he carried onto the ground. "It's nice to meet you," the child said, automatically extending his hand.

"I've been looking forward to today," Jesse responded, thinking how proper Dillon suddenly seemed. He shook the boy's hand and searched Dillon's face. The eleven-year-old glanced at him briefly, took his hand back, then lowered his gaze to the rottweiler. "That's Cochise," Jesse offered quickly. "He loves kids."

The rottweiler parked his butt in the grass and wiggled more than a professionally trained dog should. Jesse figured the dog had spotted the Frisbee poking out of the tote bag on Tricia's arm.

"He's pretty cool. Can I pet him?" Dillon asked.

"Sure." Jesse watched his son move toward the rotty. At least the boy liked his dog. So far Dillon still hadn't made direct eye contact with him.

"I saved us a shady spot," he told Tricia, relieving her of the oversize bag. "That's my blanket and ice chest over there."

"We brought a blanket, too."

"Oh."

Small talk, Jesse thought. He'd never been good at it. Naturally, Tricia was. She filled the awkward silence easily, taking charge in a non-intrusive manner.

"Why don't you take Cochise's leash," she suggested to their son, "and I'll carry the basket."

"Okay," Dillon answered, the rotty sniffing him happily.

The boy looked up at Tricia and sent her a smile Jesse wished had been for him.You can't expect a relationship to develop overnight. Although Tricia had warned him with those words, Jesse had hoped to bond instantly with his son.

They used both blankets to make their picnic area bigger. Tricia suggested lunch, but Dillon said he wasn't hungry yet, so they drank lemonade and talked about the weather, the ducks in the pond, the possible age of the trees. The forced conversation made Jesse uneasy since his son seemed to be avoiding him. The park buzzed with family activity, but Jesse doubted any was quite as uncomfortable as theirs. Then again, Tricia and Dillon were family. He was a stranger looking in. Would he always be the wayward father, an outsider struggling to find a place in his son's heart?

Cochise whined at the tote bag, then wagged his bobbed tail. "He wants to play Frisbee," Jesse said. "He already spotted it in the bag."

"I'll play with him," Dillon offered.

"Sure. Okay." Apparently dog and child wanted to escape. At this point, Jesse wasn't about to mention the park rule about dogs being leashed. He unhooked the leather strap from the rottweiler's collar.

Dillon turned to his mom. "It's okay with you, right?"

She smiled. "Of course."

"Cool." Dillon searched for the Frisbee that had fallen deeper into the bag. Cochise whined again, only louder this time.

"Go on," Jesse told the dog as Dillon stood, yellow disc in hand.

They tore off together, within sight but far enough away to have room to play.

Tricia drew her knees up and watched the activity. "Cochise sure is excited."

"Yeah. He's a Frisbee fanatic." Jesse watched, too, marveling at his son, at the sudden laughter spilling from the child as Cochise dived for the neon disc. "Dillon won't even look at me, Tricia."

She turned to face him. "Oh, Jesse. He's nervous. Scared to death, in fact. Here you are, this big, brawny man he's supposed to impress. And you do seem a little uptight. I'm sure he senses that."

"I'm not uptight. I'm—" he blew a frustrated breath "—just trying to act like a dad."Which was crazy since he'd never had a dad and didn't know how one should act. The death of his parents had left him alone from an early age. Being withdrawn was second nature, feeling like a stranger in other people's homes, with other people's families. He didn't know anything else. "I'm nervous, too. I want Dillon to like me."

She scooted closer. "He will if you relax. Just be yourself, Jesse."

Yeah, right. Easy for her to say. She'd always known who she was and where she'd come from. Roots, he thought. Tricia had established roots. Jesse's had yet to take hold.

"You look cute today," he told her. She rarely wore such casual clothes. The denim shorts and flowery cotton top gave her a girl-next-door appeal. Well, sort of. Those long, bare legs didn't quite fit that wholesome image.

For an instant she leaned against his shoulder. Half-tempted to keep her close, Jesse almost put his arm around her. But realizing he wasn't her husband, lover or boyfriend, he stopped himself. Their time together had ended years ago.

"Look at those two," Tricia said, gesturing toward Dillon and Cochise.

Jesse smiled. Dillon had invented a new game. Rather than throw the Frisbee toward Cochise, he would fling it in the opposite direction, then race the dog for it. The rotty never looked happier. The boy looked happy, too, his brown hair shining in theOklahomasunshine.

"He's a handsome kid," Jesse said.

"Of course he is." Tricia bumped his shoulder again. "He looks just like you."

A short while later, Dillon and Cochise returned. The child fell onto the blanket, the dog panting beside him. "A drink, Mom," Dillon said dramatically. "Hurry before I die."

Automatically Jesse filled a plastic cup with lemonade and handed it to Tricia. She passed it to Dillon. He leaned forward and guzzled the cold liquid while Tricia cautioned him to slow down. Jesse grinned. At that moment Tricia sounded like a typical mom. Dillon ignored her warning and drained the cup in record time.

Following suit, Cochise went to the water bowl Jesse had placed on the grass and lapped greedily. Afterward the exhausted rotty curled up at his master's feet.

"Do you think Cochise looks like me?" Jesse asked out loud. Tricia had called him big and brawny. The black-and-tan dog was big and brawny, too.

Tricia laughed. "Actually, Jesse, there is a resemblance." She turned to their son, moving so the boy would have an unobstructed view of his father. "Don't you think so?"

Dillon gazed at Jesse and their eyes met and held. Gray eyes, the same yet different. Dillon's were edged with blue. Oh, God, Jesse thought. He's looking at me, not through me, but at me.

Remembering what Tricia had said about Dillon being nervous, Jesse flashed his warmest smile. "You know, if Cochise resembles me, then he favors you, too. Your mom seems to think that you and I look alike."

"Oh." Rather than return the smile, Dillon glanced down at his hands, openly uncomfortable.

Jesse swallowed. Damn. Apparently Dillon didn't want to compare his features with a man he'd just met. A stranger.

A stream of silence ensued, but this time Tricia didn't intervene. She sat quietly as well. Unsure of where to look, Jesse glanced up at the tree and caught sight of a squirrel scurrying up the bark. "Look! That littleeró was spying on us."

Dillon and Tricia followed his gaze. Bright smiles lit their faces. Thank God for animals, Jesse thought. They'd always been his salvation.

"Why did you call it that funny name?" Dillon asked, watching the furry critter peer through the branches.

"Eró?"Jesse said, pronouncing ther with anhi sound. "That means squirrel in Muskokee. Theeró teaches us about preparing ourselves for the future. They gather and store nuts the way we store information."

Appearing genuinely interested in the lesson, Dillon turned his attention to Cochise. "How do you say dog in Muskokee?"

"Éfv."Jesse glanced at Cochise and grinned. The rotty was snoring. "And aside from teaching us how to sleep at a picnic, dogs carry the gift of loyalty. There's no creature more loyal than a dog."

"You're a veterinarian, huh?"

The question pleased Jesse. That Dillon cared enough to ask mattered. "Yeah. I just opened a clinic behind my house." Should he extend an invitation for his son to visit him at home, or was it too soon? Should he let Tricia talk to Dillon about it first?

As Jesse contemplated the answers, Dillon inched closer, then reached into his pocket and removed a familiar object.

Oh, God. Jesse's heart raced to keep up with his pulse. The medicine bag.

The eleven-year-old held out the bag. "I haven't opened it yet. I um … wasn't sure…"

"We can open it now," Jesse suggested, reaching for the pouch, his hand a little shaky. "Together."

* * *

Together. Patricia swallowed the lump in her throat. Jesse and Dillon were together at last. How many times had she dreamed of this moment, hoped for it? But reality, it seemed, never lived up to one's dreams. In Patricia's dreams, this meeting would have happened years ago. She knew Jesse had been angry when he'd left town, but regardless, he had promised to come back. Or that was how it had seemed to her.

You'll come back, won'tyou, Jesse?

Damn right, I will.

How pathetically naive she'd been. She had waited for Jesse, far longer than necessary, always making excuses: he was dyslexic so college would take him longer than most; he wouldn't return unless he was successful; he was waiting for the right moment.

As all the hurt and anger came rushing back, Patricia lifted her drink and sipped, telling herself now wasn't the time to rehash the past. Jesse was back, and more than willing to be a father. So what if he had never really loved her, that didn't mean he wouldn't love their son.

Patricia sat quietly while Jesse explained the meaning behind the objects in his medicine bag. Jesse had placed a bear claw in the bag because he believed his father's people were from the Bear Clan. His brother, Sky, however, preferred to think they had descended from the Wind Clan.

"But Sky is biased," Jesse told Dillon. "His wife's name is Windy. So he seems to think that's some sort of sign."

"Where did you get this?" Dillon asked, studying the claw.

"I found it in the woods, embedded in a tree. So that was like my sign. But I don't know if we'll ever find out what clan we're really from. No one around here seemed to know my parents very well. I guess they pretty much kept to themselves."

Sadness seeped into Jesse's tone, but Patricia noticed he brushed it away quickly. Clearly this moment with Dillon was too important for him to mar it with heartache.

She watched as Dillon examined his father's medicine: the tip of a hawk feather, a sprig of sage, a small collection of gemstones, a wallet-size picture. A newborn baby, Patricia noticed.

"This is Shawna," Jesse said, fingering the photograph. "She's my brother's daughter."

Dillon took the picture. "So Shawna's my cousin."

She heard the awe in her son's voice, understanding it well. She, too, had suffered the loneliness of being an only child, wishing for brothers, sisters, cousins and wild, wacky family reunions.

Patricia sighed. Jesse had called her spoiled, but she didn't view herself that way. Being raised on a private street had its drawbacks. So when her father had offered her and Dillon a permanent home in his mansion, she'd politely refused. She couldn't bear to have her son rattling around in that house the way she'd done, longing for companionship or a friendly neighbor, kids playing out front. Beautiful as the mansion was, it seemed hollow at times. Haunted. Not by ghosts, but by seclusion.

"What's in here?" Dillon asked Jesse, lifting a small square of waxed paper.

"That's … um—" Jesse reached for the object, then dropped his hand, as though the tiny package had the power to singe his fingers "—a lock of your mom's hair."

Patricia's heart soared to her throat. Jesse lifted his head and their eyes met.

All at once, a flood of conflicting emotions rushed through her. She had offered that small clipping because Jesse had held her close one afternoon, wishing he could keep a part of her with him forever. "I miss you when we're not together," he'd whispered. "God, Tricia, I love you so much."

When did you realize that you didn't really love me? she wanted to ask. That I was just an infatuation, a means to sate your youthful lust? And why on earth had he kept a lock of her hair tucked away in his medicine bag all these years? Surely he considered that bag much too sacred to house trophies from his sexual conquests, so there had to be another reason.

She held his stare. His uneasy stare. He'd forgotten about it, she decided. Forgotten he had it until this awkward moment.

"That's yours now," Patricia told Dillon while she continued to hold Jesse's gaze.

Dillon slipped each item back into the pouch. "This is like a time capsule or something. It's pretty rad."

Neither Jesse nor Tricia spoke. Dillon's words were all too true. A time capsule. Pieces of their past. Painful mementos. Jesse looked away, and Patricia wanted to scratch and scream, push him to the ground and fight for her honor—win back what he had taken from her. Not the lock of hair, but the love it represented. She had given herself freely to him: heart, body and soul. And now damn it, she wanted to destroy it all, every glorious, painful memory.

Dillon stuffed the medicine bag back into his pocket. "Can we eat now, Mom?"

"Of course, honey." She feigned a calm voice and proceeded to unpack lunch.

They ate fried chicken, potato salad and strawberry parfait while Cochise gnawed on a barbecue-flavored rib bone Jesse had brought along.

"Are you okay?" Dillon asked his mother as she picked at her food.

Trust Dillon to sense her uneasiness. "I'm fine. I'm just not all that hungry."

"The chicken's great," Jesse remarked. "You're quite a cook."

Patricia balanced her plate on her lap. "I didn't make it.Eldadid. She's our housekeeper."

"Eldaused to be my nanny," Dillon added. "But I don't need one anymore."

"Yeah, I guess you're too old for that sort of thing." Jesse smiled at his son, but when he turned toward Patricia, the smile faded, telling her what he thought about Dillon being raised with a nanny.

She sent him a defiant stare. "Eldahas become a very dear friend."

He held her gaze. "Well, she's a good cook. I'll say that much for her."

"My mom's too busy to cook," Dillon said, as he took another helping of the strawberry parfait. "She works really hard."

Patricia's stomach clenched. Was Dillon making excuses for her or offering a show of support? Suddenly, not knowing how to fry chicken made her feel inadequate.

"She'd probably be a great cook if she had more time to learn how," Dillon offered, making Patricia aware of his motives.

Her son wasn't condemning her. He was building her up for his father's benefit, trying to prove her worth to Jesse. Jesse, who had an I told-you-so look in his eye. A look that clearly said, "I knew you were a spoiled brat, Patricia. A pampered rich girl. You don't know how to cook because there's always been someone available to do it for you."

She wanted to throttle every gorgeous inch of him. She did work hard. Extremely hard.

And so do millions of other single mothers, her guilty conscience said. Women who came home from a hard day at the office and made their children dinner rather than head for a luxuriously scented bath. Women who washed their own clothes, cleaned their own houses.

So I'll learn to cook, she decided. And when she did, she'd jam the best damn meal Jesse Hawk had ever tasted right down his throat. How dare he come to town after the fact and criticize her life-style. Where was he when his son was cutting his first painful teeth? Off bumping hips with some college bimbo?

The day wound down quietly, and when they parted ways, Patricia watched Dillon and Jesse shake hands, even though she could tell Jesse had hoped for a hug. Too bad, she thought. He'd have to earn his son's affection. Become the father he should have been all those years ago.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 6

«^»

OnMonday morning Patricia sat across from her father in his office at Boyd Enterprises waiting for him to speak. An "emergency meeting" usually meant an important deal was in danger of collapsing.

Raymond cleared his throat. He looked discomposed, Patricia thought. Although his suit was impeccably pressed, his tie had been loosened, which meant he'd been tugging at it. He rarely resorted to that nervous habit. She scooted to the edge of her seat. Something was definitely wrong.

"I received a disturbing phone call this morning, Patricia." His words sounded uncharacteristically personal, as though the phone call had been her fault.

Patricia held her breath. "And?"

"And I'm appalled," he spouted. "How could you behave like that in a public place? And withhim?"

The air she'd been holding whooshed out.Him. Undoubtedly that bitter-sounding reference meant Jesse. And her behavior clearly meant that lusty kiss in front of The Captain'sInn. She straightened her posture defensively, a mix of shame and anger building inside her chest. "Peter Crandall called, didn't he? God, I hate that man."

"Is that all you have to say for yourself, young lady?"

"Don't speak to me as though I'm a child. I have the right to have dinner with whomever I choose," she retorted.

"Dinner?" Her father drummed his fingers on the desktop. "Is that what it's called these days?"

Patricia glanced away. She had practically devoured Jesse that evening, struggled to sate an appetite that raged blindly out of control—a sexual starvation of sorts. "I kissed him. So what? I haven't been out with a man in months." And the business associates she attended charity functions with didn't inspire her libido.

"We're not talking about just any man." Raymond pulled at his tie. Patricia recognized it as the one Dillon had given him last Christmas. "I can't believe you've taken up with Jesse Hawk again."

She blew another anxious breath, feeling like a chastised teenager, a girl who didn't have enough sense to come in out of the rain. Or in this case, stay out of Jesse's arms. "I haven't 'taken up' with him. The only reason we kissed that night was to make Peter think I had a lover so he'd quit pestering me."

Raymond slanted one graying eyebrow. "And whose ridiculous idea was that?"

Jesse's, of course, but she wasn't about to admit it. "I'm not a naive young girl anymore. I know what I'm doing this time." Nothing but befriending her son's father, she told herself.

Raymond shook his head, blatant disapproval sending creases across his forehead—deep, hard creases. "You're asking for trouble, that's what you're doing. And apparently wherethat man is concerned, you're as naive as before."

I am not,Patricia chanted as she left Boyd Enterprises seven hours later and proceeded to Jesse's house. She had promised Dillon she and Jesse would try to be friends, and that was all she intended to do. No more hungry kisses or spine-tingling caresses. Her father was wrong. Dead wrong. She could handle herself just fine around Jesse Hawk. Eleven years as a single mother had taught her plenty. She didn't need a man in her life, especially the one who had leftMarlowCountywithout a backward glance.

Then why, she wondered, had she just parked in Jesse's graveled driveway?

To invite him to a charity function, she told herself a moment later, to fulfill her obligation to Dillon. And maybe, just maybe, to thumb her nose at her father for sticking his where it didn't belong. A grown woman shouldn't have to defend herself for one measly, out-of-control kiss.

Patricia knocked, and Jesse answered the door wearing faded jeans and a pale-gray shirt, untucked and unbuttoned. The color of the fabric made his eyes appear silver, a metallic shade she used to love.

"Hi," he said, peering around her, apparently hoping to see Dillon.

"I just got off work," she offered, explaining their son's absence.

"Yeah, me, too."

He didn't need to say that he'd been out on ranch calls. She could tell he'd spent his day around horses. He had that cowboy-veterinarian look about him: scuffed Western boots covered his feet, and hard-earned sweat trickled down the center of his chest.

He followed her gaze. "Sorry. I haven't showered yet."

No apology necessary, Patricia thought. She couldn't help but appreciate his rugged appearance. A man who tended horses on a hot summer day had the right to sweat. She'd always believed doctors were a noble breed, especially the ones who cared for sick children and ailing animals.

"I won't keep you long," she said.

He stepped away from the door. "That's okay. Come on in."

* * *

Much like the man, his house exhibited a primitive charm: hardwood floors had been polished to perfection; chinked log walls and hand-crafted tables displayed a collection of tribal artifacts. A long headdress hung on one wall trailing brightly colored feathers, while weavings, baskets and pottery emphasized American Indian traditions.

"Your home is beautiful, Jesse." She knew he had been responsible for a good portion of its restored beauty, refinishing tables and stripping ancient floors.

"Thanks." He motioned toward the hallway. "The addition is almost done. I plan on using it as a guest room. This place has two bedrooms, but one of them is pretty tiny."

Patricia glanced down the hallway, then startled as a squawking noise sounded behind her. She turned to see a gray parrot perched atop a tall, wire cage, its feathered head cocked at a curious angle. Below the cage sat a large glass terrarium inhabited by a bright-green iguana. The top of the lizard's cage was open, offering the reptile the same freedom the bird had, only the iguana chose to remain within the security of its home, nibbling on a platter of fruits and vegetables.

