Dylan: The Sons of Dusty Walker (7 page)

He reversed course and slid his fingers through Zoe’s silky fine hair and tugged slightly. She shivered, a soft breath catching in her throat.

“Hunter, get up here where we can see you,” he called without removing his gaze from Zoe’s.

“Okay.”

“Good boy.” Dylan wrapped Zoe’s hair around his fist and coaxed her closer.

A gasp broke from her. “I can’t—”

He stopped the remainder of her words with his mouth.

Four years of aching for her went into his kiss. He wished he could say some finesse went in there too, but likely not. Judging from the hungry way she sucked at his tongue, she wasn’t complaining. A carnal groan tunneling all the way from his belly, he slid his other arm around her, molding her snug to him. If she hadn’t been aware of his erection, she sure as hell was now. No hiding the monster bulge denting his fly.

He re-angled his approach, gliding his tongue deeper into her mouth, exploring every velvety nook and cranny. Through the soft cotton of her dress, he detected the hardened nubs of her nipples poking against his torso, begging for attention. If they’d been anywhere else and without their three-year-old standing by as witness, Dylan would have loosened the pearl buttons keeping him from those gorgeous breasts and worshipped her to his heart’s content. Instead he settled for cupping some side-boob.

Zoe pulled away from him with a jolt. Her breathing a staccato accompaniment to his ragged inhalations, she stared at him. “That was
not
supposed to happen.”

“You wanting it to be so doesn’t make it a reality, darlin’. There’s something between us. Always has been. Stop fighting it.”

She shook her head furiously. “You’re not going to sweet talk and French kiss your way into my bed, Dylan. I’m not some horny twenty-year-old anymore. I have a child and need to be responsible.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Hunter is
our
child. And I fully intend to be responsible for him too.”

“You’re going to be here for a matter of days. This is my
life
. Day in and day out. And I don’t regret one moment of it. But don’t think that you showing up once in a blue moon when you feel like it is even remotely equal to what Hunter needs. To what
I
need.”

Her words were like a punch to his gut. “I would never do that.” She was preaching to the choir. He knew too well what it was like having a dad who wasn’t around. No way in hell he’d do that to Hunter. And it was mighty unfair of her to lay that shit on his doorstep when he hadn’t even known of his son’s existence before today. “If you’d come to me back then, I wouldn’t have shirked my responsibility. That’s not the kind of man I am, Zoe.” Damn her for assuming otherwise.

She frowned. “I know that. It’s part of the reason I
didn’t
say anything to you. I already told you I didn’t want to put that burden on you.”

He plowed his hands through his hair. She was speaking in circles. “One minute you’re reading me the riot act for not being there when you needed me, and the next you’re saying you didn’t want me there. Which is it, Zoe?”

Judging from her expression, she was just as confused as him. Which made no damn sense. “I didn’t—” She halted her rebuttal so fast, it was a miracle her tongue didn’t get whiplash. For a brief flash that vulnerability he’d noticed earlier returned. Just as quick as it appeared she locked it down. She glanced at him, her gaze guarded. “That remark didn’t have anything to do with you. So don’t take it as me giving you grief. Because I wasn’t.”

Her admission—odd as it was—eased the sting of being wrongfully accused of neglect on his part. “Then what were you referrin’ to?”

“Nothing. It’s not important to this conversation.”

When folks said shit like that, nine times out of ten it was the opposite of the truth. He was beginning to believe there was a whole lotta stuff going on with Zoe that she wasn’t telling him about. And that presented a big ass problem in his book. Because as long as she kept hiding herself from him there was no way they could move away from the past.

And into what?
A possible future that she seemed dead set on not letting him be a part of with her?

Zoe straightened the front of her dress and walked to the bare patch of lawn where Hunter was poking a small ant hill with a stick he’d found. She snagged his free hand. “Time to go, Boo Bear.”

Dylan stepped in the middle of her path, halting her progress toward the house. Tearing his gaze from her shuttered one, he dropped onto his haunches and grinned at Hunter. “I’m gonna come visit ya tomorrow. You a fan of ice cream?”

His eyes lighting up more brilliantly than a sky full of Fourth of July fireworks, Hunter nodded and belted out a “Yeah!” that nearly took out Dylan’s hearing.

“Me too.” Resisting the urge to shake his head to clear the ringing from his ears, Dylan made a fist. His heart nearly doubled in size when Hunter balled his tiny hand and bumped his knuckles against Dylan’s with an exuberant whoop.

Amazing how your life could change in the blink of an eye. He’d thought nothing could flatten him on his ass like learning he had three brothers he’d known nothing about. Now he had a kid. Some guys would probably be running for the hills right about now. The thought wasn’t even an option in Dylan’s mind.

He straightened and scanned Zoe’s face. A fraction of the shield she’d erected had disintegrated but a healthy dose of uncertainty lingered. Letting her continue to build this wall between them? Not an option. Not when he had so much at stake. He’d let her walk away from him once before. Never again.

