Daddy By Decision

“So I did.” He closed the distance between them with one step and dropped a stack of napkins over the coffee stain at her feet. Squatting to swipe up the liquid, he glanced up at her, the light spilling over his face and throwing into sharp relief lines of strain and exhaustion she hadn’t noticed earlier. “Well, Miz McDonald, you might want to remind your friend Frankie that it’s not a good idea, even in a small town like Tarpon City, to identify his customers, especially his—” he glanced at her naked left hand “—single female ones.” Soft and deceptively gentle, his voice drifted through the air, moved over her skin like a teasing feather stroke.

The Jonas she remembered was toying with her, seeking the weak spot. She knew it, and she still struck back, the old Jessie rising to the bait.

“Thanks for the helpful hint, cowboy. I’ll make sure I mention your advice to Frankie.”

Not fooling her one bit with his nonchalance, he pitched the wet brown wad of paper in the trash, took a final pull of his cola and asked, “By the way, does Miz McDonald have a first name?”

“And wouldn’t she be a fool for telling you?” Jessie smiled sweetly. “Even with this being such a small town. And you the picture of respectability? It’s a wonder I don’t just hand you my safe-deposit number and key. Gosh, can’t imagine why I don’t.” Quirking one eyebrow, she sipped deliberately from her plastic-coated cup, relaxed, all easy confidence, her voice as mellow as his as she continued. “And since you’ve been so helpful, may I return the favor, cowboy?”

“Of course, ma’am.” He dropped the cola can into the recycling bin. “I’m always grateful for good advice.” Butter-smooth, his polite tone matched the respectful tip of his head. But his eyes narrowed suddenly, as if she’d somehow made a mistake. Suddenly intent, he looked as if she’d handed him the end of the thread leading through the puzzle maze. “What was it you wanted to say?” He stepped back, waving her through as she approached the door.

Turning her head to look at him over her shoulder, she smiled. “Not much. Except that even cowboys go in for a shave and a change of clothes once in a while. Maybe you’re working too hard at creating an image?”

She heard the quick intake of his breath. “Ah. I see. Clothes. The image. Yes, Miz McDonald, I sure do appreciate your input.” Rich satisfaction rippled through his voice, over his face, as he smiled. “You’ve been right helpful, ma’am.”

Jessie fled. She couldn’t imagine what she’d revealed, but in giving in to her desire to score one tiny point off him, she’d obviously messed up somehow.

Fast-walking down the corridor to the parking lot, Jessie muttered under her breath. “Coffee. That was the problem. It wouldn’t have killed me to skip my mocha latte for once.” She should never have stopped in for coffee before leaving for home. But she always did. “Why would I expect to see Jonas Riley stretched out over the cola machine like some martyred saint?” Swearing at herself under her breath, she stomped down the hall.

For her, the road to hell was clearly paved with coffee beans.

Two nurses stared at her as she stormed by them, and then their eyes drifted past her, their steps slowed, and one of the nurses lifted a hand to fluff out shiny black hair.

Jessie fought the impulse to break into a flat-out run. She didn’t have to look. Like the sun at high noon in summer, heat and determination came from the man keeping easy pace a step behind her.

“You took off in such a hurry, Miz McDonald, that you left your purse on the table near the door.” Lean brown fingers dangled her wallet-on-a-string in front of her. “You’re a busy lady, I reckon, rushing around the way you do, forgetting your wallet today, your checkbook last night?”

“I manage to fill my days,” she muttered, reaching for the wallet.

“I’m sure you do.” With a flick of his hand, he looped the burgundy leather strap over her neck. “Glad to help, ma’am,” he added, his voice cordial, his manner solicitous, his cowboy act perfect down to the slightest tone and gesture.

But she’d observed Jonas Buckminster Riley in action, had seen the man who’d been a shark in court, urbane, cultivated, as he cut through bloody waters, and she didn’t trust this blueeyed, tough-featured cowboy metamorphosis any farther than she could pitch an elephant. “Yes, well, for the umpteenth time, thank you.” She jerked as he touched her shoulder.

“Anything else I can do for you?” He straightened the strap, his knuckle sliding against her bare arm.

Prickles of alarm and awareness ran down her arm. She caught her breath. It was nothing more than a touch, nothing to be upset about, but her skin went hot and she wanted to shut her eyes and let him run that callused knuckle down her neck, across her shoulder—

Too many nights alone had made her forget the power of a simple touch.

