Jesse Hawk: Brave Father. Sheri WhiteFeather
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“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 walk-way.
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 as Texas. “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 from Tulsa.
“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.