Jesse grinned. "That's Barney and Sally. Barney, say hello to Tricia."

The parrot ruffled his feathers, then whistled like a construction worker checking out a babe on the corner.

Patricia burst into a girlish giggle. Barney had puffed himself up, pretty and proud, like a peacock. "I'm flattered, Barney. Thank you."

Jesse shook his head. "That bird watches way too much TV. I swear I didn't teach him that."

She almost laughed again. Jesse looked embarrassed by the parrot's flirtatious behavior. But then, Jesse had never been overly flirtatious. He wouldn't think of whistling at a woman. His methods were much more subtle. And effective, she decided, remembering the first time she had allowed him to slip his hands under her blouse. He had actually asked for permission to touch her, his voice low and alluring. Refusing hadn't seemed like an option. She had wanted to feel his hands on her breasts.

"Tricia?"

She snapped to attention, jerking her shoulders in the process. "What?"

"Do you want to sit down?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you." She lowered herself onto a tan-colored sofa and told her memories to behave. They had just been teenagers experimenting. Or he had been, anyway. She had been a girl in love. A foolish girl, too young to know better.

Patricia gazed at Jesse's naked chest. How dare her father accuse her of being naive now. Hadn't she told Jesse off after that kiss? She lifted her gaze to Jesse's sun-bronzed face. They both knew Dillon was their only bond, their reason for socializing. Their romance had ended long ago.

"I came here to invite you to a charity ball this Friday," Patricia said. "I have an extra ticket and thought you might like to go." She hadn't actually planned on attending, at least not until today. She had only purchased the tickets because the money was being donated to an important cause. She was tired of attending charity functions with business associates, men who idolized her father's money.

Jesse sat across from her in a leather chair. "A ball?"

"Dinner, dancing, that sort of thing," she explained. "The chief of staff at the hospital arranges it every year. The proceeds are used for cancer research." Patricia's mother had died of a cancer that had gone undetected until it was too late. The thought made her sad, homesick for a woman she didn't remember. "I only bought the tickets to help out with the charity," she admitted, to let Jesse know he hadn't been invited because a previous escort had bowed out. "But truthfully, I could use a night out."

"Sure. Okay. But a ball sounds kind of fancy. Am I supposed to wear a tux?"

She nodded. "It's a black tie event. You don't mind taking me on a friendship date, do you?"

"No, not at all."

She stood to leave. "Thanks. I'll let you go." He was probably anxious to shower and change. Patricia knew she was. Her feet ached from a new pair of pointed-toe pumps.

He walked her onto the porch. "I'm still going to get to see Dillon on Sunday, right?"

"Of course." After she and Dillon had their customary breakfast with her father. "I'll bring him here, okay?"

He smiled. "That'd be great. He can meet Barney and Sally."

Patricia watched as a warm wind stirred Jesse's hair, and tried to picture him in a tuxedo. Would he look more handsome than most? "Will you pick me up at seven on Friday?" she asked.

He nodded, and she thought for a moment to ask him if they could take her car, but immediately decided against the suggestion. It would probably sound uppity to a man like Jesse. Besides, she could handle riding in Jesse's enormous truck, just the way she could handle being near him. He'd look like any other man in a tuxedo, only taller and broader, with eyes the color of lightning.

* * *

Jesse had never worn a tux, been to a charity ball, nor stepped foot in a mansion, but tonight he was doing all three.

He offered Tricia his arm as they entered theMilfordestate, then waited while she checked her wrap. Tricia could have been a goddess, he thought, a creature as perfectly formed as the hothouse orchid he'd attached to her wrist. A beaded gown flowed over her curves like a lavender waterfall, each iridescent ornament reflecting tiny rays of light. The fabric draped in back, exposing the top of her spine in an enchanting display of delicate bones and creamy flesh. She belonged in this environment, was born to grace its overwhelming finery. She had grown up in a house like this, been raised by nannies and had eaten meals prepared by French cooks. For her, charity balls came as naturally as breathing.

Jesse, on the other hand, felt as though he was choking. Drowning in fear. He had been a ward of the state, a dyslexic foster child struggling to read—a boy who'd lived in modest homes with families that weren't really his. And since he had pretty much avoided social functions, his high school prom included, he'd never envisioned himself at a charity ball with a wealthy socialite on his arm. A woman who could point out original works of art as easily as reciting the alphabet.

As Tricia led Jesse toward the staircase, she told him about the Milford Estate. The Dutch Colonial structure, built in 1928, was the oldest mansion in Arrow Hill. The original owner, an elderly oil heiress, had willed her home to the Arrow Hill Historical Society, an organization she had founded. She had also left a sizable trust with instructions that the money be used to maintain the mansion for private tours and charity functions. Just like this little soiree, Jesse thought, anxiety mounting.

The entire third floor housed the ballroom. It was grand, historic and scary as hell. Sparkling chandeliers winked from the ceiling. Intricately carved moldings boasted 1920s craftsmanship, and leaded-glass doors accessed, twin terraces laden with statues, wishing wells and potted greenery.

An old-fashioned bandstand awaited the arrival of an orchestra, and linen-draped tables displayed floral arrangements, silverware and crystal goblets. But most intimidating were the people—women in glittering gowns being escorted by men who probably owned their tuxedos. Jesse had rented his.

Tricia accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter carrying a small tray. Jesse took one, as well, even though beer was more to his liking. Of course, he knew better than to expect frosty mugs of domestic ale.

"Most of these people live in Arrow Hill," Tricia said as she scanned the room. "I've known a lot of them since I was a child."

It was a diverse crowd, some younger than Jesse, others old enough to be grandparents. Since there were no other Indians present, Jesse knew he would not go unnoticed. His height alone set him apart as did his ponytail and a tiny silver hoop that pierced his left ear.

Tricia guided him through the ballroom, introducing him to doctors and lawyers, local politicians and women sporting diamond necklaces as big as squash blossoms. He shook hands with the men and smiled at the ladies, then chatted with a trio of board members from the Historical Society. They questioned him politely, inquiring about the purchase of his home. It appeared as though they appreciated his efforts to renovate the nineteenth-century farmhouse. Of course they did, Jesse thought with a wry smile as he dutifully answered their questions. The old Garrett homestead wasn't exactly a historical mansion, but some of its acreage bordered the green peaks of Arrow Hill.

After the board members moved on to mingle, Jesse caught sight of Peter Crandall strolling past in a high-and-mighty manner. Rather than ignore Peter's condescending stare, Jesse raised his glass at the fair-haired attorney, then brought the champagne to his lips. Pleasure followed the bubbling liquid down his throat. The mocking toast had felt nearly as good as socking Peter's snobbish jaw and watching it bruise. Jesse smiled as Tricia led him toward their assigned table. Maybe he could handle this society stuff after all.

Then again, maybe not, he decided fifteen minutes later. Dinner started with a watercress salad seasoned with a tangy vinaigrette dressing. Jesse would have preferred lettuce and tomatoes smothered in ranch. He almost felt silly eating delicate greens from a cut-glass platter. Suddenly his hands seemed big and clumsy. But hopefully no one would notice, especially since he was sandwiched between two beautiful women. Tricia graced his right while a stunning blonde sipped champagne on his left.

When the soup arrived, Jesse breathed a sigh of relief. It appeared to be a down-home broth, a cream of something-or-other. Potato, maybe, with chives sprinkled on top. He could handle that. He grew chives in his garden.

He dipped into his soup, swallowed a spoonful, then flinched. It was cold. Ice cold. Good God. He'd already suffered through that frilly salad.

He waited until Tricia tasted her soup, then leaned toward her and pressed his mouth to her ear. "Mine's cold," he whispered. "Is yours all right?"

"Yes," she whispered back. "It's supposed to be served chilled."

Mortified, he felt his face sting with the heat of embarrassment. "Oh. Sorry."

"That's okay. It grows on you."

But fancy balls never would, he decided. Jesse Hawk didn't belong in Tricia Boyd's world. Hell, she was probably thinking she should have left him back at the farm.

* * *

He was incredible, Patricia thought. Real and refreshing. She didn't care if he didn't know what vichyssoise was. Over half the population inAmericahad probably never eaten chilled potato-and-leek soup.

Jesse squared his shoulders, and Patricia's heart gave a little lurch. The fact that he'd successfully paired a ponytail with a tuxedo proved his sense of unpretentious style. The women at their table kept stealing admiring glances, and since Jesse had never been prone to small talk, the few words he'd offered held meaning—profound depth. He was, by far, the most intriguing man at the party.

Maybe too intriguing. By the time their waiter served dessert, Michelle Page, the blonde on Jesse's left, stared blatantly at his profile, drinking in those gorgeous features: the hollowed cheekbones, chiseled jaw, slightly aquiline nose.

Don't you dare, Patricia wanted to say. Michelle had already taken enough that should have belonged to her, including the homecoming queen crown during their senior year at Arrow Hill High. To continue a teenage rivalry seemed a bit petty, but Michelle had kept it alive all these years, flaunting her accomplishments and treating Patricia badly in the process.

Michelle licked the whipped cream from her cappuccino, her tongue darting daintily. She'd always used those full, overly glossed lips to her best advantage, pouting prettily when she didn't get her way. Patricia cringed inwardly. Men, no matter their age or level of intelligence, usually panted at her feet.

"You're the new veterinarian, aren't you?" Michelle cooed to Jesse's profile.

He turned, and Patricia wondered if he was smiling. Or drooling. She couldn't see his face.

"Yes. Jesse Hawk. Nice to meet you."

She extended her hand, then tilted her head, spilling golden waves over her shoulder. "Michelle Page. You don't happen to have a business card available, do you?"

Witch, Patricia thought. She'd recited her name and asked for Jesse's number all in the same breath.

"Sure." He removed a card from his jacket and handed it to her.

Michelle tucked it into an evening bag that matched her dress, white satin and silver sequins showcasing every curve she owned. "I have an Afghan named Sasha, and I have the feeling she would adore you."

"Afghans are wonderful dogs," Jesse said. "Naturally well mannered and elegant."

The blonde smiled as though the compliment had been meant for her, then cut into a strawberry lime tart. "This is my favorite dessert." She tasted it and moaned. "I think it's all that spun sugar."

A sugarcoated tart, Patricia thought, how fitting.

Michelle lifted a forkful toward Jesse. "Do you want a bite?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't move, either. Was he stunned? Aroused? Opening his mouth to be fed? Patricia wanted to kill them both. Murder them with her bare hands. Mavis Delinsky, the chair of the Arrow Hill Arts Council, watched from the other side of the table, her faced pinched in disapproval. Was it Michelle's abominable manners that bothered Mrs. Delinsky, or Jesse's typically male reaction?

Finally he spoke, lowering his head to the dessert in front of him. "No, thank you. I have my own." He turned toward Patricia then, lifting his gaze. "Would you like to dance?"

Since her heart had suddenly stuck quite happily in her throat, she nodded, rather than choke out a response. She'd been too busy with jealous thoughts to notice the band had begun to play.

He rose and asked the other guests to excuse them as he scooted Patricia's chair away from the table. Mrs. Delinsky smiled and nodded. Michelle huffed like an insolent child.

Jesse and Patricia joined the other couples on the dance floor. The romantic music, reminiscent of the era of the house, lulled Patricia into a trance. Or was it Jesse's arms? The gentle way in which he held her, his hand sliding down her back, teasing her spine?

They fit perfectly, the length of their bodies a sensual match. Men were rarely tall enough to suit her, but then she had compared every man to him, to his commanding height.

"We always felt right," he said, as though reading her mind. "Like we were meant to dance together."

She closed her eyes as his fingertips sparked an electrical charge down her spine. The first time he'd touched her, she'd known he was the one. "I remember."

He dipped his head, his breath brushing her ear. "Did you wear this dress for me?"

Did she? Maybe subconsciously. Her bare back used to be a fascination of his, a place to nip and kiss and nuzzle. She opened her eyes, forced herself to remember her surroundings: the other couples, the orchestra, the guests who sipped international coffee and watched the dance floor.

"Is it warm in here?" she asked.

"Your skin is warm."

He drew her closer and she realized he danced the way he made love—slowly and provocatively, a motion as smooth as a river current, as alluring and dangerous. She could feel his muscles beneath his jacket, a body she knew, yet didn't. The change in him aroused as much as frightened her. He could still hypnotize her, make her believe she belonged exclusively to him. She knew everyone in the room must have thought so, too. They probably looked like lovers who'd rekindled their long-ago-but-not-forgotten affair. By now their past was public knowledge. Patricia Boyd was dancing with the father of her child, melting bonelessly in his arms.

As the orchestra began another song, Jesse swept her into the rhythm. Patricia danced regularly at these functions, and other men customarily cut in on her partners. But that wasn't going to happen this time, she realized. Jesse had staked his claim, his hold gentle but unmistakably possessive.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"You," she answered automatically. Her eyes locked onhis, and beneath the ballroom lights his gleamed like polished silver—the lining on the cloud she found herself floating upon. Lying wasn't possible, not when she bordered the gates of Heaven. "You're an incredible dancer."

A fleeting smile teased his lips. She resisted the urge to capture it with a kiss. "Only because of you. You taught me, remember?"

"Yes." She remembered, all too well.

She could see them in his tiny apartment swaying to the radio. A dance step, a caress. A twirl. An affectionate nibble. She'd taught him to dance, and later that night, he'd schooled her in the art of lovemaking. It hadn't been the first time they'd made love, but it was one of the most erotic. He'd undressed her in front of the mirror, then trailed kisses down her body while she'd watched their reflections. Watched until her heart pounded and her vision blurred, his mouth and hands driving her beyond the brink of sanity.

Struggling to clear her mind, Patricia gripped Jesse's shoulders. "Could we go outside, please? I think I need some air."

They found a secluded bench on the nearest terrace, a corner shielded by potted ferns and indigenous flowers. Patricia took a deep, cleansing breath. Stars dazzled a velvet sky and sweet, exotic scents thrived in the night air. A few feet away water spilled from a fountain of dancing cherubs.

"This is perfect," she said.

"Are you sure you're okay? You looked a bit dizzy back there."

"The dance floor was too crowded." And her memories too close. Too real.

"Are you cold? I can get your wrap or you can wear my jacket."

"No, thank you. I'm fine." The breeze felt good. Life sustaining. Freedom from the heat that came with Jesse. "Did you enjoy the meal?" she asked, steering the conversation toward idle chitchat.

"The salmon was good." He glanced down at his hands then back up. "But I didn't like the soup."

And he didn't like not knowing what it was. His body language told her so, during dinner and now. "Truthfully it's not one of my favorites, either. Next time I can find out what's on the menu."

"You mean there's going to be a next time?"

"There is if you'll agree to escort me."

When he tilted his head, moonlight gleamed upon his hair. "Will you wear another backless dress?"

The night air tickled her spine. "I suppose that could be arranged." She had a closet full of ball gowns, gauntlet gloves and satin pumps. She'd wear whatever pleased him. "I have to warn you, though. Sometimes they serve chilled pumpkin soup."

He made a face, and they both laughed. "I guess chicken noodle is out, huh?"

"Afraid so."

"Pot roast, too?"

Pot roast. Patricia moved closer and took his hand. Jesse was such a country boy, always finding pleasure in the simplest of things. "You've been a wonderful escort, Jesse."

"Adapting to the environment, am I?" He chuckled and squeezed her hand. "If we were on my turf, I would have punched Peter Crandall's lights out. He kept giving us dirty looks."

She sent him an amused smile. If they'd been on his turf, maybe she could have dragged Michelle into a cat fight. Ripped the blonde's hair out by its hidden dark roots.

As Jesse urged her head to his shoulder, Patricia willed the image away. The evening was too beautiful to waste on disruptive thoughts.

Apparently Jesse agreed. They sat quietly for a time, listening to the notes of old-fashioned music flutter through the breeze like melodious butterflies. Suddenly they were the only two people on earth, sharing the sky, absorbing the elements.

Jesse lifted his hand to her cheek, and she realized how much he belonged to those elements. She could feel beauty in his touch, the glow of the moon, lull of the wind. He was a part of something wondrous, and so was she.

"Tricia?" he whispered, his unspoken question clear.

He wanted to kiss her, was asking for permission.

Patricia closed her eyes, her answer rising like a tide, a warm, inviting wave. "Yes."

His mouth took hers, swept her into the taste of his lips, his tongue. She inhaled the faint scent of his cologne and shifted in his arms, giving those big, callused hands access to the dip in her dress, her naked back and tingling spine.

Need, not naiveté, drove her. She knew what she wanted, recognized the hunger. The danger. The overwhelming thrill.

He caressed her skin and sipped from her lips, making love to her mouth with slow, sexy strokes. She could almost recall what it felt like to have him inside her, thrusting rhythmically, his flesh hot and hard beneath her fingers.

He came up for air, his breath raspy and aroused. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"I know." Dizzy, she blinked to bring him into focus. "Do you want to stop?"

His short laugh came out broken—rough and sexy. "No. Do you?"

Not now, she thought, as she pulled him closer. On this seductive summer evening he tasted like the Jesse she remembered. The young, passionate man she had loved.

She slid her tongue into his mouth and sighed. Tomorrow she would probably suffer the consequences of her actions, but tonight she simply didn't care.
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Chapter 7

«^»

Todaywas awkward. First Patricia had struggled through breakfast with her father, knowing he disapproved of her most recent "friendship date" with Jesse. And now she was at Jesse's house, seated on his sofa, pretending they hadn't kissed each other senseless the other night.

"Isn't Barney great, Mom?" Dillon asked.

She nodded and smiled. The parrot bounced across the coffee table, dancing to country music coming from the stereo. "He's adorable."

She looked up and caught Jesse's eye. His lips were curved into a smile, too—those moist, sexy lips she had all but devoured. God help her, but she could still taste him.

"How did you teach Barney to do all this stuff?" Dillon asked his father.

"African grays are extremely intelligent birds. And given half the chance, most parrots will do more than just mimic." Jesse opened a small wooden box above the stereo and removed a stack of flash cards. "Okay, Barney," he said, holding up a yellow square. "Tell Dillon what color this is."

The parrot waddled over to the edge of the table and eyed the sunny paper, then looked at Dillon as if to make sure the child was watching. Apparently the bird enjoyed having an enthusiastic eleven-year-old as his captive audience.