Worse, she’d forgotten her susceptibility to the touch of Jonas Riley.

Clamping her arm close to her side, Jessie kept her gaze on the corridor floor, on the square, dusty toes of his boots. He’d had long, narrow, beautiful feet.

“Better?” He adjusted the strap once more, his face coming into her view as he stooped to her eye level, his breath mingling with her own, warm, cola-and-coffee-scented.

She’d known coffee would be her downfall. She hadn’t expected it to tempt her in this manner, though. “Thank you. You’re an exceptionally—helpful—person, aren’t you?” Trying to outpace him, Jessie lengthened her stride, taking two and a half to every one of his and feeling crowded the whole time, surrounded by him, his energy, his sheer, overwhelming presence. “Or perhaps you’re a retro Boy Scout?”

“I like to be useful.”

“Good for you,” Jessie said through gritted teeth. “The world could use a lot more useful men.” She reached the automatic exit doors that swung open as she stepped toward them.

Huddled under the portico, the smokers cleared way for her. For Jonas. Hurrying toward her car, she fumbled for her keys, pulling them out. A wave of heat curled toward her from the concrete sidewalks, washed over her. The red sun lay fat and hot on the horizon and she wanted to be home, to escape the very solid spirit from her past. Just as she opened her van door, he stopped her.

“Wait.” His hand closed around her elbow, his thumb flat against the inner pulse, and her heartbeat slammed in a staccato rhythm to that light, insistent pressure. His thumb was rough as he moved it against her skin, against her underarm in a slow, unconscious stroking that had nothing’ at all to do with the questions gleaming at her from his eyes.

“Take your hand off me, cowboy. Now.”

Buck did.

She hadn’t needed to tell him. As he’d touched her, her face had turned pinched and tight, and he’d already taken a step away from her. He recognized the desperation blazing in her eyes. Holding his hands up, palms toward her, he didn’t move. “Sorry, Ms. McDonald. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t. I don’t scare that easily.” Not looking in back of her, she opened her van door and stepped quickly inside, shutting the door between them with a quiet snick. She stabbed the key into the ignition as she said in a low, furious voice, “But I don’t like strange men grabbing me, cowboy, no matter how charming they are. And you don’t know me well enough to be anything else except a stranger.” Sunlight burnished her hair to pale gold.

Like an overlay, another image superimposed itself, this one in vivid color.

Her hair should have been sleek—a smooth, bright blond helmet cut close to her face, that full mouth dark red, seductive.

“But we’ve met before, haven’t we?” Trying to meld the two images, he rested his hand on the open window of the van. A strand of her hair brushed the back of his hand, curled around his palm with the feel of a forgotten touch, a remembered kiss. “I know you, don’t I?”

She looked as if he’d struck her. Her face went paper-white, and a rumbling growl came from the shadowy interior of the van. “Believe me, you don’t know me at all.” As she spoke, a wide head with enormous teeth and lolling tongue appeared next to hers at the window edge.

Buck kept his hand on the window. “Does he bite?”

“She. Yes, she does.” Color was flowing slowly back into the woman’s face as she regained her equilibrium.

“Bites, huh?” Buck scanned the dog’s face, noting the wagging tail. “She doesn’t strike me as a dog who’d bite.” Dog slobber dripped on his hand but he didn’t move, didn’t try to pat that wide, rough head.

“Well, she does. Enthusiastically. Every chance she gets.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?” he asked gently.

“Maybe you’re not a trusting soul,” she said, her gaze flashing to his and back to the key.

The woman’s astringent tone matched her earlier, back-offfella attitude, and he was relieved. Her skim milk white face had disturbed him. He’d never seen himself as a man who intimidated women, and he didn’t like the idea that he’d scared her. Pushing for answers was one thing, but reducing her inyour-face thorniness to white-faced fear wasn’t an image of himself he cared for. “Not trusting? Me? I’m wounded,” he said, placing his hand over his heart.

“Now why don’t I believe you?” Her arm resting on the dog, she turned to him and lifted her eyebrow, her mockery obvious.

“How perceptive of you.” Deliberately he repeated her earlier gibe and watched her quite remarkable blue eyes darken behind her glasses. “I’d almost think we’d met before—for you to have such insight into my character, Miz McDonald. Or was it only a lucky guess?” He wondered if she’d let him have the last word. He somehow didn’t think she would.