CHAPTER FIVE

The insistent buzz of his cellphone snapped Dylan awake. Blinking away the grogginess swimming in his vision, he stared at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock. Three in the morning. Who the fuck would be calling him this early? He froze as a possibility hit him. Maybe it was Zoe and something had happened to Hunter.

He whipped the sheets and comforter back and leapt from the bed. Nearly tripping over his own feet, he skidded to his discarded jeans. Damn it, why the hell did he leave his phone in the pocket? What if it’d gone dead and he’d missed this call?

Fingers shaking, he fished the device loose, his heart in the pit of his stomach as he peered anxiously at the caller ID. It wasn’t Zoe, but Malcom Flynn, Truckstop Pickup’s drummer. Dylan’s racing pulse slowly downshifted to normal. Irritation began to replace his adrenalin-fueled panic. He let every ounce of his grumpiness be known as he clicked the Talk button and barked into the receiver. “Do you have any idea what goddamn time it is?”

“Mornin’ to you too, Sunshine. If you don’t wanna be disturbed there’s a little thing called a vibrate setting.”

Grumbling under his breath, Dylan stalked back to the bed and climbed beneath the sheets. “Whatever you’re calling me about better be damn important.”

“What if I just wanted to chitchat?”

“Then I’m hanging up on your ass.” He started to do just that, but Malcom’s exaggerated exhalation stalled him short.

“This stupid disagreement between you and Luke needs to be put to rest. It’s affecting the entire band. I made a comment to Trinity that I’m just not feeling the lyrics for the new song she’s working on and she kneed me in the balls.”

Dylan snorted. “Well, what’d ya expect would happen, ya dumbass? You know how sensitive Trin can be.” Their backup vocalist/occasional song mistress was a force to be reckoned with on and off the stage. Best for the male members of the band to keep their distance when she was in one of her ornery moods. Which was pretty much every day ending in a Y.

“I’ve been thinkin’...maybe you should be the big one and tell Luke you’re sorry.”

Dylan glared at the shadowed ceiling. “Why the hell would I do that? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You shoulda signed his birthday card.”

“That fucking crybaby can get over it. Jesus. I didn’t slight him on purpose. I was outta town. The man needs to learn my life doesn’t revolve around him.”

A brief silence fell on the other side of the line. “It’s hard for Luke to reconcile that fact. We’ve talked about that.”

“Yeah, because he’s got an ego that can barely fit on the stage much less in a room populated with us lesser beings,” Dylan ground out.

“He is what he is, and you know that. You also know that he’s got a soft spot for you that doesn’t necessarily extend to the rest of us. It hurt him that your name wasn’t on that card.”

A tiny niggle of guilt wormed its way through Dylan. He hadn’t really looked at it that way. While it was certainly true that he and Luke constantly butted heads, they also shared a strange bond that left him as equally baffled as it did Malcom and the others. Luke was a self-centered prick, but deep down there was another side to him lurking beneath the surface. Every once in a while Dylan would catch a glimpse of it. There was a certain loneliness that clung to Luke, and sometimes it made him feel sorry for the man. But unlike his bandmates, Dylan didn’t pussyfoot around Luke and cater to his drama. He suspected that’s why Luke sought his company out more than he did the others.

He tweaked the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t have time to deal with this right now. You all are just gonna have to figure shit out on your own.”

“What could be so important that it preempts mending fences with Luke?”

Dylan filled Malcom in on Dusty’s death and the terms of the will keeping Dylan in Red Creek. He left out the part about his reunion with Zoe and discovering he had a son. Some things were better revealed in person. Plus he really didn’t want to be on the phone for the next two hours dealing with Malcom’s reaction to the news.

“Sorry about your pops, man. Anything I can do?”

“Just hold down the fort back home. And try to keep Trin from nailing any more of our guys in the nads.”

“Fuck, that’s a full time job in itself.”

Chuckling, he exchanged goodbyes with Malcom and hung up. After checking the status of his battery and deeming it fine for the time being, he set his cell on the night stand and folded his arms behind his head. Sleep decided to elude him now that he was keyed up from his conversation with Mal.

Heaving a disgruntled breath, he kicked off the covers and padded downstairs to the kitchen. He cracked open the fridge and surveyed his choices. Too damn early for a beer, though God knows it was tempting after the day he had. Shit, make that the last seventy-two-plus hours. Had it really been that long since he sat in the lawyer’s office? It almost seemed like a lifetime ago.

He grabbed the carton of orange juice and fetched a glass. His mom would be proud of him for bypassing the Budweiser
and
getting his daily allotment of vitamin C.

Damn, Georgianna. He still needed to tell her about his half-brothers. And the fact that she was a grandma. That last part would hopefully help ease the pain of the other thing. He’d always noticed the wistful expression on her face whenever someone came into her resale shop pushing a stroller. The majority of the time those babies didn’t make it outside without getting their chubby little cheeks pinched by Georgianna. Hunter better be prepared for some serious spoiling.