"Yellow," Barney squawked, bobbing his head proudly.

Both Jesse and Dillon praised the spirited parrot. "Good boy," they said in unison, then laughed.

Patricia's heart warmed. Father and son had just shared their first spontaneous moment—a burst of casual laughter.

Fifteen minutes later Patricia and Dillon followed Jesse on a tour of his house, Dillon's newfound friend in tow. "This is my room," Jesse said, as they entered his woodsy domain.

Dillon moved forward, Barney perched quietly upon his shoulder. "Wow, look at the bed."

Yes, Patricia thought, look at the bed—the place where Jesse slept each night. The four-poster bed was handmade from pine logs, crafted to rugged perfection. A thick, homey quilt displayed a native print, while sage burned from a clay pot, purifying the air.

Patricia's throat constricted. The room was much too inviting, a natural setting for lovers to share during warm summer nights and chilled winter dreams. A place to cuddle and raise a brood of happy, healthy children.

"Did you build the bed yourself?" Dillon asked his father. Jesse nodded and stroked the wood. Patricia followed the movement of his hand, the masculine caress.

"It's beautiful," she offered.

"Thank you." He looked up and their eyes met. And for a moment they held. And remembered.

Everything, she realized: the first time they had shared a bed; their disciplined tutoring sessions; the afternoon he'd left town; the charity ball two days ago. Their lips meeting, tasting, hungering for more. She could still hear the music blending with the spray from the fountain, the cherubs dancing on water.

Patricia glanced away. No more romantic evenings. Being alone with Jesse was much too dangerous now. He was off-limits, she decided, unless their son was present. She'd have to forfeit that offer to have him escort her to another charity ball. Next time they'd probably end up kissing on the dance floor, and then her father would be privy to the gossip it would cause. The last thing she wanted was to be accused of being naive again.

The tour of Jesse's house ended in a country-style kitchen, a large room with a scarred wooden table, an old-fashioned stove and chopping-block counters. Just like the rest of the simple homestead, the kitchen whispered of the past. Patricia thought Jesse had done a beautiful job of transforming the farmhouse into a modern haven for his animals and a well-tended herb garden.

"My mom's learning to cook," Dillon announced as Jesse prepared sandwiches for lunch. "Aren't you, Mom?"

Patricia nearly dropped the soda Jesse had given her. Dillon's words boomed in the air, a sudden reminder of who she was—a thirty-year-old woman who had never done a day's worth of domestic work in her life.

"Elda's teaching me to make a few things." A lopsided cake, chicken that tasted dry, overly browned biscuits, lumpy gravy. Of course none of the disasters wereElda's fault. Patricia had managed the mistakes all on her own. But allowingEldato take over would have been cheating.

Jesse turned toward her, an amused smirk alight on his handsome face. Damn him, she thought. He moved with ease, making sandwiches from a meat loaf he'd cooked the night before. He could build a bed, vet a horse, wash his own clothes and bake a meat loaf. It wasn't fair that he never failed at anything. Whatever Jesse Hawk did, he did well. Including kiss, she added, staring at his mouth once again.

"Hey, Mom," Dillon said, tapping the table. Her son sat across from her, hand-feeding Barney from a bowl of diced fruit. "Why don't you cook dinner for me and Dad next week? Show us what you learned."

Patricia fought the urge to panic. What was she supposed to make? Burned biscuits and lumpy gravy? A lopsided lemon cake for dessert? "Your dad might be busy next week."

Jesse brought the sandwiches to the table and shooed Barney away when the bird got nosy. "Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss the opportunity for a home-cooked meal. Any night you say is fine."

"That's great," Dillon chimed.

Wonderful. How could she refuse now? Jesse and Dillon were smiling at each other. Dillon had just referred to Jesse as Dad for the first time in his father's presence, something Patricia knew Jesse had been waiting for. A family bond had just taken place, making her dilemma that much harder. And Dillon looked so proud, so eager to show off her culinary skills. He hadn't been home to sample the disastrous effects of her cooking lessons.

Patricia nibbled her thumbnail. Should she admit she wasn't ready? She glanced up at Jesse. Now, he stood beside the table watching her, those provocative lips twitching into a grin. Apparently the image of the richest girl in Arrow Hill slaving over a hot stove amused him.

"How about Friday evening?" she heard herself say. "I'll make a pot roast." A wholesome American meal, Patricia decided, with all the trimmings. So what if she had less than a week to refine her culinary skills. She dealt with multimillion-dollar deals on a daily basis. How difficult could tossing a roast into a pot be? She straightened her spine and reached for a sandwich, determined to ignore Jesse's amused grin. She would do this for Dillon.

* * *

Late Friday afternoon Patricia studied the salad and commended herself on a job well done. It looked festive, she thought, a variety of lettuce with cherry tomatoes, carrot shavings and cucumber slices. She'd skipped the mushrooms since she'd decided to sauté them in wine. Okay. She took a calming breath. All she had to do was refrigerate the salad and move on.

According toElda'sinstructions, the roast would take about an hour and thirty minutes to bake, which would give her plenty of time to peel, boil and mash potatoes.

She checked the microwave clock. Jesse was scheduled to arrive at seven. Oh, goodness, should they eat in the dining room on the kitchen? The kitchen table didn't seem like more than a breakfast nook to her, but Jesse might think differently. She wanted this dinner to go off without a hitch. Maybe she'd ask Dillon what to do.

"Mom!"

Patricia smiled as she snagged a tomato from the salad. Speak of the young devil.

He came rushing down the stains in a flurry of cotton and loose-fitting denim. "Mom, you're never going to believe what happened."

"What?" She was used to Dillon's drama, his boyish theatrics. He looked too excited to be announcing bad news. She knew enough not to panic.

"Mark's cousin broke his leg."

She covered the salad and placed it in the refrigerator, then rechecked her supply of bottled dressings. "Oh, that's too bad. I'm sorry to hear it." She had met Mark Harrison's cousin a few times. He seemed like a nice kid. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Yeah, but now he can't go water-skiing with Mark this weekend. Mark's family is leaving for the river tonight." Dillon rocked on his heels. "They asked if I could go instead."

"Tonight?" Now she felt a panic coming on. "They're leaving tonight?"

He gave a quick, anxious nod. "I know it's short notice, but Mrs. Harrison said you could call her. They don't mind me going. They were planning on having an extra kid, anyway." He shuffled his feet, pleading his case. "I've been on vacations with them before. Plenty of times. And I know how to water-ski. I went last summer." Before Patricia could respond, Dillon continued, "Mrs. Harrison is like you, Mom. She nags us about wearing sunblock and everything. I'll be in good hands."

Patricia couldn't help but smile. A nagging mom. In a sense that did make her feel better. And theHarrisonswere like family to Dillon. He'd been friends with Mark since kindergarten. She studied Dillon's wide, gray eyes. She could see how badly he wanted to go.

Dillon persisted. "Their summer home is really nice. It's right near the river. I was there for two weeks last year, remember?"

She remembered. Mrs. Harrison had called Dillon an angel, a pleasure to have around. But he's my angel. My baby. Regardless, it didn't seem fair to keep an active eleven-year-old boy home for pot roast when he could go water-skiing. "I'll phone Mrs. Harrison."

Dillon rushed into her arms for a swift, strong hug. "Thanks, Mom. I love you."

She combed her fingers through his hair. "I love you, too." A moment later he flew up the stairs, and Patricia called Mrs. Harrison. When she had been assured by the other woman that they'd take good care of Dillon, Patricia helped her son pack. He'd be gone before Jesse arrived.

Jesse.Oh, Lord. "I wonder if I should call your dad and cancel."

Dillon jammed a second pair of swim trunks into a canvas suitcase. "Don't do that. You already started cooking. And Dad said he was looking forward to a homemade meal." He paused and looked up at her. "You're not mad about me leaving, are you?"

"No, sweetheart. I'm not mad." Just a little scared, she supposed, about being alone with Jesse again. She glanced at the clock beside Dillon's bed and admonished herself. It was only dinner. One short evening. What could possibly go wrong?

A hundred things, Patricia realized frantically after Dillon was gone. Timing a meal was impossible. The roast was nearly cooked, but the potatoes weren't even done boiling, let alone mashed and seasoned. The mushrooms hadn't been cleaned yet, and the table wasn't set. She'd decided on the dining room because the kitchen was a mess. But worse than the kitchen was her own appearance. Her hair felt limp, her lipstick worn, her summer dress speckled with red dots from a dessertEldahad referred to as strawberry-cream surprise. The surprise was that it took longer to make than anticipated and still needed time to chill.

Patricia checked on the potatoes again, poking several with a fork. How soft did they have to be before they would mash properly? Now she couldn't remember a thingEldahad told her. And like an idiot, she'd given the older woman the entire weekend off.Eldawas fifty miles away visiting her grandchildren.

When the doorbell rang, Patricia accidentally dropped the fork into the scalding water, then tore off to answer the summons with a silent curse.

Jesse was early, tall and handsome in a white Western shirt and blue jeans, his clean scent suggesting freshly showered skin and a splash of aftershave.

He smiled. "Hi, Tricia."

She blew a nervous puff of air from her lungs. He had no right to look so crisp while her hair and makeup wilted. Rather than say hello, she began to ramble. "Dillon's not here. His friend Mark invited him to go water-skiing this weekend. They left about an hour ago with Mark's parents." Patricia chewed her bottom lip, picturing the kitchen fiasco. "It's just you and me," she added, hoping Jesse might decide to go back home.

No such luck. Although his smile had faded, he stepped inside. "That's okay, I guess. So Dillon water-skis, huh?"

She nodded. "Snowboards, too. He promised to call when they got to the river. TheHarrisonshave a summer home there." She fingered the strawberry stains on her dress. "I didn't have the heart to tell him he couldn't go. It was a last-minute invitation, and he was so excited."

"I understand. Maybe I can see him midweek sometime. I'd really like to get past this weekend-dad thing."

Midweek meant her time, too, she realized. Dillon still wasn't willing to visit with Jesse by himself. "We'll figure that out when the time comes." How could she think clearly knowing a piece of silverware was boiling with the potatoes? She pointed to a wet bar in the living room. "Feel free to fix yourself a drink. There's soda and beer, or something harder if you prefer. I have to check on dinner." She darted into the kitchen and left Jesse staring after her.

* * *

Jesse poured himself a soft drink and sat on the edge of the sofa. He'd never seen Tricia so distracted and flighty. Well, hell, he was a bit nervous himself. He had expected this to be a family dinner with Dillon present. But now it was just Tricia and him. A dangerously lusty combination. They'd practically swallowed each other whole last Friday night, kissing for hours on end. And not only at the ball, but in his truck and on her doorstep, too.

He took a swig of the cola. Okay, so they'd gotten a little carried away on that "friendship date." That was no reason to hide out in the living room while Tricia barricaded herself in the kitchen. He could be alone with her without fantasizing about tearing her clothes off. Their attraction wasn't lethal. He'd survive this dinner and so would she.

He followed a pleasant aroma to the kitchen, then paused in the doorway. The normally cool, calm, sophisticated Tricia moved about the room like a wind-up toy gone awry, blowing bits of hair out of her eyes and mumbling frantic curses. And no wonder, he thought with an amused grin. Her kitchen resembled the aftermath of a war, food casualties strewn everywhere. Cucumber and potato peelings battled strawberry stems and lettuce cores for the sink while spills of undetected origins splotched the counters.

"Do you need some help?" he asked, biting the inside of his cheeks to keep his grin in check. She looked too adorable for words, flour dusting her chin, two oversize oven mitts competing with the allure of a soft, summer dress.

When she spun around, one of the mitts flew off and landed on the floor like a deceased puppet. "I can't find the beaters for the mixer. How can I mash potatoes without them?"

She was in a state of panic, he realized, bordering hysteria and quite possibly tears. He came forward and removed her other mitt. "Just relax, honey. I'll help you find them, okay?" Was she actually rummaging through cabinets and drawers with those silly things on?

"Thank you," she said in a choppy breath.

He found the metal beaters on the counter beneath a haphazardly tossed hand towel while Tricia sipped ice water in an apparent attempt to regain her composure.

Within minutes she was back on her feet, graceful as ever, and determined, Jesse supposed, to make up for her uncharacteristic breakdown. He withheld an animated chuckle. Buying into the lady-of-the-manor act was a bit tough since she still wore a spot of flour on her pert little chin.

They worked side by side in companionable silence. She mashed the potatoes, he sliced the meat and thickened the gravy. She set the table, he sautéed the mushrooms. Together they brought platters and bowls into the dining room, and right before they sat down to share dinner, Jesse reached forward and brushed the flour from her chin.

Clearly embarrassed, she shook her head. "I must look a mess."

No, he thought. She looked beautiful. Sexy and tousled. Good enough to carry to bed and cover with kisses. He swallowed. A home-cooked meal and a gorgeous brunette. Suddenly jasmine perfume and the aroma of pot roast were a strangely enticing combination.

"Messy suits you."

"Right." She laughed. "I doubt the designer of this dress would appreciate the strawberry stains."

He stood beside her at the table, scanning the length of her dress. It flowed over her curves like a stream of lilacs, a side slit exposing one long bare leg. On her feet she wore high-heeled sandals. He didn't see any strawberry stains. Only flowers, sheer cotton and woman.

"We better eat before it gets cold," he said, scooting back her chair. Gaping at her wasn't doing either one of them any good. This was a friendly dinner, not an orgy for misbehaving hormones.

After dousing his salad with bottled ranch, he served himself a mound of potatoes and several thick chunks of roast, then poured gravy over both. "So Dillon's quite the little sportsman, huh?"

She nibbled on her salad, taking proper, ladylike bites. "Yes, but he's a lot like you. He excels at lone sports. He's never really been a team player."

It was the dyslexia, Jesse thought. Focusing on too much activity at once was difficult for most dyslexics, making team sports frustrating and confusing. "So he's going to call tonight, right?"

She nodded. "Soon. Probably."

"Good." Jesse missed his son, even though he understood the boy's enthusiasm for a weekend at the river. Jesse enjoyed the allure of water, too. The cool, refreshing feel of it. "I'm sure Dillon will have a great time."

"He felt so guilty about skipping out on dinner. He must have apologized a hundred times before he left."

His kid had heart, Jesse thought. A tender boy with a warrior's soul. He was as proud as a man could be. "Well, he missed a good meal. I'll say that much."

"It is good, isn't it?" She dipped her spoon into the potatoes, her eyes twinkling as she smiled. "I don't think I could have managed without you, though. We make a wonderful team."

"Yeah. Great food and beautiful babies."

Instantly they both froze. There was no soft music, no candlelight, no flowers but the ones sprinkled upon her dress, yet his simple words spilled sensual images into the air. Young, hungry lovers making a beautiful, gray-eyed baby.

He tried to look away but couldn't. Now he wanted her, smooth and silky and naked beneath him.

Tricia, it seemed, couldn't turn away, either. Her gaze was locked on his, sloe-eyed with a sweep of dark, curling lashes. Was she thinking that she wanted him, too? Wanted to drag his head to her breasts and watch him flick his tongue across her nipples? Feel them peak to his touch?

Silence ensued, intensifying his senses—the allure of her perfume, color of her hair, length of her fingers, shape of her nails—those blush-pink nails, long and wickedly feminine. He could almost feel them clawing his skin.

"Jesse?"

He blinked, then shivered, struggling to respond to the sound of Tricia's voice. In his mind's eye, her legs were wrapped around his waist, her head reared back, her—

"What?"

"Do you want dessert?" she asked, her tone a tad too husky. "It should be ready by now."

He smiled. Was that her answer to sexual tension? A bowl of something sweet and frothy? "Sure. Why not?" At this point he was willing to indulge in whatever she offered. Tricia Boyd was, and probably always would be, his fantasy.

She bumped the table as she stood, and his heart gave a boyish lurch. His living, breathing, walking fantasy. His one true obsession. The lover from his youth.
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Chapter 8

«^»

Patricia breathed a sigh of relief. The kitchen was almost clean. Jesse had offered to help, and between the two of them, they'd run the garbage disposal, wiped the counters and loaded the dishwasher. Now they were hand-washing pots and pans.

They made a wonderful team.

Great food and beautiful babies.

A shiver tiptoed up her spine, those tiny fingers of electricity that surfaced whenever Jesse was near. Patricia remembered that he'd sparked a current on the night she'd conceived their son, the one and only time they had neglected protection. The condom box had turned up empty, but by then they had been too needy for each other to stop.

Jesse bumped her shoulder as he took the frying pan from her hands to dry it. "Sorry," he said, his voice quiet but not quite controlled.

"That's okay." She wouldn't look at him. Couldn't, she realized. Not without sinking into those gunmetal eyes.

He walked away to place the pan in the cabinet below the stove. She began washing the mixing bowl, scrubbing it clean of dried potatoes. He returned to stand beside her again, finish the chore they'd agreed to share.

Patricia handed him the mixing bowl, the last dish of the evening.

"Where does it go?" he asked.

"Up there." She pointed to the cabinet above her head.

Suddenly they were no longer side by side. He moved behind her, his breath tickling her nape.

She reached up to open the cabinet, and he leaned forward. Oh God, she thought, what are we doing? Jesse was pressed against her, and she could feel every virile motion, every hard-earned muscle bunch and flex.

The mixing bowl clanked against a glass casserole dish. She tried to focus on the sound rather than the sensation shooting up her spine. The front of his jeans had bumped her bottom, the ridge beneath his zipper hard and aroused.

"Tricia," he whispered her name, his lips brushing her ear. She locked her knees to keep herself from falling to the floor. His mouth teased her neck. Little nibbles. Sweet tender bites.

Don't moan, she told herself. Don't give him that much power. Don't…

But she did. She moaned—a low orgasmic whimper that had him growling behind her. She had power, too, she realized. He wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

She glanced down to see his cowboy boots and her sling-back heels. Even their shoes looked sexual. Lord help her, she was losing her mind. And it felt incredible.

She turned slowly, shifting in his arms until they stood face-to-face. Their eyes met. His glimmered like shards of silver, smooth and shiny—a long lingering stare. Those eyes could steal her breath, she knew, strike her like lightning.

He lowered his head; she offered him her lips. The moment, the very instant, they made contact, they slammed into each other with an urgent, openmouthed kiss. He caught her rear and pulled her tight against him, rocked his hips so she could feel his erection. She thrust her tongue into his mouth over and over, mimicking the motion of his body. The carnal dance they both craved.

The kiss ended in a desperate pant for air. They sucked life into their lungs and stared at each other again, their chests heaving.