“Down, Loofah,” the woman said and ground the ignition key, restarting the engine before tilting her chin up at him. “Look, cowboy, you tried out your pickup routine, and it didn’t work. You were bored, at loose ends, and I wasn’t interested. Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? Call it a day.”

Pebbles and dust spurted out from under the tires as she backed out. The monster dog watched him from the rear window, tongue hanging out as if maybe after all she’d like Buck to be dinner.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Buck found himself contemplating the van’s taillights. But this time, he had an answer.

She knew him. Her slightly acid responses hadn’t been those of a stranger. And he knew her. But she wasn’t a Miz, Ms. or Mrs. McDonald. Some other name. It would come to him sooner or later. Dust blew into his face as he stared into the empty distance.

He understood the sizzle crackling between them. He understood sex. He liked the way her pupils dilated when she looked at him. He liked the way her smooth skin shone pink with discomfort. He liked the faint scent of flowers that rose from her skin, her hair.

The sense that there was something more than a sexual pull between them disturbed him. He liked sex a whole, heaping bunch. It was simple, uncomplicated. What he felt toward the woman with the bedroom voice and cautious eyes wasn’t simple at all.

Scratching the still-itching mosquito bite on his neck, he thought about the peculiar swirl of emotions the woman created in him. He’d never exerted this kind of energy in pursuit of a woman, and he wasn’t comfortable with the sense that he was sailing over the edge into unknown seas, that she had some power over him.

But he trusted his instincts and his instincts told him that she had her own reasons for pretending not to remember him. He couldn’t help wondering what they were. Rocking slowly back and forth on his worn-down boot heels, he stayed there until the van was nothing more than a dark speck on the red horizon.

Dust swirling and blowing around him, foretelling the coming storm, he walked around the hospital and the physical rehabilitation center for veterans. He didn’t want to go back inside the hospital. Out here in the wind and dust, the air was rich with the smells of ozone and earth, with sweat and flowers. Inside the automatic doors were filtered air and the smells of disinfectant and tragedy.

Bea refused to leave. “I’ve slept beside Hoyt every night for almost forty years. We’ve never been separated. I don’t intend to start now. I don’t want y’all fussing me about it, hear?”

They heard. And they quit pestering her to go back to the ranch and rest. “You know how Mama is,” Buck said to his brothers. “Don’t push. She’ll only dig in her heels harder.” Like the woman in the Palmetto Mart, he thought, surprised. “I’ll be here. Let’s back off, all right?”

There was a curious peacefulness during the quiet night hours with the pinging bells and shushing sounds of doors opening and closing. Bea dozed beside him, her head falling to his shoulder and then snapping up as anxiety slapped her awake. Buck brought her soup and tea. Later, the tea and soup gone cold, he disposed of the paper cups.

During the night, while he sat in the pulled-up chair close to Hoyt’s bed, Buck felt his stepfather’s gnarled hand pull against his own.

“That you, son?” Hoyt’s words were slurred and hard to hear, his effort at speech palpable.

“Yeah, Daddy, I’m here.” Keeping in the shadows at the head of the bed, Buck stayed out of sight, only his touch linking him to this man he loved as much as he loved anyone in the world. He would be whoever Hoyt needed him to be, Hank or T.J. He could give Hoyt that comfort. “I won’t leave,” Buck said, his throat closing as he swallowed.

“Bea?” The rough hand rubbed against Buck’s.

“Mama’s here, too. All of us.”

There was a long pause. Green spikes marched in regular waves across the heart monitor.

“Buck?”

“Yeah, Daddy?” Buck leaned forward. Even without seeing him, Hoyt knew who he was, knew he wasn’t T.J. or Hank.

“Don’t let Bea wear herself out, hear? You know how she gets.” Hoyt’s words echoed his earlier ones.

“I know how Mama gets.” Buck smiled in spite of the lump in his throat. “I’ll watch out for her. We’ll take care of her.”

“Shoot, son, sounds like y’all got me with one foot in the grave already.” Hoyt’s breath rattled as his chest rose laboriously up and down. “Don’t go picking out my tombstone just yet.” Slow, spaced out, the words fell into the quiet, the man’s spirit rising above the limitations of body and tubes. “I ain’t ready to call it a day, you know. I got things to do. Grandkids I ain’t seen yet.”

Tightening his hold around his daddy’s large hand, Buck said, “Reckon that means you want us to cancel the flowers, huh?”

The rasping cough was Hoyt’s version of a chuckle. “Hell, yeah. No sense in wasting all that money. I got a few miles left. Ain’t time to count me out, son.”

