Stella Bagwell – The Little Maverick Matchmaker (страница 8)

Dillon’s face was a picture of surprise. “It was? I never seen you go fishing before.”

“Well, it has been a while,” Drew conceded. About eight years, he thought ruefully. “I used to take your mother fishing back in Thunder Canyon. There was a big stream on the family ranch with lots of trout. And after we caught a bunch, we took them home and had a fish dinner.”

“Golly, that sounds like fun. Why don’t you do that now, Dad?”

Yes, why didn’t he?

Because Evelyn is gone. Because going without her wouldn’t be the same. You’ve used that excuse for the past six years of your life, Drew. When are you going to throw it away and start enjoying these precious years with your son, instead of clinging to a memory?

Torn by the reproachful voice in his head, Drew stared at the window on the opposite side of the room. Oh how he wished he could open the paned glass and let all the painful memories in his heart fly away. Never to torment him again.

“Dad? Why don’t you go fishing now?”

Dillon’s repeated question pulled Drew out of his wistful reverie and as he looked down at his son, he did his best to ignore the guilt pressing down on his shoulders.

“I’ll tell you what, Dillon, if you’ll finish reading your book to me, I’ll promise to take you fishing.”

Dillon eyed him skeptically. “You really will take me? You’re not going to say you have to work?”

Dear God, he had a long ways to go to prove himself as a father, Drew thought. “I’m not just saying it.” To underscore his words, Drew made an x across his heart. “I really promise.”

“Okay, Dad! We got a deal!”

Dillon raised his hand for a high five and as Drew gently slapped his palm against his son’s, a small sense of triumph rushed through him.

* * *

By the time Friday arrived, Josselyn decided that where little Dillon Strickland was concerned, something was amiss. So far the boy had visited the library every day this week, at times during periods when he should have been on the playground running and playing with his friends.

Not wanting to get the boy in trouble, Josselyn hadn’t spoken to his teachers about his unusual behavior. After all, fretting over a child’s visits to the library sounded ridiculous. Even to Josselyn. But Dillon was checking out more books than a normal child his age could read in a month. And each time she questioned him about the books, he evaded answering by steering the conversation back to the fishing story.

Clearly he’d read that book. He even talked about how he was going to be like the hero and catch the biggest fish in Rust Creek Falls. But she’d make a bet that the other books had never been opened.

Josselyn stared at the small sticky note lying on her desk. The telephone number scratched across it was the contact number Drew Strickland had provided to the school.

She glanced at the large clock hanging on a far wall of the library room. The man was a doctor. She didn’t like the idea of interrupting his work. But it was nearing the lunch hour. Hopefully he’d already dealt with most of the morning patients.

Drawing in a bracing breath, Josselyn punched in the numbers, and as the ring sounded in her ear, she wondered why her heart was beating a mile a minute. This was nothing but a school-parent call and Drew Strickland was little more than a stranger.

“Dr. Strickland here.”

As soon as the rich, male voice came back at her, Josselyn’s pent-up breath rushed out of her.

“Hello, Doctor. This is Josselyn Weaver, the librarian at Rust Creek Falls Elementary. We met at the school picnic.”

After a short pause, he said, “Yes, I remember. How are you, Miss Weaver?”

A physician would be asking about her well-being, she thought. “I’m good, thank you. I—uh—apologize for calling you at work. Do you have a minute or two? I promise this won’t take long.”

“You’ve called at the right time. My nurse is having lunch, so I have a short break. Is there something I can do for you?”

Her mouth suddenly turned as dry as Death Valley in mid-July. “Actually, I’m calling about your son, Dillon. I’ve been seeing quite a bit of him in the library.”

“That’s encouraging. Maybe he’ll develop a love of reading.”

For no sensible reason at all, she was suddenly picturing the shape of Drew Strickland’s strong lips and the deep dimples carved into his cheeks. Just the thought of kissing him was enough to make her breath catch in her throat.

“Yes. I’m hoping that happens, too.”

He must have heard something amiss in her voice because he suddenly asked, “Are you calling because Dillon has been acting unruly? If so, I’m not surprised. I’m fairly sure he’s not yet learned that a library is a place for silence.”