A moment later Jesse placed his finger against her lips and traced their shape, marveling, it seemed, at the pleasure she'd given him. Patricia smiled, took his hand and led him from the kitchen in a silent invitation.

He paused at the foot of the stairs. "Are you sure?"

She stroked his face, the features that formed his ethnic beauty. She understood the question, the deep implication. If they made love, it would notbe love. Was she willing to accept an affair?

"Yes, I'm sure." Patricia knew what she wanted. She was not a naive young girl, but a grown woman hungering for completion, sexual gratification with the only man who stirred her blood.

He nodded and smiled, allowing her to take him where they both chose to go.

They entered her bedroom, stopped to kiss, then slowly undressed each other. She released the buttons on his shirt; he helped her step out of her dress. When they were naked, he turned her toward the mirror so she could see their reflections.

He looked almost mystical beside her. The stained-glass window glowed from a light shining in from the balcony, spilling a rainbow over his skin. His chest was wide and powerful, his belly corrugated, his sex full and aroused. Patricia caught her breath. Tonight all that male perfection was hers.

"You're beautiful," Jesse said, causing her to meet his gaze in the mirror and study her own reflection. She, too, stood bathed in a rainbow of color, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair slightly mussed. She glanced down at her protruding nipples and prayed she wouldn't blush. He was pressing his mouth to her shoulder, taking little nibbles, sending chills up and down her spine.

She knew what he intended to do.

He flicked his tongue over her skin. "Do you remember, Tricia?"

"Yes. I thought about it at the ball when we danced."

"Me, too." He pulled at her earlobe with his teeth. "I thought about how much I wanted to do it again. How much I've missed you."

He moved to stand in front of her, and she realized he wasn't asking for permission. He was taking what he wanted, and God help her, she had no choice but to let him.

"Watch, Tricia. And feel."

He nuzzled her breasts, then teased one aching nipple with his tongue. His touch was the same, yet different—stronger, experienced, self-assured. He rooted at her nipple and she held him there, encouraging him to suckle. The sensation flowed through her veins like molten wax, so she let herself melt. And purr.

He dropped to his knees, slid his tongue to her belly and laved her navel. "Watch," he whispered again. "Let me make new memories."

A pulse pounded between her legs, a throbbing, uncontrollable heat.

Patricia fisted his hair. "Jesse." His name was a plea, an urgent prayer.

He caressed her legs, her inner thighs, the part of her craving more. She rotated her hips and caught sight of her own reflection, the flush on her cheeks, the wanton look in her eyes. The blatant, hungry need. He must have seen it, too. Felt it. Because before she could plead his name once again, he loved her with his mouth, his tongue making tender swirls, then deep moist strokes.

Should she tell him that he was still the only one? That she hadn't let another man…

No, she couldn't. Not now. Not while the room spun, the kaleidoscope from the stained glass twirling around her. He grasped her hips as if to steady her, hold her while she bucked and made throaty little sounds. Pleasure lifted her higher. Pleasure and need and emotions she couldn't begin to describe. The spray of color, the ruthless thrust of his tongue swept through her like a tornado, a whirlwind of greedy aches and hungry urges.

Was that her scream? Her cry of release? Patricia wasn't sure. All she knew was that she'd soared into oblivion, into that warm, sensual place only he could take her, and when she came back down, she was wrapped in his arms, panting his name.

* * *

Flesh against flesh. Fair against dark. Jesse savored the feeling, the image. Tricia clung to his neck, shuddering with sexy little aftershocks.

The reflection of her bed shone in the mirror. It was tousled, unmade. His next breath nearly clogged his lungs. Knowing that they would make love on the same sheets she'd slept on the night before aroused him. Made him hotter. Harder.

He tongued her ear and slid his hands down her back and over the curve of her bottom. The impulse to track her scent made him feel primal, animalistic—a male searching for his mate. Tricia's fragrance had the power to seduce—a sea of jasmine, a swirling vine of exotic white flowers. He wanted to dive in. And swim.

Jesse swept her up and placed her on the edge of the bed. She smiled, so he kissed her, daring her to taste herself, that sweet, womanly flavor that had nearly driven him mad. The fact that she'd watched had driven him mad, too. He knew she wouldn't be able to walk into her bedroom and stand before the mirror without recalling what he'd done to her, the decadent thrill, the orgasm that had left her quivering in his arms.

Tricia gripped his shoulders and pulled him down. They rolled onto the bed. Blood leaped to his fingers, making them itch to touch. She had changed, grown and matured. Her breasts were fuller, hips rounder, tummy marked with pale, faint lines.

He traced one of those delicate lines and felt her body, that smooth liquid body, tense.

She turned away. "They're ugly."

"No." He caught her chin and brought her face back to his. "They're from my child, Tricia. My flesh and blood. The baby you carried in your womb for nine months." He didn't understand why women didn't take pride in the marks left by pregnancy. "Giving birth is part of your medicine now. It makes you even more beautiful than before."

Her expression softened, and he tried to picture how her tummy must have looked swollen with his child. He would have made love to her then, too. ThankedEsaugetuh Emissee, the Master of Breath, for the miracle bestowed upon them.

They lay side by side gazing at each other, their hands drifting over warm flesh and emotional need. This wasn't love, Jesse thought, but it wasn't just sex, either.

She shifted onto her knees and leaned forward, exploring the physical change in him. He had matured, as well. The years, he knew, had made a man out of him. Bitter and angry sometimes, but a man just the same.

She roamed his chest first, the wall of muscle he'd inherited from his father.

"Your body's different. Stronger." She placed her head against his heart, let it thud in her ear. His heartbeat was strong, too, he supposed. Excited. Eager.

"Your nipples are hiding," she teased, twining her fingers around his chest hair.

Jesse fisted the sheet. He wanted to spring forward, cuff her wrists and slam into her, devour all that femininity. Instead he remained still and allowed her to play. This would be a new memory, he told himself, a moment to think back on while he was alone in his own bed, craving her touch.

She scraped his stomach with her nails, abrading gently. His heartbeat stumbled; her hand slipped lower.

Tricia was sliding into dangerous territory now, making this memory too damn real. She had lowered her head, her mouth barely brushing his—

"You can't do that," he warned in a voice that sounded remarkably like a growl. "Not this time. I won't … I can't…"

She dropped her lashes, and his strong, steady heart threatened to kick its way out of his chest. A coquettish smile tilted her lips. Somewhere along the line that sexually shy eighteen-year-old had turned vixen.

Tricia flicked her tongue, and he nearly flew off the bed. "But you did it to me, Jesse."

"Yeah, but women can … you know … more than once, and…"

She kissed his belly, lingered there, then brought her face next to his. "I want a rain check."

He drew a deep, ragged breath. It was all he could do not to push her back down and let her have her wicked way with him. His body throbbed, cried out for relief. He couldn't wait. Couldn't play this teasing game anymore.

He had to have her.

Now.

This thundering instant.

"My jeans," he groaned, lifting Tricia off the bed with him. He had to find his jeans, his wallet, the condoms he prayed were still intact. God only knew how long he'd been carrying the damn things around.

They rummaged through his wallet like a couple of frenzied teenagers, dumping the contents onto the floor.

"Here!" Tricia located a foil packet and dragged him back onto the bed.

Feeling her roll that thin veil of latex over him was suddenly the most seductive act he'd ever experienced. They kissed while she did it, made wild love with their mouths. She nibbled his bottom lip, pulled and tugged and drove him half-crazy.

He pushed her down and straddled her. She arched her back, thrusting those gorgeous breasts, those taut rose-tinged nipples. Desperate for her, he took one in his mouth and fed.

The outside light still burned, shooting streaks of color from the window over her skin, over that smooth, feminine body, those sleek grown-up curves. He took her other nipple, captured it with a slash of blue, a beam of red. She moaned and raked her nails over his back—lightly, ever so lightly.

Blood raged in his head, roared through his veins, throbbed in his groin. He lifted her bottom, sank into her, then felt her wrap those endless legs around him.

Warm, wet, tight heat. Almost like the first time.

I'm home, he thought, as she lifted a hand to his cheek and caressed his skin, exploring his features with the tips of her fingers.

He moved. She moved with him. He groaned. She gasped. He nibbled and kissed. She bit her nails into his back and made his eyes go blind with fresh heat. She was Tricia, old and new. The same, yet changed. A touch of innocence remained, wrapped in the woman she'd become, the sensual siren, the well-bred lady with a naughty smile and blush-pink claws.

They went a little mad, crazed for each other. They took and took, releasing all the want that had been building, the desire, the need. It was a marathon, he thought, as she battled for control,then rode him, her naked body painted in light. She looked surreal—living, breathing art—the woman he'd missed, cried for, nearly hated, once loved.

Still wanted.

He caught her in his arms and rolled, pinning her beneath him again. Increasing the tempo, he lifted her hands above her head, locked them with his. She was close, so close. He could see her losing the battle, giving in, gasping.

He lowered his mouth and kissed her—hard—so hard it nearly took his breath away. She began to shudder then, shudder and chant his name. He watched her, watched until a growl, an animalistic sound, rose in his chest and ripped from his throat. She hugged his hips with her legs, tighter and tighter, and together they climaxed—man and woman—spilling into each other, spinning inside a rainbow.

"Don't move," she whispered, a long, quiet moment later. "Don't go away."

"I won't." Probably couldn't, he thought. All the blood had drained from his body, stealing his bones with it. "Are you asking me to spend the night?"

She nodded. He could feel the movement against his chin. "I want to sleep in your arms."

He had to smile, even though it took every ounce of energy he owned. "Then I'd better move, or else I'll be sleeping in your arms. And since I weigh a hell of a lot more than you do, you'll hate me in the morning. Either that, or you'll need traction."

She laughed. "I'm already numb."

He shifted until she lay in the crook of his arm, warm and comfortable. He couldn't bear her hating him, not even as a joke. "Close your eyes, Tricia."

She slept just like an angel, he thought. He kept a light on so he could watch her, watch and wonder if she would sprout wings, dust the bed with fluffy white feathers. Tomorrow, they would talk, he decided, no matter how difficult that conversation would be, or how much he dreaded delving into old aches. They had to confront the past, come to terms with it somehow. No, he didn't want to fall in love again, wasn't sure if he actually could, but he wanted to keep making love to Tricia—find a place in her life, be her lover and her friend.

He slipped out of bed to wash, careful not to disturb her. A man couldn't sleep with a condom on, he thought, as he walked past the spilled contents of his wallet. Strange Tricia wasn't on the Pill. She was thirty now, a woman who had probably enjoyed a variety of lovers.

He cleaned hastily, anxious to climb back into bed, hold her close. It was time to sleep, not dwell on the other men who had felt Tricia's touch, known her as a lover. He'd been her first, damn it. Nothing could ever take that away.

* * *

Patricia woke with the sun, blinked sleepily, then smiled. Beside her was the most incredible creature on earth, all dark and male, muscle and sinew. Night-tousled hair fell upon his shoulders, framing that perfect jaw, those strong features. Even in sleep, he emitted power.

She trailed a finger over his chest and around his nipples. She followed the hair that grew there, followed it down to the thin line that marked his belly. The sheets blocked her view. They were tangled around his legs, his hips.

She discovered a pocket of air and slipped her hand inside. The sheets were soft and cool, his flesh warm. A giggle threatened to bubble. She felt wicked. Wonderful. She brushed his thigh, found his—

Oh, heavens. He was aroused.

"I wasn't asleep."

The sound of his voice nearly stopped her heart. She lifted her gaze and collided with lightning.

"Hi," she said. The greeting sounded foolish, even to her own ears. Hi wasn't what a woman said to man when she had her hand between his legs. Was it? Patricia wasn't quite sure.

His mouth curved into a roguish grin. "You were all over me. Did you really think I'd sleep through that?"

She had barely touched him, she thought. Barely had time to play. And now, damn it, her skin felt flushed. It was the light of day, and she was blushing like a schoolgirl.

He reached beneath the sheet, took her hand and closed her fingers around him. "Do it some more. Make me hard, Tricia."

She bit her bottom lip. Was the stain on her face growing deeper? "You already are." He felt like iron, a rod of steel. And she felt embarrassed for having been caught. She wasn't used to waking up beside a man, wanting him so early. Even Jesse. He'd been gone for twelve years.

"I can get harder."

"Jesse!" She giggled when he moved her hand, melted when he kissed her.

They tumbled over the bed, landed in each other's arms and smiled, the moment suddenly gentle, romantic.

"I've always liked your hair," he said, combing his fingers through it. "You're so sophisticated. So ladylike." His fingers trailed lower, down her neck, over her breasts. "I couldn't believe you smiled at me that day."

A tingle shivered up her spine. They were naked, recalling the day they had met. It seemed right somehow. Sexy. "You were the most handsome man I'd ever seen."

He circled her nipple, lowered his mouth to taste. "I was barely a man. More of a boy, really." He moved to her other breast, teased the peak with his tongue. "Just out of high school."

"Me, too." She nearly melted into the bed. Bittersweet memories and foreplay. Her head swam with it. "We were both kids."

"But I wasn't used to proper girls." He rose above her, steadied himself. "It made me want you even more."

She remembered how much he had wanted her, how much she had wanted him. "You taught me how to feel."

Was teaching her still, she realized as his mouth took hers. They made love again. Slower than before, lazier. She slipped into the rhythm, the easy flow.

They danced on water, she thought, a warm quiet wave, a sensual current. The hunger that had made them crazy last night kept them sane this morning. She held him close, felt his muscles come alive beneath her fingers. He sipped her like wine, drank until he was full, then came back for more.

The pulse at her throat fluttered. She wanted him to keep drinking. Tasting. Coming back for more. He moved inside her, his hair falling over his forehead, his cheekbones high, lips full and sensual.

Patricia caught her breath on a sigh. Jesse Hawk was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. And for one dreamy, dizzy instant, she was eighteen all over again, losing her virginity and her heart.
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Chapter 9

«^»

Patricia snuggled in Jesse's arms, then glanced at the clock. "It's still morning."

He smoothed her hair. "Yeah, we were up early. Hey, do you have anything here for breakfast?"

She smiled. He could switch gears so easily. Lovemaking one minute, food the next. Men, she assumed, were like that. She wasn't an authority on after-sex practices, but she'd heard plenty of other women talk and compare notes. "The fridge is stocked. What are you in the mood for?"

"Hmm. First off I could use a strong dose of caffeine. Then maybe some bacon and eggs."

She shifted to look up at him. "Do you trust me to cook for you?"

He chuckled and kissed the tip of her nose. "Maybe we should do it together."

Patricia elbowed his rib. "Thanks a lot. Afraid I'll burn the kitchen down?"

He sank his teeth into her shoulder in a playful bite. "No, it's just that cooking with you is so much fun." He bit down a little harder. "Come to think of it, everything I've been doing with you lately has been kinda fun."

She nudged him again, and they both laughed.

"Typical male," she said, humor suddenly failing her. Did he joke around with his other lovers? Nibble their skin? Cook breakfast with them?

She still ached to think of him with other women, it still made her raw inside. She placed her hand against her heart, grateful for the beats. She hadn't lost it, nor did she intend to. She'd had a moment of weakness during their lovemaking, but she'd recovered. Of course, not being in love anymore didn't seem to keep her jealousies under control. It bothered her that he kept condoms in his wallet. Mostly because she knew they hadn't been placed there with her in mind. Last night had just happened; neither of them had planned it.

Don't, Patricia. Don't ruin what's happening. Accept it for what it is. "I think I need a shower before we tackle breakfast."

"Yeah, me, too."

"You're welcome to use the guest bathroom down the hall." She knew he'd already used her bathroom this morning, but only to dispose of the condom. He wouldn't shower in someone else's house without asking or rummage through drawers for toiletries. Jesse had a proper, respectful side. She kissed his stubbled cheek. "Feel free to help yourself to a razor or whatever else you need." Out of habit and decorum, Patricia kept the extra bathrooms well stocked for overnight guests: disposable razors, unopened toothbrushes, mouthwash, shampoo.

"Thanks." He nuzzled her neck. "Guess I could use a shave."

A cluster of goose bumps raced up her arms. She didn't remember his beard being that heavy, but then, most of those massively formed muscles were new, too.

She was learning about him all over again, and about herself, as well. Being naked with him felt strange. Not between the sheets, but afterward. It was an effort not to dash for a robe and cover herself. But she would seem inexperienced if she put on a robe just to walk to the bathroom. And Patricia didn't want him to know just how inexperienced she was. She glanced down at the contents of his wallet still strewn across the carpet. The corner of a foil packet winked beneath a credit card. Apparently sex happened often in his world.

He grabbed his jeans. "I'll meet you downstairs, okay?"

"Okay. How about whoever gets there first starts a pot of coffee?"

"Deal." He tipped her chin for a quick kiss, then headed down the hall.

Patricia watched him. He moved like a man comfortable in his own skin, a fluid male animal, big but athletically graceful. She damned the other women who had sampled that gorgeous body, then entered her bathroom and jerked a towel from the linen closet.

The water invigorated, washed away the jealousy, the snips of hurt and anger threatening to ruin the day. She needed this quiet time, this moment to reflect. And Jesse had sensed it. Rather than tease her about doubling up in the shower, he'd respected her privacy, her morning routine.

Of course, he probably had a morning routine, too. He was a single man, used to going his own way. Freshly scrubbed and meeting in the kitchen for breakfast seemed to suit them both. Patricia smiled and lathered her hair. Maybe next time they would shower together. She stepped under the spray of water and let it sluice down her body. And maybe next time she would redeem that rain check. Drive Jesse Hawk crazy with her hands.

Her mouth.

She stumbled, then laughed. Good heavens. She was fantasizing. Alone. In the shower. A thirty-year-old woman suddenly alive with the afterglow of incredible sex.

Patricia towel dried her hair and studied her reflection. She looked different. Reborn. Sensual. She sprayed her favorite perfume, stepped into the cooling mist, then slipped on a pair of lace panties and matching bra—provocative lingerie for Jesse to peel away later.

Now what? A cotton dress? A satin slip? No, she thought. A floral silk robe, slim-fitting but not overly sexy, a garment that zipped rather than tied. If he wanted her again, he'd have to uncover her inch by willing inch.

Patricia passed the guest bathroom. The door was closed. She smiled and proceeded down the stairs. Looked as though she would be the one making coffee.

She entered the kitchen, then stopped dead in her tracks.

"Well, good morning, sunshine."