“I won’t.”

Hoyt’s eyes closed. “Good.”

“They were awful nice flowers, Daddy.”

“Hope to Billy hell they were.” An almost-smile twitched the corners of Hoyt’s mouth. “Y’all better show this old coot proper respect.” He grunted and then was silent, his chest moving slowly, slowly, rising and falling to the regular rhythm of his sleep.

Holding Hoyt’s hand between both of his, Buck stroked the rough, weathered skin as he whispered, “Hang in there, Daddy.” Carefully he squeezed his father’s hand. “I love you,” he whispered, his throat raspy with unshed tears.

For the rest of the night as Bea and Buck alternated visits, Hoyt drifted back and forth between consciousness and wherever he’d been. Like wings beating lightly against his face, Buck felt hope settle softly in him, easing the dreadful weight of fear. What would be, would be. They would handle it Together.

In the twilight between sleeping and waking, Buck saw a tiny red race car barreling past him over and over again while two women—one with sleek blond hair, the other with wildly tumbling curls—strolled toward him and continued past, their mocking laughs blending into one as they left him behind, alone.

And when night sounds changed to morning bustle, he sat up with a start, everything coming together in his brain with an almost audible click.

He knew damned good and well who she was.

And he was going to find her, one way or the other.

Oh, yes, he remembered Jessica Bell.

Chapter Three

“I dub thee Sir Mommy.” The metal toy sword tapped Jessie’s left shoulder, then her right.

Her son’s excited eyes met hers as she opened them blearily. “I’m a knight of the realm, am I, love bug?”

“Yep.” He stood up, wrapping the rag-tattered afghan around him. A plastic, economy-size peanut butter bucket wobbled on his head. The strap under his chin kept it from falling off. “Me and Skeezes is kings.” He pointed. The dog’s shaggy eyebrows supported a paper plate cut into points. Red and blue and black scribbles decorated the plate. Sparkles drifted onto the floor, onto Skeezix’s coat.

Jessie yawned. “Nice hat. Skeezix, you’re the next GQ cover.”

“Skeezes is wearing the crown.” Gopher frowned. “See?” He lifted the unevenly cut cardboard. “Rubies and jewels. Oxen—” he frowned again “—and turkey-something.”

“Onyx and turquoise?”

Releasing his chubby grip on Skeezix’s crown, Gopher nodded, sparkles floated and Skeezix sneezed.

“How silly of me. I should have known. You’re a warrior king?” She tapped the top of the bucket. Snagging the strap under his chin, she tugged him toward her. “Well, this knight of the realm expects a big old smackeroo kiss from the warrior king, so pucker up, warrior king.”

Gopher’s soft lips puckered up, and he planted a warm, wet, sweet kiss on Jessie’s mouth. The bucket smacked her in the forehead, Skeezix planted his version of a smackeroo, and the doorbell rang.

Collapsing on top of her, giggling and woofing, child and dog wrestled her off the sofa. “Wow. Now that’s what I call a kiss, sugar. Haul Skeezix off me, will you?” Jessie fumbled for her glasses that had twisted off and lay buried somewhere under dog and child and cushions. “Hey, guys, anybody see my glasses?”

The doorbell rang again, two short, commanding peals.

Gopher held up her glasses. “Ransom, ransom!” Shrieking toward the door with the dog following him, he galloped around unpacked boxes and stacks of paint cans. “Ransom!”

“Never, says I, me buckeroo!” Chasing after him, Jessie leaped over a roll of wallpaper that appeared out of nowhere, staggered, and bounced off Skeezix’s flank. Sliding to a halt, she extended her arms in an effort to block Gopher’s feints and dodges.

“Runrunasfastas you can—” he paused for breath “—can’t catch me! I’m the gingerbread man!” He lowered his head and barreled toward her.

Four and a half was a delightful age, old enough so that she could see the person her son would be, young enough for goofy kisses and games. But four and a half was hard on a thirty-five-year-old body, she thought ruefully as he slipped through her grasp like beads of mercury.

On a prolonged note, the doorbell shrilled. “Hold your horses. We’re on our way,” Jessie grumbled, lunging for her speed-demon child. Grabbing Gopher around the waist, she threw him over her shoulder and pulled open the door as the bell sounded again. “Good grief,” Jessie muttered. “Keep your pants on, buster.”

“Yep, good grief,” Gopher repeated. “Keep your—”

“Enough, sugar.” Jessie blew a strand of hair out of her face.