In other words, Dr. Strickland hadn’t visited a library with his son before, she concluded. But that wasn’t all that unusual. Some men’s reading habits never went beyond the newspaper or an occasional magazine.

She said, “Students are taught the rules of etiquette by their teachers before they visit the library. Besides, Dillon hasn’t been unruly. He’s—well, he’s coming in every day and checking out an unreasonable amount of books. When I questioned him, he says he’s reading all of them. Is that what you’re seeing at home?”

This time there was a long pause before he answered.

“I’m not exactly sure. I’m in and out of the boardinghouse so much answering emergency calls. Dillon could be reading when I’m not around.”

Which could be most of the time. She was beginning to get the picture now. Apparently Dillon needed more than a mother. He needed his father’s undivided time and attention. But she wasn’t about to point that out to the man. His idea of proper parenting was his business. Not hers.

“Oh. I see.”

Silent seconds passed before he spoke again. “Tell me, Miss Weaver, do you think my son has a problem?”

She wasn’t certain about Dillon’s problem, but she realized she had one of her own. He was tall, dark haired and sexy enough to curl a woman’s toes. Just the sound of his deep male voice was making her skin prickle with awareness.

“I’m not sure. I just know he’s spending an inordinate amount of time in the library.”

“This deduction is coming from a librarian?”

Josselyn bristled. No matter if the man was a walking dream, she didn’t deserve or appreciate his sarcasm. “Yes. And you can do what you like with the information. As a part of the school staff, I thought you should be alerted to your son’s behavior. Thank you for your time, Dr. Strickland. Goodbye.”

She hung up the phone, then, realizing she was shaking, rose and walked over to a window that overlooked the school playground. Except for a few yellow cottonwood leaves rolling across the dormant lawn, the area was quiet. But as soon as lunch was over, the area would be full of children, most of them laughing and playing. Would Dillon be among them? Or would he choose, as he had yesterday, to come into the library and talk to her, rather than play with his friends?

Josselyn hadn’t bothered telling Dr. Drew Strickland that bit of information. Not when he’d seemed to be dismissing her concern about Dillon as much ado about nothing.

Maybe she doesn’t have a mother. Like me.

The boy’s remark was still haunting Josselyn. Almost as much as the sad shadows she’d spotted in Drew Strickland’s gorgeous brown eyes.

Chapter Four

Monday afternoon, thirty minutes before it was time to pick up Dillon from school, Drew was kindly escorted to the library by a teacher’s aide.

“No need to knock,” the dark-haired woman told him. “Miss Weaver is still here. She never leaves until long after the last bell rings.”

“Thanks.”

The woman went on her way and, taking a deep breath, Drew opened the door and stepped inside the world where his son had been spending an inordinate amount of time. Or so Miss Weaver had said.

Throughout the weekend, he’d thought about her call. The words she’d said and the way she’d said them had stuck in him like thorns of a briar branch. His son wasn’t getting the attention he needed at home. At least, not the right kind. She’d not uttered those exact words, but the tone in her voice had been clear, and that bothered Drew. Bothered the hell right out of him.

At first glance, he spotted a large oak desk situated close to a window. At the moment it was empty, and as he walked slowly toward it, he glanced between the tall shelves jammed with books. The aide had said Miss Weaver was still here, but the long room was as silent as a tomb.

And then he heard faint footsteps moving across the hardwood floor. Pausing, he turned toward the sound and waited for her to appear from the maze of bookshelves. When he did finally catch sight of her, his breath caught in his throat.

Miss Weaver had looked fresh and young and pretty at the picnic. Today she appeared totally different. From the bright red skirt that hugged her hips to the white blouse tucked in at her slender waist, she looked all-woman.

“Oh,” she said, as she looked up to see him standing at the end of the aisle. “I thought I’d heard footsteps. I expected to find one of the students.”

Drew waited for her to walk to him. All the while his gaze was taking in all sorts of little things about her. Like the fuchsia color on her lips, the black high heels on her feet and the way her blond hair curled against her shoulders. No wonder his son was spending so much time in here, Drew thought. Dillon probably saw this woman as some sort of enchanting princess.