Panic rose in her throat, restricting her next breath. Her father sat at her kitchen table, a pot of coffee brewing behind him, his demeanor relaxed.

She reached for the front zipper on her robe, her hand shaky. How could this be happening?How? Her father had an emergency key to her house, but he didn't look caught up in an emergency. She could see that he'd brought a box of pastries with him. Her kitchen smelled like French-roasted coffee and cinnamon rolls, but at the moment, the aroma was anything but inviting.

She forced out a breath. "What are you doing here?"

He cocked his head. "Now is that any way to greet your dad? After all, you scheduled this meeting, remember?"

Meeting? She took a step forward, nearly tripped. No, that couldn't be. Couldn't.

"My goodness, Patricia, what's wrong with you?" He reached down and lifted a small file box. "Financial statements. We agreed to handle them here this morning instead of at the office on Monday."

"Oh, my God, Dad, I forgot." Any minute now, she thought, the room was going to spin. She couldn't see straight. Think straight. Her father sat at her table while Jesse showered in one of her bathrooms, and it was all her fault.

"No harm done. Just relax. I've got all day." He walked over to the counter and opened the pastry box. "When you didn't answer the door, I figured you must have overslept. I thought about calling on the cell phone, but decided to come in and start a pot of coffee instead." He held up a cinnamon roll oozing with glaze. "I brought Dillon his favorite treat. Where is the little rascal, anyway?"

"Dillon's at the river with theHarrisons." And her lover was upstairs, probably half-naked, shaving that sexy beard stubble. Her lover. The man her father despised. "Dad, I don't really think I'm up to working on the financial statements this morning. I—"

Patricia's lame excuse about not feeling well faltered. Her dad wasn't looking at her. He stared beyond her, his shoulders tense, his gaze stone cold.

She didn't have to turn to know Jesse stood behind her. Her father's expression said it all.

The air grew thick, the coffee-and-dessert aroma cloying. Patricia heard Jesse step further into the kitchen, felt his hand on her back. A light, possessive touch. A masculine claim.

Her father's expression turned harder, his gaze following Jesse's every move. Oh, God. What should she do? She didn't want to hostess this soul-piercing reunion. The past swirled around them like an evil poltergeist.

She exhaled a ragged breath and turned toward Jesse. "Last week I scheduled a meeting for this morning with my father, but I forgot."

Jesse gave a short nod without looking at her. He watched her father instead. And her father watched him. Both wary. Eyes filled with hate.

Jesse hadn't dressed, not completely. He wore jeans and nothing else, no shirt, no shoes. His hair, damp from the shower, had been combed straight back. His face, taut with anger, appeared stronger, sharper, more raw-boned. There would be no question in her father's mind that Jesse had spent the night. Jesse's appearance, and hers as well, announced this was "the morning after."

Coffee, her brain said inanely. Should she offer them coffee, ask them to sit? "Maybe we—"

Too late. Too slow. Too timid. Her father's voice canceled hers, his words slipping past a clenched jaw. "I see you're back, Mr. Hawk. Taking advantage of my daughter again."

Jesse rose to the challenge before Patricia could stop him. He removed his hand from her spine, then jerked his head as a stray lock of hair dared to cover his face. He strode closer to Raymond, his steps precise, calculated. Patricia feared he intended to count coup: circle the enemy, strike, gain honor in battle. When he stopped just short of physical contact, the air in her lungs whooshed out.

"Your daughter is a grown woman,Mr. Boyd," he said, emphasizing the title with bitterness. "And if she wants a relationship with me, you can't stop her. Not this time."

"When it concerns my daughter's welfare, I can do whatever the hell I please," the older man said sharply, his face coloring with rage.

Patricia couldn't find her voice, so she hugged herself for comfort, her gaze darting nervously between her father and her lover. As Jesse spoke, she glanced his way and realized she'd never seen him look so sinister. A muscle ticked in his cheek as a mocking smile curled one corner of his lips. His rage was cooler, more controlled. Taunting.

"Tricia knows her own mind," he said. "Her body, too."

Her dad fisted his hands, and Patricia's knees threatened to give way. "Why, you arrogant young pup. It's all about sex to you, isn't it?"

Jesse's seething control didn't falter. He had schooled himself well, Patricia thought, as she groped the counter for support. He stood tall, a warrior in his own right.

"Don't you dare judge me. Or my intentions. You don't know a thing about me. Not a damn thing."

"I know exactly who and what you are," Raymond retorted. "You used my daughter twelve years ago, took advantage of her innocence." He paused, exhaled a slow breath. "You told her that you loved her so she'd go to bed with you. That's the oldest male trick in the book, and you played it to perfection."

Another wave of dizziness swept over Patricia. She didn't want Jesse to answer. They had closed that door last night by agreeing to have an affair. No pretenses. No false promises. She didn't want to hear about the past, think about it.

"Well, let me tell you something, Boyd," Jesse said, his voice rough. "I was in love with Tricia all those years ago. What I felt for her had nothing to do with sex."

Stunned, Patricia steadied herself. How could he say that? How could he stand there and lie to make himself look noble? Cheat to win this vengeful war with her father?

Devastation rushed through her hard and quick. Just weeks ago he had stated the cold, humiliating facts.I wasn't really in love. We were only kids. Teenagers experimenting. I should have never asked you to live with me. What we had was nothing more than puppy love. A strong infatuation.

He hadn't come back for her. Hadn't loved her. Damn him for saying otherwise, for not being man enough to admit the truth to her father. Shamed by her naiveté, Patricia summoned the strength to square her shoulders. How could she have slept with him again? Sex would never be simple, not with Jesse. Their past would never go away.

Raymond shook his head. "You're a liar, Hawk."

Yes, she thought. He is.

"Dad, please." She turned to Jesse, her legs remarkably steady. "We need to talk. Privately."

* * *

Jesse and Tricia went into the den and closed the door while her father remained in the kitchen. That old bastard didn't even have the decency to leave, Jesse thought. Raymond Boyd parked his ass at the table as if he owned the joint. Jesse almost laughed, a sick, exhausted laugh. Hell, Boyd probably did own the place.

"I can't believe that happened." He slumped onto the sofa, his hands suddenly shaky. "How the hell did your dad get in, anyway?"

"He has a key."

Of course he did. Boyd owned the house, or that corporation of his probably did. How could Tricia stand to work for her father, live in one of his homes?

Jesse studied Tricia. She stood with her arms crossed, masking her emotions as usual. "Come on, honey," he coaxed, "sit down before you fall down. You don't have to act brave for me. That had to be awful for you."

She continued to stand. "Yes, it was."

He dragged a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. It was just such a shock to see him there, and then when he—"

"I'm not going to sleep with you again, Jesse. That was a mistake."

His hand nearly caught in his hair. Suddenly he couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. "You're choosing your father over me? He disapproves, so you're telling me to go to hell?"

"Think what you want," she said, her voice cool. Typically aloof.

He pushed himself off the couch and strode toward her. Did she have any idea how difficult it had been for him to bare his soul? To admit that he had once loved her? He'd just defended her honor, but she didn't care. She hadn't changed a bit. Nothing mattered to Tricia but her father's money.

Their gazes locked, and a knot of revenge formed in his gut. It moved swiftly, painfully, coiling around his intestines like a snake. He felt it poison his thoughts, his next words. His heart.

"What the matter, little rich girl?" he asked with a deliberate sneer. "Are you afraid you'll lose your inheritance? Will Daddy take away all those millions if you continue to sleep with the enemy?"

Tricia's immediate response came in the form of a quick, hard slap. Jesse didn't flinch. Instead he stood dead still while her palm cracked across his cheek. He didn't feel it. Not even the slightest sting. The ache from their past had already crashed over him like a vicious tidal wave, dragging him under, spewing and splashing hurtful memories.

How many times had he sat alone and cried? Thrown books across his apartment because the words made no sense? Worried that he couldn't get through college without Tricia by his side? Felt stupid? Poor? Not good enough?

For years he had attended classes at a school owned by her father's fraternity brother, fearing at any given moment that the rug would be pulled out from under him. And all the while, Raymond Boyd was playing Grandpa to his son, stealing the child who was rightfully his.

Jesse turned away from Tricia and headed for the French door that led to the backyard. He needed fresh air. Trees. The sky. The world that wasn't owned by Boyd Enterprises.

The sun radiated warmth, so he lifted his face, let it wash over him. He felt the patio tiles beneath his feet and realized he wore no shoes. His boots, his shirt, even his wallet was still in Tricia's room. Something glinted near the door. He turned. A pair of Dillon's inline skates.

He moved toward them, knelt, then picked one up and spun the wheels. Damn, he missed his son.

"Jesse, what are you doing?"

Trying to breathe, he thought, glancing up at Tricia. Trying to survive another bout of emotional warfare. Anguish.

He stood, skate in hand. Tricia's skin glowed in the morning light, that flawless complexion never seeming to fail her. How could she look pretty to him now? After what she'd done? God help him, but that robe she wore only added to her femininity, reminding him of their recent lovemaking. The silky texture, smooth lines, seductive curves.

Jesse withheld a sarcastic laugh. Suddenly he felt used. Men weren't supposed to feel used after sex, but he did. What an idiot, letting himself care for her again.

The skate wheels quit spinning, intensifying the quiet. The ache. "You're not going to stop me from seeing Dillon," he said, fearing an upcoming battle for his parental rights. He didn't intend to be just a weekend dad. Eventually he wanted joint custody. He'd already begun turning his guest room into a bedroom for Dillon by adding shelves for the boy's models, a desk for homework.

Tricia pushed her hair away from her cheek, a chestnut sweep that never misbehaved. It had dried to perfection. "How can you say something like that to me? I would never use our son as a pawn." She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes. "If I didn't want you to be Dillon's father, why would I have given him your last name?"

Good question, he supposed. He hadn't quite figured that one out yet. She'd kept Dillon a secret from him, but told the rest of the world that he had fathered the boy. It made no sense. Absolutely none.

"Fine. I'll make arrangements to see him later in the week. Alone. I don't want you there, Tricia."

"Well, you don't have a choice." She lifted her chin, apparently intent on looking him straight in the eye. "Dillon doesn't want to spend time alone with you. He's not ready yet. Good God, Jesse, he barely knows you."

His heart constricted, then bled, gushed with even more pain. Did his son consider him a nuisance? An obligation? He placed the skate back onto the ground next to its mate. "Okay. But we're going to have to be civil. At least pretend we like each other."

She sighed, and he noticed how tired she looked. How emotionally weary. "I know." She reached for the door handle. "Go inside and get your things. My father is still here, and we have work to do. I'll have Dillon call you when he gets back on Sunday."

"That's fine. If he wants to." Forcing Dillon into a relationship wouldn't work. Jesse remembered how aggressive his second foster parents had been, how they had expected him to accept them overnight, as if he was a robot rather than a kid.

Jesse went upstairs while Tricia headed for the kitchen. He knelt on her floor and gathered the contents of his wallet, jamming items inside hastily. Ignoring the unmade bed, he grabbed his shirt and shoved on his boots. The faint scent of jasmine still drifted through the air. He left the room without glancing back. Now the exotic fragrance was painful as hell.

* * *

She paced the kitchen like a nervous feline, caged, trapped within the past. No way out.

"Patricia, sweetheart. He's gone. Please sit down before you fall down."

Her head snapped up. She stared at her father.Sit down before you fall down. Jesse had said the same thing to her just minutes ago. Or was it hours? She'd lost all sense of time, reason.

She walked over to the file box beside the table and picked up a stack of the financial reports. "You're right. We have work to do."

He took them from her hands. Her dad sat at the table, a mug of coffee in front of him. "You're in no condition towork, young lady. Why don't you let me fix you some breakfast?"

Patricia shook her head. She and Jesse were going to make breakfast together, and then shewas going to let him seduceher. Watch him peel off her robe, unzipthe stupid thing oneinch at a time. "I'm nothungry."

"A cup of tea, then?" Herdad dropped the reports back into the file box and got to his feet. "Chamomile, with two spoonfuls of honey. That's your favorite, isn't it?"

Patricia only stared. Chamomile reminded her of Jesse. "I haven't drunk that in years, Dad." Not since she'd accepted the fact that Jesse would never return for her. "I used to drink it because he told me that it soothed restlessness." She felt a flood of tears collect in her eyes. "So you see, whenever I was restless for him, I'd…"

"Oh, Patricia." Her father placed the canister of tea bags onto the counter. "I'm sorry."

She wiped her eyes. "I'm being silly. Acting like I'm eighteen again."

He took her hand and guided her to the table. "I know it hurts, baby, but he's not worth it. He lied about loving you, you know that, don't you? He said that because I trapped him."

She glanced up at the ceiling, willing her eyes to remain dry. "I know. If it had been the truth, I wouldn't have told him to leave." She fingered the zipper on her robe. Love was a strange emotion. Confusing. Impossible to understand. Even though she wasn't in love with Jesse anymore, his betrayal still hurt.

Her dad squeezed her hand, making Patricia grateful for his presence. He was a hard man at times, stern and overly protective, but he loved her the way she loved Dillon. Parental love never went away. If anything, it grew with each passing day.

"You'll be okay," he said. "You're strong, Patricia. You'll weather this."

She studied her father's features, his aristocratic look. He resembled a politician, she thought, a distinguished man, subtle streaks of gray in his hair, a trim physique. She'd inherited his mannerism, his stubborn nature and take-charge attitude. Their wills clashed often. But not today. She wouldn't be defending Jesse Hawk today.

"Did you love my mom?" she asked, suddenly missing the arms of a mother. The comfort only another woman could offer.

He furrowed his brow, picked up his coffee. "Now what kind of question is that?"

An honest one, she thought. "You never talk about her, Dad."

"You know I'm not a talker. What good would it do? She's been gone a long time."

And he didn't love her, Patricia realized. Not as much as he should have. Not the way she had loved Jesse. Her mother hadn't been the love of her father's life.

He glanced up from the rim of his cup, and when he placed the coffee back onto the table, she could see that she'd unnerved him. His hand seemed unsteady.

"I cared for your mother deeply," he said.

Patricia nodded, unable to respond. He'd cared for her mother, but he'd loved someone else. A long time ago, she decided, before he'd married her mom. Did that woman die, too? Had everyone her father ever cared about died? Is that what made him so protective? She sighed, knowing it wouldn't pay to ask. He would never discuss his personal life with her, past or present. Raymond Boyd, the prestigious real estate tycoon, guarded his emotions like a treasure.

"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?"

Patriciaturned 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 anonslaught of tears. The lovemaking that had occurred therestill seemed fresh.

No,raw, she decided, as she tackled the stairs. An open wound that would probably never heal.
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Chapter 10

«^»

Jesse watched the white Mercedes roll onto the graveleddriveway. 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 petCochise'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," hesaid. The idea had stemmed from Jesse's own childhood, afantasy 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 theanimals he rescued as orphans, and he knew firsthand whatbeing 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 pictures. 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 acoward—a disorganized one. She'd misplacedmore 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 Ihave 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. "Hopethis 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 herdisplaced 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."

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 properway 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.
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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."

She reared and bucked, her back arching, her limbs quivering. He gave her pleasure, she thought. Pure primal pleasure. And wicked desire. She lay naked, her silk hose still in place—the naughty fixation of his fantasy.

They rolled over the bed, again and again, their hands hot and greedy on each other's skin. All the wrongful anger, the old hurts, the past aches gushed into a geyser of passion. Patricia could feel it rising in her blood, threatening to burst.

He sucked her nipples, licked and nibbled while she fisted his hair, then pulled his face back up to hers. They kissed, the kiss of lovers—man and woman on the brink of sexual ecstasy. He slipped on protection, then rose above her.

Yes, this was need, she thought, as he lifted her hips and pushed himself deep inside her. She grabbed hold of the wood, clutched the post while he stroked harder, filling her completely.

"Give memore,Tricia,"he said, his hair dipping over his forehead, sweat glistening his skin. "More."

She gave him her release, her wild, soul-shattering orgasm. And when she went slack in his arms, he gave her his.

* * *

A week later Jesse and Patricia relaxed in Jesse's backyard on a stretch of grass that framed the abundant herb garden. Patricia decided she preferred Jesse's house to her own. She could feel the warmth, the care, the history that dwelled there. She supposed it would always be referred to as the old Garrett farm. The Garretts were the original owners, the nineteenth-century family who had first worked the land. They'd be proud of Jesse, she thought, pleased with his connection to their soil.

"Have I told you how great you look in jeans?" he asked, slanting her a smile.

She Laughed. "Yes, but you can tell me again." Her denims actually felt good, the prewashed fabric smooth but rugged. Jesse had insisted that they recline directly on the freshly mowed lawn rather than "fuss with a blanket." Apparently he thought grass stains suited a pair of Levi's, broke them in correctly.

He leaned over and kissed her. "You look great," he said again. "Sexy."

Sexy. She supposed she did, at least to a man like Jesse. A woman in a trim-fitting blouse, jeans and Western boots fit the environment. And the environment had its own brand of sex appeal: a carpet of grass and flowering plants beneath a clear blue sky.

Patricia reached into a canvas bag and removed a leather-bound photo album. "I made this for you."

"Pictures?" He opened the cover and gazed at the first photograph. Immediately a smile lit his face. "This is Dillon, isn't it?"

She nodded. "It was taken at the hospital soon after he was born." Patricia had collected photos from some of her other albums and placed them in this one, hoping to present Jesse with a treasured gift. "He had lots of hair, didn't he?"

Jesse looked up. "He was beautiful. I wish I'd been there."

Her eyes misted. Crying, for some reason, came easier now. "I know. I'm sorry."

He leaned against her shoulder and turned the page. "Me, too."

"First birthday party," Patricia pointed out. "We let him dive into the cake. Well, actually we had two cakes. One for the guests and one for Dillon." "We" meant herself and her father, but she'd decided to omit his name. Her dad was still a subject of rage with Jesse. Patricia sighed. Deep down her goal was to bring the two men together, convince them to embrace the present, release the bitterness of the past.

She brushed Jesse's shoulder and continued to narrate events in Dillon's life, pleased with Jesse's laughter, his easy smile. She had even included photos of herself, the young woman he had loved. Knowing that he had once loved her made their budding friendship seem right somehow. It also made the nights they spent in each other's arms feel right, too. Lovemaking—wild, wicked sex with roving hands and whispered fantasies. She couldn't get enough.

Patricia caught her breath as Jesse turned his face toward hers. He was beautiful. A male animal in his prime.

