Daniel's Daddy. Stella BagwellЧитать онлайн книгу.
Jess Malone on Fatherhood…
Daniel,
When you first came into this world, it was just you and me. I didn’t know one thing about fatherhood, or even know what it was like to have a responsible father of my own.
But I told myself I could do it. And somehow we made it through that first year of diapers, bottles and teething. I happen to think I was actually getting the hang of it. Fatherhood wasn’t going to be all that hard. It was nothing to be afraid of. Then you started walking and talking, and you grew into this little person with a mind all your own.
You told me you wanted a mother. And though it hurt like hell to marry again, I did, because I’d sworn to be the best father to you that I could be. Because I wanted you to have what I never had. Parents to love you and always, always to be there for you.
You’ve given me a lot, son—you and your mother. And now I’ve learned that being a father is more than showing you how to hit a baseball or tie your shoes. It’s also showing you how to love.
Daddy
Daniel’s Daddy
Stella Bagwell
STELLA BAGWELL
has written close to seventy novels for Silhouette Books. She credits her longevity in the business to her loyal readers and hopes her stories have brightened their lives in some small way.
A cowgirl through and through, she loves to watch old Westerns, and has recently learned how to rope a steer by the horns and feet. Her days begin and end helping her husband care for a beloved herd of horses on their little ranch located on the south Texas coast. When she’s not ropin’ and ridin’, you’ll find her at her desk, creating her next tale of love.
The couple has a son, who is a high school math teacher and athletic coach.
To my son, Jason, with love.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Chapter One
Hannah Dunbar clutched the neck of her raincoat and shivered against the blast of wet wind swooping down on the graveside mourners. She didn’t really know why she’d made a point of coming to the funeral. She’d barely known Frank Malone, even though he’d been her neighbor for so many years. The few times she’d visited with him, he’d been closer to drunk than sober. And although Hannah hated drunkenness, she’d looked beyond the man’s vice and come to bid him a final farewell. She guessed it was the least she could do. And then there was Jess. She’d come for him, too. Though she suspected her presence meant little, if nothing at all, to him.
Across the open grave, standing apart from the rest, Jess Malone looked around at the small group of mourners. He was surprised that a dozen or so people had shown up and he wondered why any of them had made the effort. Out of friendship to his father?
Certainly the three men across from him, Bill Barnes, Floyd Jones and Walt Newman, had been old friends. In fact, they were the only friends who’d stayed in contact with Frank after he’d become a recluse.
But the rest of the group? Jess couldn’t say. Maybe they were here out of curiosity. Maybe they’d even expected Jess’s mother to show up for her ex-husband’s burial.
If that was the case, they’d been disappointed, Jess thought cynically. He could have told them that once Betty Malone had walked out on her husband and son, she’d totally wiped them from her existence.
Jess’s green eyes slid over the vaguely familiar faces until he reached the end of the group where a tall, slim woman stood apart from the rest. Her flaming red hair had been whipped by the wind. Loose tendrils, which had been torn from the single French braid at the back of her head, curled wildly around her face and shoulders. A drab gray raincoat hid most of her dark dress, while a worn pair of penny loafers covered her feet. The wind was playing with the hem of her dress, exposing a portion of her legs. They were nice legs, he decided, his gaze lingering on their long, sleek curves. Too nice to be hidden by such dowdy clothing.
The murmur of nearby voices jolted him back to the reality of where he was, and he pulled his eyes up to the woman’s face.
Hannah Dunbar! If he’d been studying her face as intently as her legs, he would have already recognized the woman who lived across the street from his father. What was she doing here?
The question was instantly forgotten as a tug on Jess’s hand brought his attention to Daniel, who’d been standing quietly beside him, but was now looking up at him with a lost, bewildered look on his face.
Jess reached down and lifted the small boy into his arms, finding comfort in having his son close to him. The boy would never have a grandfather. Not that Frank could have been one. But now the chance or hope of that ever happening was gone.
“Let us pray.”
The minister’s request had Jess bowing his head and clutching his son even closer. It was just him and Daniel now.
Draping her coat over the back of a kitchen chair, Hannah crossed the small room and began to fill the coffee machine with water and coffee grounds. After she’d switched it on, she lit a small gas heater in the living room.
It was unusually cool for Lordsburg, New Mexico, even if it was mid-January. Hannah couldn’t ever remember feeling this chilled, even counting the time she’d gone to Ruidoso on a trip with the senior class. And that had been more than fifteen years ago.
Jess Malone had been on that trip, too, she recalled, her expression thoughtful as she held her cold hands out to the heater. That year had been his last in Lordsburg. She hadn’t seen him since. Until today at the funeral.
He’d changed. That much had been obvious. Fifteen years was a long time. Now that he was thirty-three, he was more muscular and his thick brown hair far shorter than the way he’d worn it as a teenager. His face had changed, too. It was leaner, rougher and more damnably handsome than she remembered. But she’d expected most of those changes in him. What Hannah hadn’t expected to see was a child in his arms.
Jess was the last boy in their class that she would have described as a father figure. But obviously the child was his. The minister officiating the memorial service had spoken of the boy as a surviving grandchild to Frank, and since Jess was an only child, that left just one conclusion. So where was the mother, Hannah wondered. She hadn’t heard anything about a surviving daughter-in-law. Could Jess be divorced? Widowed?
That’s none of your business, Hannah, she hastily scolded herself. A man like Jess would never be her business. She was awkward, shy, just plain old unattractive. If a man did happen to look at her twice, it was for all the wrong reasons. She’d learned that the hard way.
Jess threw his jacket at the end of a grungy plaid couch, then pushed his fingers wearily through his damp hair. He hated this damn house, he thought as he glanced around the small, cluttered room. It reminded him of the isolated, pitiful life his father had led.
Frank had spent most of his time sitting in this dusty old house. Drinking.