Fanny wiggling in the air and nose pointed toward the door, Gopher lifted his head. “Hey, mister. You got your pants on. Why din’t you hold your horses?”

“Sorry.” Jessie laughed as she scooped her hair behind her ear. Late-afternoon sun shone into her eyes, made the man in front of her a lean shadow. Peering up and clasping her son’s bottom with one hand, Jessie inhaled. She didn’t need her glasses to recognize trouble when it came knocking at her door. “Hello, Jonas Riley.”

“And a very pleasant afternoon to you, Ms. Jessica Bell.”

“My mommy’s not a bell,” Gopher informed him. “She’s a McDonald, like old McDonald and me. Only we don’t got any chickens and cows, but we got dogs, Loofah and Mitzi and this is Skeezes—” he pointed “—and I like your hat and—”

“That’s enough, sugar,” Jessie repeated, letting her talkative terror slide to the ground. “Hand over my glasses, please.”

“Nope.” Gopher stared up at her, his bare toes curled under. “Ransom first.”

“George. Glasses. Now.” Jessie stared him down until he reluctantly handed her her eyeglasses.

“Unfair to Gopher!” he cried, the soft mouth that had been so generous with a smackeroo now turning upside down with temper and a finely tuned sense of injustice. Snatching the afghan off the floor and wrapping himself in it, Gopher stomped away in high dudgeon, Skeezix torn between following him and staying at the door. “Very unfair. I captured booty. I earned a ransom,” he shouted as he stormed through the swinging door to the kitchen, Skeezix trotting behind him, tail wagging like an automatic dust cloth. “And I am the king!”

“Tough,” Jessie called after him. “But that’s life outside the castle. Sometimes even the king has to yield to a higher power.”

“Unfair!” The door swung shut on his words.

“Live with it, sugar.” She inhaled deeply, gathering her nerve, and faced the man she’d never expected to see again, much less twice in less than forty-eight hours.

“Well, golly gee, Miz Kitty, you sure run a tight ship. No ransom? Just off to the dungeons for the mutinous troops? I reckon I’m shaking in my boots.”

Jessie looked down at his boots. “They could use a shine. And they don’t look as if they’re moving, much less shaking.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, Jessica.” Five years vanished like smoke as that smooth, silky voice skimmed over her, tweaking her nerve endings, moving through her until her knees went weak.

“Apparently so.” Poking the ends of her glasses through her hair and over her ears, Jessie surveyed him. “Because you sure look like a derelict without a nickel to his name, not the hottest lawyer in the South and a man with more money than’s good for him. Although—” she scrutinized him with a slow up-and-down glance “—I have to admit there’s something about the cowboy getup that suits you.” Meeting his gaze, she gestured with her chin toward the jeans and shirt he’d worn each time she’d seen him. “Grown attached to that outfit, have you, Jonas?”

He slapped his hat against his leg. “Turned into a snob, have you, Jessica?” Back and forth, the hat whisked a slow, regular rhythm against his thigh, his muscle bunching and flexing under soft denim as he shifted his weight. “Going to invite me in?”

No question about it, Jonas was trouble.

With one arm blocking the entrance, Jessie tipped her head up and shaded her eyes. She’d be double-damned if she’d invite him in. “I’ll have to admit it’s nice to see you again, Jonas, but I’m terribly sorry I didn’t recognize you last night—” She nodded in assumed bafflement. “If I had, we could have had a fabulous—”

“Fabulous?” A streak of amusement flashed in his eyes as he interrupted her. And in that moment she knew as if he’d spoken out loud that he hadn’t forgotten anything.

“—time catching up on our lives, but you’ve caught me at a really awkward moment. Gopher and I were just leaving—”

“Was not.” Gopher wound an arm around her leg and looked up at the man standing in the doorway. The plastic bucket tipped to the back of her son’s head. “You’re letting all the cold air out, mister. Mommy doesn’t like me to hold the door open.”

“Makes sense.” Jonas studied her son’s round face. “Gopher, is it?”

“George Robert McDonald,” Gopher said and stuck out his hand. “You kin shake my hand.”

Jonas did.

“Want some lemonade, mister? I made it. Sort of. I squozed a lemon. It’s good lemonade.” He leaned forward confidingly. “But kinda sour.”

Jessie sighed. Coffee and Gopher would do her in every time. “As George so politely noticed, you’re letting all the cold air out, Jonas. You might as well come in.”