"Did you take pictures when you were pregnant?" he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. "Yes, but I looked awful." Her father was a camera buff, a shutterbug. He snapped pictures at every turn. The Boyd mansion was filled with framed photographs.

Jesse tapped her nose. "I'll bet you looked gorgeous. All legs and tummy."

"I couldn't see my feet toward the end. I was huge."

"I want one of those pictures."

Oh, Lord. She glanced away. "You're kidding, right?"

He lifted her chin, bringing her eyes to his. "Why are you so uncomfortable about your pregnancy?"

She struggled to hold his gaze. "I gained so much weight—"

He interrupted gently. "That's what pregnant women are supposed to do. It's natural and healthy." He skimmed his fingers over her cheek, then slid them through her hair. "I know it's more than that, Tricia."

"I missed you," she admitted quietly. "It was such a difficult time, carrying your baby and not having you there. I know it was my choice, but it was still hard." She reached into the grass, hoping to draw strength from the land. "This community pretty much ostracized me." She looked around, remembering Jesse's home was in Hatcher. "Well, not this community. The one I live in, the proper citizens of Arrow Hill."

Her father had been her saving grace, but she decided to keep that thought private, at least for now. "Society girls in Arrow Hill aren't supposed to have illegitimate babies." She imagined there had been a few secret abortions, parents scurrying their daughters off to the city, places where no one knew their prestigious names. Her father had never suggested such a thing, not once. He'd stood beside her, insisting she hold her head high. It was, after all, his grandchild she carried—a Boyd. Needless to say, her decision to give Dillon Jesse's last name had devastated her father.

"I would have married you, Tricia."

"I know." But her father would have ruined Jesse's future, something that would have probably destroyed their marriage in time. Young marriages often failed, even without the stress of disapproving in-laws. "It's over now. I got through it, and no one treats Dillon badly. He's well accepted." And those who didn't approve of her son's birthright knew enough to keep their opinions to themselves. Patricia wouldn't stand for Dillon being the subject of hurtful gossip.

"I still want a picture." Jesse linked his fingers through hers. "I want to be a part of your pregnancy somehow. Imagine being there. See how you looked."

She brought their joined hands to her lips and kissed hisknuckles. "You're a special man, Jesse Hawk."

"And we made a special child." He turned his attention back to the photo album and studied Dillon's kindergarten picture. "A very special child."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 12

«^»

Thefollowing Saturday Jesse answered his door, Cochise at his side.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hey, there." He reached out and squeezed his son's shoulder.

Dillon smiled and stepped into the house, then patted the dog's head. "Mom will be coming in a minute. She's fixing her lipstick. I'm gonna go say hi to Barney, okay?"

"Sure." Jesse remained at the doorway and waited for Tricia, amused by her decision to "fix" her lipstick. He'd only end up kissing most of it off, anyway. They didn't maul each other in front of Dillon, but they nuzzled and kissed, natural forms of affection that appeared to please the boy.

Tricia stepped onto the graveled driveway, and Jesse frowned. Instead of jeans and boots, she wore a tailored suit, her hips swaying under a slim-fitting skirt, shapely legs ending in a pair of low-heeled pumps. Why the professional attire? Today was family day: Dillon's fifth horseback riding lesson, fresh-squeezed lemonade, a picnic lunch on the grass.

She made her way up the porch steps, a perfectly coiffed woman. "Hello," she said, before pecking his frown with a chaste kiss.

Jesse's lips moved into a smile, the scent of jasmine enticing him like a floral cloud. He opened his mouth and guided her into a deeper kiss. She raised her arms and circled his neck while he slid his hands down the curve of her spine. He couldn't get enough of Tricia Boyd. Not nearly enough, he thought, as she teased him with her tongue.

She leaned back, then dabbed at his chin, removing what he assumed was a smear of her freshly applied lipstick. "I'm sorry. I can't stay," she said. "Last-minute meeting. One of those things that can't be helped."

He furrowed his brow. "What about Dillon?" He enjoyed these casual days with his son, longed for them.

"Don't worry. He's staying."

Jesse's pulse quickened. "By himself?"

She nodded, her voice quiet. "He's the one who suggested it when I told him about my meeting."

Jesse tried to contain his excitement in case Dillon walked onto the porch. He didn't want to come on too strong and scare the boy away. This would be their first solitary visit, their first father-son experience without Tricia present. A bonding Jesse desperately needed.

Tricia left five minutes later, her luxury car spitting gravel beneath its tires as it rounded the driveway in one sleek turn. Both Jesse and Dillon stood on the porch and watched her go.

"How about a walk?" Jesse asked, before the moment turned awkward. Suddenly Dillon looked lost—like a kid on the first day at a new school. Jesse understood the feeling. Fear edged his excitement, the kind of fear that came with being an inexperienced parent.

"Can Cochise come?"

"Sure." Jesse knew the dog would ease Dillon. And himself as well. Cochise had become their shared companion, much like the medicine bag Dillon wore.

Hopefully they'd be able to walk off their anxiety, Jesse thought, as they headed toward the back of the property. Dillon's lesson would go easier once they became accustomed to being alone. Although Dillon was a natural horseman, he rode the corral fence with a distracted eye, often searching for Tricia's approval. Jesse sensed the boy suffered from a mixture of sorrow and guilt over his grandfather's aversion to horses and assumed Dillon felt like less of a traitor whenever he spotted his mother's smile.

"Let's walk through the garden," Jesse suggested, refusing to allow Raymond Boyd to intrude on this beautiful summer day.

They cut across the grass and laughed as Cochise forgot his manners and loped ahead of them. Although Cochise wouldn't dream of digging up all of Jesse's hard work, the dog had no qualms about sniffing his way through the plants.

As soon as they entered the garden, Dillon knelt to touch a sprig of parsley. "Mom told me that you're going to build a greenhouse before winter comes."

"Yeah. I've always wanted one." Jesse inhaled the herbal scents, the sweet earthly aroma. "But this is the first land I've ever owned." He knelt beside Dillon as the boy fingered another plant. "That's chicory. It'll bear flowers until the fall."

"A medicine man taught you all this stuff, huh?"

Jesse nodded. "His name was Tall Bear. I met him when I was fifteen. The lady who was my foster mother at the time had scheduled a spiritual healing with him, and she invited me to go along." It had been the first moment in his life that he'd actually felt like a part of something truly important.

Dillon settled onto a stepping stone. "Was Tall Bear nice?"

"Yeah, but he was powerful, too." Tall Bear had knowing eyes, Jesse thought. Ebony eyes that could see into a person's soul. "He was gentle but strong. Everything a healer should be."

Dillon drew his knees up. "He died, didn't he? You're talking about him like he's gone."

Jesse felt a familiar sting behind his eyes. He missed his mentor, missed the man's gentle guidance. "He died during my first year at college." A lonely time, a time of sadness and growth. He had mourned Tall Bear the way he had mourned Tricia, aching and alone, praying for the strength to go on without them.

Dillon got to his feet, so Jesse rose from his knees. They walked through the garden in silence for a while, breathing soothing aromas, taking in the sights and sounds of Mother Earth. Tall Bear would have liked Dillon, Jesse thought.

When the boy's grumbling stomach interrupted the quiet, Jesse chuckled. "How about some grub before we saddle Hunter?"

Dillon grinned and patted his misbehaving belly. "That's okay by me."

They turned in the direction of the house, Cochise taking his place beside them. "Fiona made those cookies you like. She left them with me yesterday." When Dillon didn't respond, Jesse glanced over at his son and noticed the child's smile had faded. "You don't have to eat them right now. You can take them home if you want, share them with your mom."

"Is Fiona poor, Dad?"

Since the question caught him off guard, Jesse stopped walking, halting Dillon and the rottweiler as well. "She can afford to bake cookies for you, son."

"Yeah, but she lives in the trailer park. My friend said that it was really yucky there."

Yucky. The description stung. Jesse's parents had lived in that trailer park. Hell, he'd lived there for the first two years of his life. And he'd return to that "yucky" place if it would bring his parents back. He'd take poor over the loss of a family any day.

"It's a little run-down," he said, drawing a deep, steady breath. "But it's not the people's fault who live there. The man who owns the park doesn't take good care of it. He doesn't fix things when they're broken."

Dillon cocked his head. "Too bad it's not for sale. If it was, I'd ask my grandpa to buy it. My grandpa would fix that place up."

Jesse bit back his resentment and reached out to hug Dillon instead. He held the boy tight against him, felt his eyes water as the child returned the embrace. Would they always have Raymond Boyd between them? Would Dillon continue to see his grandfather in a false light? The man who had threatened to destroy Jesse's future, the evil mogul who had taken Tricia away?

"Would you feel better about Fiona baking cookies for you if I gave her a raise?"

The child gazed up at him and nodded, and Jesse's heart constricted.

Raymond Boyd didn't deserve Dillon Hawk. Not one bit.

* * *

Later that evening Tricia stood at Jesse's door, moonlight shimmering behind her. "Dillon's spending the night with a friend," she said. "So I thought maybe I could, too."

Jesse blinked. She could have been a goddess, a forest nymph with long bare legs and a siren's smile. A mythological maiden who had just invited herself to share his bed. What a fantasy. He had the sudden urge to take her where she stood, on his ancient porch with the moon and the stars peeking down from the sky. He could all but feel her mouth on his, hear the mewling sound that would purr from her throat.

"Jesse, can I come in?"

Incense burned in a clay pot, a CD played on his stereo—native music, drums, ancient chants—scents and songs from the earth. Primal elements to make love by.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure." He grinned a little sheepishly and stepped away from the door.

She glided into his living room, an alluring creature with rubies winking at her ears. She lifted a velvet bag, an embroidered satchel a nymph might carry. "I came prepared," she said. "You know, pajamas, toothbrush, a change of clothes." She placed the bag on his coffee table. "So, can I stay? Or are you going to send me home?"

"Very funny." He lifted his hand to her breast and skimmed one of her nipples; it peaked at his touch. "You're not wearing a bra." He grazed her other nipple and watched it bloom.

She made that sexy little mewling sound, and he shivered. "That's not all I'm not wearing."

He stepped back to look. Really look. Feast his eyes and drink her in. The dress could have been a slip, a designer's dream of antique lace and new silk, the color of fresh cream. And beneath the fabric, he saw a hint of female nakedness.

Arousal hissed in his breath.

She moistened her lips, then scanned the length of his body. "I'm here to collect on my rain check."

Her blatant stare made him feel nearly as bare as she, his skin freshly showered, a pair of sweatpants riding below the waistband of his briefs. He swallowed. "Rain check?"

She moved closer, the glow from an amber lamp illuminating the tips of her breasts, the shadow of curls between her legs. "Don't you remember, Jesse?" She stepped closer still, close enough to graze his cheek with hers. "I'm going to do to you what you did to me." She pressed her mouth to his ear and nibbled. "After all, you are the one who taught me how."

Seduction.The word pounded in his head, his chest, his groin. "You're seducing me," he said, as scented smoke rose and curled in the air.

Suddenly he felt inexperienced as hell, all hot and nervous and excited. Ready to explode. Tricia was the only woman he had ever allowed to touch him with that degree of intimacy. Twelve years, he thought, as she toyed with the waistband on his briefs. Twelve years of missing the feel of her mouth, the silk of her hair against his thighs.

She untied the drawstring on his sweats and pushed them down, then knelt to remove his shorts. He watched and waited, barely able to breathe. She stood, stepped back and slipped off her dress, let it pool at her feet. They were both naked, and he couldn't move, couldn't take what he wanted.

This was her seduction. Her bad-girl fantasy.

She kissed his neck, pressed her lips to a throbbing vein. He closed his eyes and let the carnal sensation drift over him, the vibration of pulse against pulse, woman against man.

She ran her hands over his chest, traced the pattern of hair, took one flat nipple into her mouth and sucked. Jesse opened his eyes, aroused by the scrape of teeth against his other nipple. Wild Tricia. Wicked and sweet.

"You're so beautiful," he said. She looked vibrant in the dim light, bloodred gems glinting at her ears.

She smiled and dropped to her knees, gazed up at him and nipped his belly. The muscles in his stomach jumped, anticipating her next move. He slid his fingers into her hair.

Waiting. Wanting.

She loved him thoroughly. With her hands, her tongue, her mouth. He watched as she took him shaft to tip. Over and over. Teasing, tasting.

Faster. Deeper.

He fisted her hair as a low growl rumbled in his chest. Pressure built upon need. A soul-shattering ache, an uncontrollable throb—hunger too close to the edge.

He rasped her name and yanked her to her feet, covered her mouth with his and fed. Fed while he pushed her against the wall, knocked into a shelf and sent a collection of baskets tumbling.

He entered her there, against the wall, his heart pounding to the beat of native drums. She went as mad as he, locking her legs around him while he lifted her hips, pulling his hair, scratching, clawing, devouring him with frantic openmouthed kisses.

It was raw, primal. He felt her climax rip through him, felt his own rise and then crash into a feverish swell—a thundering, staggering scream of pure sex.

She gasped, her breath warm upon his neck. He turned his head and whispered her name, held her while she shuddered with tiny aftershocks. His limbs turned weak, his vision hazy, but he knew who was in his arms and how she affected his world.

They slid to the cool hardwood floor. He stroked her cheek and wondered inanely if his callused fingertips were too rough. Too hard. Too brutal. It mattered now. Tenderness after the storm, he thought. The peaceful lull of Tricia. He wanted to hold her forever.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked.

"No." She looked up at him. "Why, did I hurt you?"

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. Equal-opportunity sex. She'd been just as rough, he supposed. Just as brutal. Sweet, wild, inexperienced Tricia. "No, baby, you didn't hurt me. I'm a big, tough guy. I can take it."

She nudged his rib for the barb, then snuggled closer. He shifted their positions so his back was to the wall, so she could rest against him. The incense had burned out, but the CD kept playing. And like their mood, the music had softened, drums giving way to flutes. He traced lazy circles on her stomach, content to be with his lover.

His lover.The mother of his child. "Are we going to go to another charity ball?" Jesse asked.

"If you want to," she answered.

"I do." He wrapped his arms around her. He wanted the society of Arrow Hill to see them together again. He wanted all those snooty jerks who had snubbed Tricia during her pregnancy to know that the man who had placed that baby in her womb hadn't abandoned her purposely. He still cared about her.

* * *

Patricia could almost see his heart. Tonight Jesse wore it on his sleeve, or his bare shoulder, she thought, leaning into his nakedness, the mass of muscle that formed his chest.

Something was happening between them, something more than friendship. She gazed around, studied the wood furnishings, the masculine warmth that dominated the room. Jesse was everywhere. She could feel him in the ancient weapons, the Native regalia, the traditional pottery, the contemporary art. She stared at a painting across the wall and wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. It was a sensual study, a man and a woman in each other's arms.Lovers. She knew the title, had seen it advertised in a Southwest magazine. Jesse didn't own the original. His framed copy was a print, but no less beautiful, she thought.

"It's new," he said, as though reading her thoughts. "I bought it yesterday."

Warmth spread through her like a balm, tears misted her eyes.Lovers.The picture could have been them. Not their looks, buttheir emotions. She understood the woman's needtotouch her lover, keephim close. "It's us."

"Yeah." His response came out rough. Raspy.

Patricia slid her fingers through his and brought their joined hands to her lips. It scared him, she realized, what was happening between them. He knew it was there, but he didn't want to think too deeply about it. He had bought the picture, placed it in his home, but he was still protecting his heart.

"Want some dessert?" he asked. "I've got ice cream. Or sherbet, I guess."

He'd just switched gears, she thought. And he'd done it purposely. "That sounds good," she responded, taking care to keep her voice light.

She stood and watched him dress, watched him pull up his sweatpants and knot the drawstring tie. No, they wouldn't speak of it, but it was there, haunting them like a ghost.

Love.

Patricia Boyd and Jesse Hawk had fallen back in love. And in their state of denial, they clawed each other during sex, locked their hips and swept away the tenderness their hearts wanted so desperately to feel.

While Jesse went into the kitchen, Patricia slipped on her dress and opened her bag for the lace panties she'd brought along. They had a made a conscious decision to become lovers, spent one evening discussing birth control like responsible adults. He had been willing to keep a fresh supply of condoms handy, but she'd opted for the Pill instead. She didn't want anything between them, not even a lubricated film of latex.

He returned with two glass bowls. "Wanna sit on the porch?"

She nodded and accepted the orange sherbet offering.

The evening was warm, a clear summer night. A three-quarter moon shone in the sky, competing for brilliancy, it seemed, with a vast number of glittering stars.

Patricia tasted the sherbet, let it melt on her tongue. "Where are all the animals tonight?" she asked, realizing they were alone.

"Cochise is visiting with the other dogs, and Barney fell asleep in my room. Sally was in her cage, but I guess you didn't notice her. She's the quiet one of the bunch." He lifted his spoon and grinned. "And those sneaky little ferrets wereprobably hiding somewhere, watching us make love."

She returned his smile. Those sneaky little ferrets were an adorable trio of furry mischief makers with big, round eyesand pointy noses. "I'll bet they're making off with my bra as we speak."

He lowered his gaze to her breasts, sucked the sherbet from his spoon. "What bra?"

She felt her nipples harden. "I brought one with me, in my overnight bag."

"Panties, too?"

A familiar heat settled between her thighs. "I'm wearing them."

He cocked his head, so she crossed her legs. She was still damp from his seed. The thought embarrassed and excited her. She knew they would make love again before morning.

She glanced away, her chest suddenly tight. Making love wasn't the same as admitting to being in love. When, she wondered, had it happened? At what precise moment had she fallen back under his spell?

"What's the matter, Tricia?" Before she could answer, he left his seat and crouched before her. "You look sad."

"I'm fine. Just feeling melodramatic."

"We still have some past between us," he said. "Everything hasn't gone away."

"I know." They still had her father to contend with, the bitterness both men still harbored. "We could talk about it."

"No." He shook his head. "I want to talk about happy things. Things we can share. I want to know what your favorite movie is. If you have a hobby. What it felt like to breast-feed our baby." He gazed up at the sky. "And I want to know if you'll sleep under the stars with me tonight."

God, she loved him. Loved the catch in his voice, the expectation in his eyes as he turned back to her for an answer. Those ever-changing eyes. "Yes," she said. She wanted to cuddle in his arms, search for the Little Dipper, tell him how extraordinary it had felt to hold his son to her breast.

But most of all, she longed to share the rest of her life with him. Longed for the moment he would admit that he loved her, too.