That thought naturally sparked him wondering about his son’s other set of grandparents. Zoe never once mentioned anything about them. Not that it was necessarily weird. He rarely talked about Dusty, and he hadn’t really had much chance to bring up Georgianna, seeing how his mind was so damn scattered these days.

Still, he should make a point of asking her. At the very least, he needed to be aware if her dad had a loaded rifle that he intended to use on Dylan for getting his precious daughter knocked up. Steeling himself for that possibility, Dylan returned the carton of OJ to its shelf in the fridge and carried his glass to the panoramic windows overlooking the patio. Marliss had blown out the candles but the pool lights offered a flickering accompaniment to the moon’s soft illumination.

Without him encouraging it, his mind wandered to the picture of Dusty and Theresa he’d spied earlier. How many times had his father stood in this very spot at some ungodly hour, feeling that massive weight of responsibility on his shoulders? It was a bizarre musing to have. Unlikely that Dusty’s conscience kept him up at nights. A framed snapshot didn’t prove anything. For all he knew, his dad had just been exhausted from work that day and that’s what the camera captured. Not some sense of regret and deep pining for a relationship with his sons.

His fingers tightening on his glass tumbler, Dylan slammed a hard swallow and pivoted away from the window. He strode down the hall, deliberately avoiding the great room. The distant glow of lamplight drew his attention. He wandered into a dark-paneled room that he assumed was Dusty’s office. The masculine touches were in keeping with the common theme throughout the house. Various western art and landscape oils that he’d bet weren’t reproductions. The desk was a sight better than the battered hunkajunk Dusty used at D. Walker Mineral. Obviously Theresa had put her foot down when it came to him introducing his questionable design style into their humble abode.

He shifted his attention to the opposite wall and noticed the massive safe with its door wide open. A brief case and stacks of folders occupied the upper shelves. He’d seen enough paperwork the last few days to last him a lifetime. But the big box on the bottom made him curious. Then there was the little fact that safes often served the purpose of keeping information from prying eyes. Given his father’s history, the contents sitting in front of Dylan might very well be another curveball he wasn’t ready for.

Shit. Maybe his old man had sired a bunch of other children none of them knew about. There could be a whole fucking town of mini-Walkers out there for all they knew. Half afraid of what he’d uncover in the box, he hefted it from the safe and plunked it on Dusty’s desk. He popped the lid loose and pulled out the four album-sized books nestled inside. The top one had a big J stamped on the cover. He flipped it open and inspected the 8x10 photo taking up the entire first page. The sole subject was an infant wearing a tiny sailor outfit. Gauging from the resemblance the tyke bore to Dylan, he was looking at one of his brothers.

He ran his thumb down the spines of the three additional books beneath this one, his heart thumping. Did their dad keep baby books of them? It’d explain why they were tucked away in the bottom of a safe that Theresa presumably didn’t have access to. Unable to stop himself, he turned the page. The next image was of a trio. Same infant, Dusty, and a woman Dylan didn’t recognize. His dad had his arm around the female. The pose was similar to the one with Theresa, only there was no denying the happiness and joy in this picture. It was as if for one second suspended in time, the burden had eased from Dusty’s shoulders.

The next dozen or so pages chronicled the passage of years as the baby grew out of his toddler stage. Wanting to confirm his suspicions that he was looking at his brother Jackson—the J on the cover essentially offered this biggest glaring clue—he thumbed to the last several pages in the book. Sure enough, there were some newspaper clippings showing Jackson decked out in chaps and covered in rodeo dust. Apparently his brother was a big hot shot in the arena. That was pretty fucking cool. Maybe he could take Hunter to see Jackson compete sometime. If Killian and Rogue were game, they could all get together and have a guys’ weekend. Assuming his brothers wanted to have any kind of relationship with him.

Pushing aside his wistful thinking for the time being, he flipped to the end of the book. He stared at the envelope with Jackson’s name on it, written in Dusty’s familiar scrawl. Dylan’s heart pounded. Had their dad written them a letter? The envelope was sealed. There was no way for him to know without invading Jackson’s privacy any more than he already had. Looking at baby pictures and articles was one thing. He could bring himself to cross the line beyond that. Whatever was in that envelope was for Jackson’s eyes only.

He set the book aside and grabbed the one with the letter D on it. His hands shook.
Just open the fucking thing.
Maybe he’d finally find some sense of peace inside and forgive his father.

Blood whooshed in his temples, adding to the pressure building in his head. The walls were closing in on him again, like they had in the Red Creek office.

He wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to see his past laid out for him in the pages of a book. Pictures proved nothing. They were just one more lie captured by the camera lens.

Pulling his anger around him like the familiar comfort of his favorite blanket, he grabbed the books, tossed them inside the box and slammed the whole kit and caboodle back in the bottom of the safe.