* * *

Life was good, Jesse thought. Passion and friendship with Tricia and meaningful hours spent with his son. On this bright weekend afternoon, he sat on the corral fence with Dillon, sharing the day.

Hunter poked his head over the fence and nuzzled Dillon. The boy reached back to pet the horse. Jesse chuckled. Rather than pester his new riding partner, Hunter was supposed to be enjoying the freedom the corral provided, rolling around like horses did after a healthy workout. Dillon had taken the gelding through his gaits with a God-given talent, making Jesse beam like a new moon. Within three short weeks, Dillon Hawk had proved he was born to ride.

"Hey, Dad, when am I gonna get to meet Uncle Sky?"

"Soon, I hope. He mentioned coming for a visit in September." Jesse and Sky made weekly phone calls to each other. They were as close as two newly acquainted, long-distance brothers could be.

Dillon grinned. "I can't believe he's a trick rider. That's so cool."

Jesse ruffled his son's hair. "I'm sure Sky would be glad to give you a few pointers. He's looking forward to meeting you."

The boy took a swig of water from one of the canteens they kept on hand to combat the heat. Dillon's skin had continued to tan to a rich, golden-brown, his hair a little lighter from the sun. "Does Sky speak Muskokee, too?"

"Yeah, but he learned it by himself, from a dictionary. Tall Bear taught me." And Jesse thanked the Master of Breath every day for the guidance Tall Bear had given him.

"Are you going to teach me?" Dillon asked.

"You bet I am. That language is part of your heritage."

Jesse had already been schooling Dillon about the Creeks,passing on songs and stories Tall Bear had shared with him. Just days ago they'd spent hours discussing the early culture of their tribe, including religious practices, the names and backgrounds of chiefs who had ruled, the acceptance of mixed-blood marriages.

Dillon had exhibited a special interest in thebusk:the GreenCorn Dance, a four-day event where Creek men would fast,then dance in the spirit of moral renewal. Thebusk signified a time of forgiveness, where old grudges were exonerated and brotherhood reigned supreme. The boy had asked numerous questions about the festival, anxious to hear every spiritual detail.

Dillon studied his father with a serious expression, a lookJesse had come to recognize. "Uncle Sky must be a goodreaderif he learned the Muskokee language from adictionary. That seems like it would be hard to do."

"Yeah." Sky's ability to absorb the ancient dialect on his own had impressed Jesse, as well. "My brother likes to read. It's one of his favorite pastimes." He shifted his feet, hooking hisbootheels onto the fence rail. "But, you know, just because you and I are dyslexic doesn't mean that we're not as smart as everybody else. I used to think that about myself, but I know better now."

Dillon placed the cap back on his canteen. "Mom says that all the time—about people like us being smart. She tells everybody who will listen that Einstein was dyslexic."

"Well, he was. And it's good that she spreads the word." Tricia's devotion to literacy made Jesse proud. "I plan on getting involved with the dyslexic society your mom organizes fund-raisers for." He took a drink of water, then glanced up to catch Dillon's approving smile. "She said they need someone to head up an adult support group."

Dillon scooted closer. "I help out with the younger kids at the charity picnics. We're thinking of having pony rides for them this time. That'd be cool, huh?"

"Yeah. Cool," Jesse agreed, enjoying his son's youthful enthusiasm. He could see Dillon leading bright-eyed four-year-olds around on stubby little ponies.

They sat quietly for the next few minutes, enjoying theOklahomasunshine, the country smells permeating the air. Hunter still had his head over the top rail, begging Dillon for attention. The boy complied, stroking the gelding like a favored pet. Jesse smiled. Those ponies were going to adore his son, follow him around like overgrown puppies.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"I wish my grandpa still liked horses."

Immediately Jesse's blood ran cold. Raymond Boyd was a name he'd just as soon forget. He couldn't think of an appropriate response so he lifted the canteen to his lips instead. Although Dillon knew Jesse and his grandpa weren't friends, the boy had been spared the brunt of their hatred.

Dillon reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a small white envelope. "I brought those pictures with me. The ones of Grandpa from a long time ago." He opened the envelope. "Grandpa looks so happy in them. I don't understand what could have happened to make him hate horses." The child glanced at the top photo. "Mom says that maybe he took a bad fall or something. But I don't think that's it, 'cause he doesn't seem scared for me, now that I'm riding."

"How does he seem?" Jesse managed to ask.

The boy shrugged. "I don't know. Okay, I guess. We don't really talk about it." He held the pictures out in an innocent offering. "What do you think, Dad?"

Jesse drew a deep breath and accepted the small stack of photos, unsure of what else to do. He couldn't very well refuse to look at them, not with his son waiting anxiously for his opinion.

He lowered his gaze to the first snapshot. It depicted Boyd striding a well-groomed mount, a muscular quarter horse. Jesse flipped to the next picture. Boyd again, this time with a different mount, an equally impressive palomino. Boyd did look happy—a man in his twenties, full of life and vitality. A contradictory image, Jesse decided, recalling the older man's bitter demeanor in Tricia's kitchen during that awful confrontation.

He continued to look through the photos hastily until onein particular caught his attention, made him stop and stare. Boyd stood beside a striking young woman, his arm around her waist. Jesse studied her, resisting the compelling, unexplainable urge to touch her image. She wore jeans and a Western shirt, blond hair spilling over her shoulders like spun gold. Her skin was fair, her features delicate, but it was her eyes that held him captive. Kept himriveted to her face. They wereas blue as the sky, the brightest, most dazzling color he had ever seen.

A chill raced up his spine. That wasn't true. He had seeneyes that blue before. His brother's eyes sparkled like azure diamonds—just like the woman's in the photograph.

With a quivering hand, he turned the picture over. Would there be a note, a date, an indication of who she was?

Rebecca.

The feminine name scripted on the back jolted through him like lightning. Rebecca was his mother's name. Sky's mother's name. Sky, his brother with the bright-blue eyes.

Dear God. His heart pummeled his chest, threatening to pound its way out. Could it be? Could the woman standing beside Raymond Boyd be his mother? His Rebecca? Sky's Rebecca? She'd been a blue-eyed blonde, slim and pretty, he'd been told. A delicate fine-boned lady.

He looked up at Dillon. "Can I hold on to this picture for a while?" he asked, struggling to contain the fear in his voice. The despair. The rage that Boyd may have been associated with his mother.

Dillon nodded. "Sure, Dad. You can keep as many as you want."

"I only want this one," he answered. He would show it to Fiona. The older lady had been his mother's neighbor. She would know if the woman in the photograph was Rebecca Hawk.

Yes, Fiona would know. And then Jesse would know, too.
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Chapter 13

«^»

OnMonday morning Patricia gazed out her office window. Boyd Enterprises had been bustling with activity: an early meeting, the closure of a profitable deal. She enjoyed the pace, the shift from fast to slow, noisy to quiet. An hour before,men and women in power suits had crowded theconference room. And now she stood alone, admiring the view from a third-story window, her computer screen glowing behind her.

The buzz of the intercom caught her attention. She turned and pressed the button.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Hawk is on line two."

"Thank you." Patricia smiled and pushed the second line. "Jesse?"

His voice rasped through the receiver. "Tricia, I need to see you. Meet me at Delany's as soon as you can."

"Why? What's wrong?" Delany's was a coffee bar located about two blocks from Boyd Enterprises, but Jesse's urgent tone didn't sound like an invitation to sample one of their international brews.

"I don't want to talk about it over the phone. Just hurry,okay?"

She stared at the screen-saver rolling across her computer. Apparently Jesse was already at Delany's, an odd place for him to be on a Monday morning. "Give me fifteen minutes."

She made it in ten, anxiety racing as fast as her car. She spotted Jesse immediately. He sat at one of the wooden tables, a frown furrowed deep in his brow.

Patricia took the chair across from him and noticed that his coffee appeared untouched, strong and black with steam rising from the cup.

"I was on my way to your office," he said. "But I decided to stop here instead. You know, take a deep breath, count to twenty, try to stay calm. Besides, I didn't want to take the chance of running into your dad. Not the way I'm feeling."

His expression was a combination of anger and despair, she thought, a devastating kind of rage. His hands were fisted on the table, but his eyes looked hollow, a dark empty gray. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

He opened one of his hands and dropped a piece of paper onto the table. Patricia reached for it. It was a photograph, she realized, as she unrolled it to view the subject. Her heart bumped hard and fast. The slightly crumpled image depicted her dad many years before, standing beside a stunning blonde, an equestrian setting in the background. They looked like a happy couple, friends or maybe even lovers, their faces alight with radiant smiles.

"Why are you carrying around an old photograph of my dad?" she asked. A picture she had never seen before.

Jesse met her gaze, his voice rough. "The woman your dad has his arm around is my mother, Tricia."

Her heart thumped again, a violent knock against her chest. She glanced down at the photo. A happy couple. Friends or maybe even lovers. "That's not possible. What makes youthink—"

"Damn it, I don't think it's her. I know it is. Even Fiona said so," he snapped back, then lowered his voice to avoidalarming the other patrons. "I tried to reach Fiona last night after I dropped Dillon off, but she wasn't home. So I showed that picture to her this morning when she came in to work.And she confirmed what Ialready suspected."

Patricia moved her chair forward. "You're not making sense. Start at the beginning, please. I'm not following you."

He dragged his hand through his hair and explained in a shaky voice how he had come by the photograph the day before, and why he had chosen to remain silent until Fiona saw it. "Dillon doesn't know anything about this. Of course he knows I kept the picture, but he doesn't know why."

She struggled to grasp his words—Dillon hiding old snapshots of his grandpa, her father clinging to a woman named Rebecca, Jesse's odd sensation that he recognized the color of Rebecca's eyes.

"It can't be," she heard herself say, as she tried to make sense of the situation. Fiona was old, even a little ditzy at times. Her memories must be confused.

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 Italk 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'shighly 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. Hismother,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 tomarryher, butIdidn'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. Punishedhim for being Michael Hawk's son. "How could youdo 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 seeit.Tootrusting."

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

"Does he?" Raymond leaned forward. "Are you certain ofthat? Has he asked you to be part of his life? Marry him?Share hisfuture? 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'tsaid it yet.

Weary, she slipped the photograph back into her purse. Shecouldn't cope with the anger anymore, the resentment and bitterness. And she knew she'd never have a future with Jesse until her father'spartin 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 statementlacked 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 mysafe."

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 day.

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 similarhairbow, he assumed the pampered little poodle had viewed Fionaas 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 femalestance. "You should eat something. It is, after all, your lunchhour."

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 Ineeded 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'rewelcome 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'smore 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 womanhewanted."

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 morningifhe had icerunning through hisveins. 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."

Another 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." Asign, shethought, 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 tomake 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.

Slowly, very slowly, he lifted their joined hands, then let go, drawing his fingers back. "I don't want… I can't—" His voice broke a little, but his expression remained blank. The stoic warrior, the lone hawk. "Don't love me, Tricia. Please. Just don't."

Because he couldn't love her back, she realized, couldn't bring himself to love Raymond Boyd's daughter again. A part of Jesse was still locked in the past—the callous, distrustful side that was impossible to reach.

She wanted to run, cry, let her heart bleed into the earth, but she stood tall instead. Pride was all she had now, and she intended to hold on to it until the bitter end.

She lifted her chin, set her gaze directly on his. "There's nothing more I can say. What I wanted for us was peace, but you're not willing to let that happen. I can't have a relationship with you anymore, Jesse."

He stood as motionless as the air, looking as though his world had just died and he intended to perish with it. Allow his venom to consume him. "You're going back to your father, aren't you?"

She pushed her hair away from her face. "Yes, I am. And I'm going to tell him what I told you. I love him, but I refuse to have a relationship with him, either. Not if he continues to wallow in hatred."

She forced her tears back, forced them with all her might. Her dad still owed Jesse an apology. She would face her father at work every day, but she wouldn't condone his malice, just the way she wouldn't condone Jesse's. "You know, my dad kept calling me naive, and I kept arguing that I wasn't. But he was right."

A muscle ticked in Jesse's cheek. "Why, because you got involved with me again?"

"No, because I believed in you. Believed what we had could conquer the hatred."

"Don't you dare blame me, Tricia. Your dad started this. He's the one who ruined what we had."

"And you're the one who can fix it." But won't, she thought. Because he refused to love her. The love was there, a tiny seed deep inside him, but rather than nourish it, he'd decided to let it decay.

Jesse didn't respond, so she continued, saddened by the denial she saw in his eyes, the emptiness. "I won't take Dillonaway from you or his grandpa. And I'll do my best not to influence him to choose sides. That's not what this is about."

She turned and rounded the building, heading for her carand hoping that he'd follow, but knowing that hewouldn't.Patricia Boyd had just lost the love of her life. The man who was her heart and soul. And tonight when she was alone, she'd allow herself to cry. Grieve for what could have been.
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Chapter 14

«^»

Jesse parked in front of Tricia's house and looked over at his son. "You rode well today." Better than expected, considering the circumstances and Dillon's sensitive nature. The child's parents hadn't seen each other in almost two weeks, hadn't spoken a word.

"I like riding. It makes me happy."

Jesse squeezed Dillon's shoulder. It probably helped the boy forget what was going on his world, too. Sometimes Jesse saddled Hunter for that very same reason. He'd ridden a lot in these past two weeks, blocking Tricia's image from his mind, trying to forget, forcing himself to go on with his life.

Tricia had kept her word. She hadn't taken Dillon away from him. Jesse suspected the boy was still visiting with his grandpa, too. And much to his credit, the child protected his mother's feelings, respected the choice she'd made by remaining silent. Not once in the past thirteen days had he tried to prod Jesse into a conversation about Tricia.

Dillon leaned in for a quick hug. "Bye, Dad."

"Bye." Jesse held on a little longer than usual, needing the closeness, the comfort. "I love you, son."

"I love you, too."

With a father's pride, he watched the boy open the truck door and walk to the house.I love you.Such easy words to say to his child. Easy to say. Easy to feel. Natural, like breathing.

Dillon waved, then disappeared through the front door, Jesse missing him already.

Instead of firing the engine, he sat in his truck and stared at the property. The gardeners had been there recently. The lawn, the flowers, the shrubs, everything was well tended, not a leaf out of place. Arrow Hill was like that, he thought. Pristine and white. Perfect. Overly manicured. He'd never been comfortable there. Jesse Aaron Hawk was far from being white or pristine, not with his sun-baked skin and faded denim clothes.

His gaze traveled from the lawn to the house itself. He couldn't see Tricia's bedroom from his vantage point, but he remembered every detail: the stained-glass window that illuminated color, the French door that led to a balcony, the full-length mirror that had reflected her beauty, her slim, sleek nakedness.

Was she home today? Sipping iced tea in her modern kitchen? Working on her laptop? Possibly curled up on a chair in her den, reading a suspense novel, those long, shapely legs tucked beneath her?

He pulled a hand through his unbound hair. How long would it be before she dated another man? Took him to her bed? She wouldn't love Jesse forever, wouldn't wait like before. There was no misunderstood promise between them this time.

His stomach tightened as he started the truck. Tricia with another man was an image he couldn't bear.

He headed down the hill, away from the heights of Arrow Hill and into the flats of Hatcher. God, he missed her. Missed the length of her body, the curve of her smile, the exotic fragrance she wore. Like a fool he'd taken to burning jasmine-scented candles, filling his home with a bittersweet reminder.

Jesse gripped the steering wheel. What good would it do to admit that the ache in his chest was love? Saying it out loud would solve nothing. Absolutely nothing. Love was not the cure-all, the magic formula for happily ever after. Jesse Hawk didn't believe in fairy tales. Life had dealt him reality—a strong, hard, lonely dose.

Unwilling to go home to the lingering jasmine, he continued to drive, passing other homes, other people. He turned to see a rugged old rancher schooling a young horse, then caught sight of two barefoot kids in a neighboring yard, lapping ice cream that had probably come from the local dairy. Familiar sights. Country folk in a country setting. They should have brought him comfort, yet they didn't. He felt more alone than ever.

Within twenty minutes Jesse found himself at a place he hadn't been to since his brother had come to visit. A quiet place with acres of grass and unseen angels whispering through the wind. The cemetery where his parents had been laid to rest.

He parked the truck and walked onto the lawn. Sporadic bouquets of flowers colored the terrain, and while some had wilted in the sun, others remained fresh. Recent gifts, he thought, Sunday offerings.

His parents had been buried near a tree, their graves marked with simple headstones, two flat rectangles side by side. No statues, poems or loving verses etched their memorial—only their names, the years of their births, dates of their deaths. Jesse knelt on the grass, the ache in his heart bleeding like an open wound.

Michael Aaron Hawk.

Rebecca Mane Hawk.

They'd married, made two children, then died together one tragic summer night when another vehicle collided with their truck. They'd taken their last conscious breaths while an elderly baby-sitter probably read fairy tales to their sons—two young boys, separated just days later.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring flowers," he said quietly, "but I didn't know I was coming here." He brushed several leaves away from the stone markers, then wondered if he should have left them instead. The leaves had fallen from the ancient oak that protected his parents, shaded them in the summer, watched over them on cold winter nights.

He fingered his mother's name and pictured her delicate features, her flowing blond hair. "I saw a photograph of you. You were with Raymond Boyd."

A man I hate, he thought. Tricia's father. The very reason he couldn't go to Tricia and tell her what she longed to hear. Loving her meant forgiving Boyd, something he refused to do. Boyd had tainted everything, even the memory of his parents.

"Why were you with him, Mom? Why were you smiling?"

When no answer came, he spoke to both of his parents, hoping to find a space in his mind that Raymond Boyd didn't occupy. "You have a grandson. His name's Dillon, and he's a terrific kid. Bright and sensitive."

But he's Boyd's grandson, as well, Jesse thought bitterly. Damn that old man. Almost everyone that he loved, Boyd had claimed, too.

Jesse heard a rustle in the tree and looked up. A red-tailed hawk had lit upon a high branch, its glorious wings fanned. He followed the bird's graceful movement, a lump forming in his throat. Hawks were messengers, couriers from the heavens. And this red-tipped angel had undoubtedly come with the tree—a beautiful spirit that belonged to his parents. His blue-eyed mother, his Creek father.

He scrubbed his hand across his jaw and closed his eyes, knowing that the hawk watched and waited, its message clear. Angels didn't send tidings of hatred.

What have I done?

He opened his eyes, heard his own voice—a low whisper—a disgraced confession. "I taught Dillon about thebusk.The ceremony of forgiveness."

Yes, he'd taught his son about the Green Corn Dance. He'd spouted the words while storing contempt for the boy's grandfather. He had dishonored his son, he thought, shamed the child Tricia had given him. And he'd dishonored Tricia, as well, the gentle woman for whom his soul ached. He'd brokenher heart once again,refused the love she'd offered, the peaceand beauty. He stood motionless, their last conversation reverberating in his head.

Don't you dare blame me, Tricia. Your dad started this. He's the one who ruined what we had.

And you're the one who can fix it.

Jesse stared up through the branches of the tree and saw the hawk settle into its nest, certain now of what he must do.

* * *

A long private road led to the Boyd mansion. Jesse took the winding turns with ease since his truck had been built for a tougher terrain. As the hilltop estate came into view, his heartbeat quickened. The house sat like a proud monument. A bed of indigenous flowers lined a circular driveway, while white pillars supported the front door, tall round columns one would expect on a mansion. The grounds were exceptional, green and lush with a carpet of grass that went on forever.

Tricia and Dillon had both lived there, so he tried to accept the opulence, tried to make it feel homey by imagining them picnicking on the lawn.

He parked and rang the bell, then waited anxiously to announce himself to a butler or a maid. Would Boyd refuse to see him? Jesse stood tall and resisted the urge to dust his jeans. He didn't want to be caught fussing over his appearance, even though he probably looked more like a cowboy than a country veterinarian. He had dressed this morning for Dillon's riding lesson and still wore a simple ensemble of Western attire.

Boyd answered the door himself, a shock to Jesse's system. He stared at the other man, and before his mouth could form a word, Boyd belted out a gruff question.

"Is Patricia with you?"

"No. I came alone."

"What do you want?"

"To talk."

The older man scowled and stepped away from the door in a silent, unfriendly invitation. Jesse would have preferred to stay outside with the grass and the trees. Cowboy boots didn'tbelong on a marble floor, he thought, as he entered the mansion,feeling instantlyoutof place.

He followed Boyd into a room thatboasted tradition andelegance: a crystal chandelier, a gold mantel over the fireplace,cream-colored sofas and ornate wood furnishings that had probably been in the family for generations. Words like Queen Anne and Chippendale popped into Jesse's head, antiques he'd heard of, butwouldn't recognize.

Once again, he tried to picture Tricia and Dillon there, tried to fill himself with their medicine—Tricia's feminine beauty and Dillon'syouthful innocence—the warmth he felt for both.

Boyd pointed to a chair. "You came to talk. So talk. There'sno one here but us. My staff has Sundays off."

Jesse sat, even though he would have preferred to stand. His towering height gave him an advantage over the other man. At six-two, he stood several inches taller than Tricia's father, the cowboy boots adding yet another inch.

He watched Boyd take a chair opposite him and realized how ridiculously macho his last thought had been. This wasn't about who had whatadvantage. So he was taller and Boydhad more money. So what? Neither one of them had Tricia in their lives, and loved ones mattered more than an intimidating stance or an overflowing bankbook.

"Do you miss Tricia?" Jesse asked.

"My daughter's name is Patricia. And if you came here to gloat because you finally managed to ruin herrelationship withme, you can get the hell out now."

Prone to being hot-tempered, Jesse clenched his fists, then took a deep breath and relaxed his fingers. The hawk had sent him, the hawk and his lonely heart. Anger would only destroy what he'd come to repair. "She's Tricia to me. And believe me, I'm far from gloating. I miss her something awful."

Boyd sat upright in his chair. "She hasn't been here in two weeks, and she only speaks to me at the office when it's absolutely necessary. I never knew she had it in her to be quite this stubborn."

Yes, he missed her. Jesse could see the loss in the otherman's face, hear it in his tone. He inhaled another deep breath, then exhaled slowly, preparing his next words. "I'm in love with your daughter, Mr. Boyd. And I'm here because I want your blessing before I ask her to marry me."

"I should have known." Tricia's father tugged at his collar, the fear in his voice creeping into his eyes. "You're going to take her away from me. That's what this is all about."

Boyd's uncharacteristic burst of panic left Jesse momentarily speechless. Earlier the older man had seemed emotionalbut stern, impeccable in tan slacks anda matching pullover,as haughty and distinguished as the house.

Jesse glanced down at his hands, then back up, Tricia's words filling his head.My dad blamed Michael Hawk fortakingRebecca away from him.

"I resemble my father, don't I?" he asked.

The other man nodded, still struggling to maintain his composure. "Yes, you favor him. It's difficult to look at you and not see Michael."

Jesse steered the conversation down a road that made himas jittery as Boyd, as panicked, in a way. But he knew deep down that they bothneeded to travel that road, the painfulhighway leading to the past. "Will you tell me about my mother? Please," he added when the older manfrowned. "It'simportant to me.I don't remember her."

"I…" Tricia's father hesitated, then cleared his throat. "I met her at the country club. She was a waitress at the bistro. She was new in town and didn't know anyone."

"I saw her picture. The one of the two ofyou together. She was beautiful. A lot likeI'd imagined." Blond and delicatewith a warm smile and bright-blue eyes. A mother other children would admire. The mother Jesse had always dreamed ofhaving, someone angelic and caring.

"Yes. Rebecca was beautiful. Sweet and a little shy at times. I, umm…"

"Took one look at her and fell madly in love?" Jesse provided.

The older man managed a strained nod. "I began eating atthe bistro everyday. I was determined to get to know Rebecca. Figure a way to win her affection."

Jesse remained silent while Boyd continued, surprised by his ability tolisten without resentment. Maybeit wasbecausehe, too, had fallen madly in love the first time he'd seen Tricia. He understood masculine obsession.

"I learned that Rebecca adored horses, which was precisely why she had moved to Hatcher. She'd heard that Hatcher was an affordable cowboy town, a place where she might be able to board a horse for a reasonable fee." He smoothed his sideburns with edgy fingers,his composure not quite regained. "She didn't have a horse, but she planned on buying one just as soon as she saved enough money."

Jesse scooted to the edge of his seat. Boyd's hatred of horses was linked to his mother somehow. "You owned several horses, didn't you? The ones from the pictures?"

"No. Imeanyes, they were mine, butIbought them to impress Rebecca. And since I wasn't familiar with the equestrian world, I hired a trainer. Someone to teach meeverythingI needed to know, including how to ride." Boyd looked directly at Jesse, right smack into his eyes. "I was a quick study, and the young man I hired was the best. Tall, good-looking Creek fellow. His name was Michael Hawk."

Jesse held the other man's piercing gaze. "My father."

"Yes, your father." Boyd's voice went tight. He rose and stood beside the fireplace. "We became friends, the three of us. We spent every free momenttogether—laughing, talking,riding. I didn't tell Rebecca how I felt about her, but I sensedthat Michael knew.In the same way that I picked up on whatwas happening to him."

They both loved her, Jesse thought. Friends in love with the same woman.

"It wasn't a deliberatecompetition, in factit didn't seemlike a competition at all.I felt brotherly toward Michael, andI was certain that he'd get over Rebecca. I intended to ask him to be my best man when I married her."

"I'm sorry," Jesse said.

Boyd's stance went rigid. "You're apologizing for your father?"

"No." Jesse stood, resisting the urge to pace. The conversation had taken a turn he'd never expected. "I'm sorry that you got hurt. I know what it feels like to love someone. To hurt over them."

The older man sighed and made a humbling confession. "I was arrogant. So damn arrogant. Not once did Rebecca encourage me to be anything more than her friend. I'd see the way she would look at Michael and say to myself, 'But I have more to offer her than he does. I'm successful. Iinherited agrand house.'" He gestured to the opulent surroundings. "Such an arrogant fool."

"You're not a fool." Jesse's eyes turned watery. "You'vetaken good care of Tricia and Dillon. And you cared about my parents. That makes you special in my eyes."

"How can you say that after everything that's happened?"

"Because it's time for forgiveness. And I want to marry your daughter and raise Dillon with her. I love them, Raymond," he said, using the other man's given name for the first time. "They mean everything to me." And he understood that Raymond Boyd had acted out of fear rather than true malice.He had been afraid of losing Tricia the way he'd lost Rebecca. "I want us to be a family. All of us."

Raymond stepped forward, shame etched upon his face. "Your parents wanted to remain my friend. They begged me to understand, to give them my blessing. And I should have. They loved each other very much."

"That means a lot to me." Jesse blinked back his tears. "I know so little about my parents."

"They would have been proud of you." Raymond extended his hand, his eyes as watery as Jesse's. "I'm sorry. So incredibly sorry for what I've done to you and Patricia. Maybe if I'd known how you really felt about her. Maybe…"

His voice trailed, taking the rest of his apology with it. For Jesse, it was enough. Raymond had wrestled with inner demons for far too long.

He clasped the other man's hand, then leaned forward whenhe realized he was about to be hugged. It felt odd, wonderfullyodd to be embraced by Tricia's father.

Raymond stepped back a littleawkwardly. "I have picturesof your parents. Would you like to see them?"

Surprised, Jesse nodded. "You kept photos of my dad?"

"Yes,butIcan't explain whyIfelt compelled to hold on to them."

Because, Jessethought, Raymond Boyd was an overlyproud,reclusive man who had mourned a lost friendship in the only way he knew how.

Later that day Jesse waited at another door, nervous once again. He brushed at his clothes. There he stood, empty-handed, in old boots and worn denims. A man should propose in a romantic setting with a diamond ring and a bottle of champagne. What was he thinking, showing up like this?

He glanced at the grass stains on his jeans. What if Tricia didn't want to marry him? What if she'd fallen out of love already? Maybe she hadn't missed him as badly as he'd missed her.

She opened the door, and he stood like a scarecrow, afraid he'd trip over his own feet if he dared take a step. She looked soft and pretty in a pastel dress, a floral scent drifting around her.

He hoped to hell he didn't smell like the hay he'd stacked that morning. Or, God forbid, like his horse.

"Jesse," she said, "I don't think Dillon was expecting you. He's at a friend's house."

"Actually, I'm here to see you," he managed, noting her polite tone lacked the warmth he'd come to bask in. "I was hoping we could talk."

She touched the top button on her dress in a protective manner. "I've already said everything that I intended to say, remember?"

Yeah, he remembered. The overwhelming loneliness had made him do strange things, like hug his pillow at night and wish the softness was her. "I just came from your dad's house, Tricia."

Her eyes went wide. "Is everything…? You two didn't…?" She took in his down-home appearance as though checking for evidence of a scuffle. "What happened?"

He studied the sweep of her hair, the curvaceous lines of her body, the anticipation on her face. "Invite me in and I'll tell you."

Tricia stepped away from the door. He walked into the house and took her hand, felt it quiver in his. He decided she was nervous. Excited. Hopeful. The thought bolstered his courage.

"Let's sit on the patio." To hell with champagne and diamonds. That could come later. He was going to make this woman his wife the Creek way, providing she'd have him.

He chose the edge of a brick planter so they could sit beside each other, their shoulders nearly touching. Jesse turned to look at her. Elegant Tricia in her summer dress—flowing cotton and flawless skin.

Her breath hitched. "Please. Tell me what happened."

He held her hand and told her about the hawk at the cemetery, her father's confession, the embrace they'd shared, the emotion, the forgiveness, the burden that had been lifted from his heart.

She listened, her eyes filling with tears. "You made everything all right. You made the hurt go away."

"So did your dad. It wasn't easy for him." Raymond had opened a painful vein from his youth. It took courage, Jesse thought, for the other man to admit his mistakes, his loss and loneliness. "I think he really loved my mother. Letting his pain go after all these years must have been hard." He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Tricia a photograph that Raymond had given him, a gift he would treasure forever.

"It's your parents." She touched it with reverence. "Oh, my. You look just like your father. They're beautiful, both of them."

Yes, they were. Young and beautiful and madly in love. They stood side by side, their hair fluttering in a small breeze. His father's jet-black mane was banded into a ponytail, but several strands had blown free, indicating its length.

"Your dad took this picture, Tricia. He's a wonderful photographer." Raymond had captured his subject, the innocence of Rebecca, the strength of Michael. The sheer radiance of love and friendship.

Tricia dabbed at her tears. "This feels like a dream."

He smiled. He hadn't asked her to marry him yet, hadn't told her that he'd already received her father's blessing. The dream, he hoped, was just beginning.

Jesse tucked the photograph back into his pocket. "Wait here. There's something I need to do."

He scouted her yard, frowned at the short-cropped lawn. He needed reeds, two tall blades of grass with jointed stems. He continued to scan the flowers and plants, and decided his ancestors would forgive him for the compromise. He chose two long, green leaves from an abundant foliage and returned to Tricia, who sat quietly with a curious expression.

"I'm going to explain a Creek custom. It's simple, but extremely important." He pressed the leaves into the dirt, one in front of each of them. "When a Creek man chooses a bride, he builds a house and plants a new crop. I already have a home, and I intend to fill a garden with flowers that remind me of you." He swallowed his nervousness and met her gaze.

Fresh tears glistened in her eyes. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

He nodded, then motioned toward the leaves he'd pressed into the dirt. "All we have to do is exchange reeds. This gives the woman a chance to make her decision."

Without the slightest hesitation, she blinked through her tears, lifted the leaf in front of her and handed it to Jesse, her acceptance true and clear. He smiled and offered her his.

"I love you," he said. The sentiment was in his gesture, but he knew she needed to hear those three special words. Suddenly loving her had become so easy, so right.

She clutched the makeshift reed to her chest, her voice almost breathless—a soft feminine whisper. "Are you my husband now?"

"In the old way, yes." He still had flowers to plant, and they would both want a legal ceremony, a license to seal their bond, but they had just made a private commitment—a cherished vow beneath the sun.

He lifted her left hand, envisioning a ring there. "My brother and his wife are coming to visit in about six weeks. That's enough time to plan a wedding, isn't it?"

"That's perfect." In their hearts they were already married, Patricia thought, but a formal wedding would unite family and friends.

She touched his lips, felt them open beneath hers. Beautiful, rugged Jesse. Her Creek husband. Her lover. The father of her child. The world and all its glory was hers. He had just completed her life, her soul.

"When did you know?" she asked. "When did you know that you loved me?"

He closed his eyes as though savoring the aftertaste of her kiss. "I'm not sure I ever really stopped. I told myself I had, but…" He opened his eyes and took her breath away. "I couldn't let you go, not completely. I kept your hair in my medicine bag because I needed to keep a part of you with me even though it hurt."

The way her father had kept Rebecca's and Michael's pictures, she realized. "You forgave my dad so easily because you understood."

Jesse nodded. "Your mother and my parents died within months of each other. Can you imagine the grief he suffered?"

And the guilt. A combination that had led to an overly protective nature. Patricia didn't blame her father for having loved Rebecca in a different way than he'd loved her mother. Love came in many forms, and she felt certain her dad had been a good, caring husband. "We're going to be okay. All of us."

"Yes, we are. And Dillon's the link that binds your family and mine."

Patricia smiled. He was right. Dillon belonged to all of them. She looked around, thought about the wonderful changes ahead. "I won't miss this house, and I don't think Dillon will, either." Jesse's house had the wooden porch, the herb garden, the menagerie of animals that brought warmth and comfort.

His voice turned low and heated. "I'm going to put a stained-glass window in our bedroom, just like the one that's here. It's like making love to you inside of a rainbow."

Her knees went weak. She unbuttoned the front of her dress and brought his head to her breasts. He nuzzled, his mouth moist against her nipple.

"I want more children, Tricia. Sweet little babies."

"Me, too."

"Then don't take your pills anymore." He lifted his head and kissed her.

A soft breeze feathered his hair. She captured a strand and let it slide through her fingers. He took her hand and led her to the room that contained their rainbow.

She undressed before him, slipped the cotton off her shoulders and met his gaze, instantly losing herself in liquid silver.

He lowered her to the bed, to the prism of sun-washed color. She arched her neck, felt him inhale the fragrance of her skin, touch and taste and relish the woman she'd become. There was no hurry, no anxious frenzy. His nakedness covered hers, and she smiled, welcoming his weight, warmth. The love she saw alight in his eyes.
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Epilogue

«^

Patricia Hawk. The bride tested her new name in her mind.

No, no, no.Tricia Hawk. She would think of herself as Tricia now.

Jesse's Tricia.

She stood beside her husband in front of the chapel where they had exchanged public vows. A thick carpet of grass surrounded the quaint little building. Red bricks made up the entryway, while a steeple provided early-American charm.

A professional photographer gathered family and friends, placing them just so, coaxing their smiles. Tricia wore her mother's wedding dress, a long, slim-fitting gown fashioned from white satin, pearls and lace. Her father had saved the dress for this occasion, a sentimental gesture that had brought tears to Tricia's eyes. Raymond Boyd had walked his daughter down the aisle as a proud but humbled man. That, too, had triggered tears of joy.

Jesse and Dillon, dark and handsome in traditional black tuxedos, sported simple white boutonnieres. Tricia's bouquet was made up of exotic blooms—jasmine and hothouse orchids—flowers Jesse had suggested.

A group photo was in the works, and Tricia watched as Jesse's brother, Sky, and his wife, Windy, were directed into place. Tricia couldn't help but admire the baby in Windy's arms, a delightful child with enormous blue eyes and ringlets of black hair.

"Can I hold Shawna for this picture?" she asked, eager to cradle the tiny girl against her.

Jesse smiled as Shawna was transferred into his bride's arms. "Practicing?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Tricia inhaled the gentle scent of baby powder as she adjusted the child's ribbons and bows. "We might have a girl this time," she whispered back, laughing as Shawna grabbed hold of Jesse's lapel and flashed him a toothless grin.

Dillon, who stood in front of his father, turned back to add his smile. Young Dillon Hawk had volunteered to announce his mother's pregnancy at the upcoming reception—a secret he couldn't wait to reveal. He was going to be a wonderful big brother, she thought, kind and protective.

No stone in their lives had been left unturned. Tricia's father had seen to that. He'd purchased the trailer park where Jesse's parents had once lived, promising to restore it in their honor, offering the current residents, including Fiona, an environment of which to be proud.Elda, Dillon's former nanny, had expressed an interest in managing the park, hoping to put her organizational skills to good use.

They were all there, everyone that Jesse and Tricia loved, gathered close for the photographer's critical eye. Tricia looked up and spotted a hawk gliding through the heavens. She whispered a prayer of thanks and smiled for the camera.

Her husband's guardian angel, in all its glory, had just arrived, completing the cycle of beauty and love.

* * * * *