going on?” she asked Dylan.
“Both of you get out of the car, nice and slow,” one of the officers said.
“Dylan?” She stared at him.
“Do what they say, Maddie.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The guy I borrowed this car from must have called the police.”
“You stole this car?”
“I borrowed it, dammit.”
“You stole it!” Maddie flung open the door and got out. Glaring at Dylan, she shouted, “I hate you, Dylan Bridges. Do you hear me? I hate you and I never want to see you again as long as I live.”
That had been six weeks ago. Six long, agonizing weeks. Jimmy Don hadn’t spoken to her for days afterward. All her girlfriends had asked her a hundred and one questions about Dylan. Her mother had all but disowned her. Only her daddy had comforted her. But she suspected that he’d spoken to Carl Bridges about Dylan. She had wanted to ask her father to intervene on Dylan’s behalf—and he could have. With one word from Jock Delarue, Flynt Carson, the owner of the silver Porsche would have dropped the car-theft charges against Dylan. But she didn’t dare let anyone, least of all her daddy, know that she cared about Mission Creek’s bad boy.
Wasn’t it for the best that Dylan was being sent away to Amarillo for two years? At least now she would be safe from him. And safe from her own confusing emotions.
One
Dylan Bridges removed his coat and tie, tossed them on the bed, then slipped out of his Italian loafers and padded across the lush carpet to the closet. He removed a pair of faded jeans from a wooden hanger and retrieved a Texas A&M T-shirt from the top drawer of a built-in dresser. After all these years, he still preferred casual wear to hand-tailored suits and five-hundred-dollar silk ties. He supposed that at heart he was still just a middle-class guy from Mission Creek.
As he changed clothes, he chuckled, thinking about how surprised the good folks in his old hometown would be if they could see him now. Seventeen years ago he’d been shipped off to the Texas Reform Center for Boys in Amarillo, and when he’d walked out of that hellhole after serving his full two years, the last place on earth he’d wanted to go was back to Mission Creek. And the last person he’d wanted to see was his father.
Yeah, his feelings for his old man had only grown more hostile during his incarceration. And even a sweet little letter from Maddie Delarue while he was serving time hadn’t lessened his resentment toward her.
Dear Dylan,
I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that you were sent away to reform school. I know I should have tried to help you in some way, but at the time I didn’t have the courage to speak to my father on your behalf. Please know that I think about you. Stay strong and keep out of trouble while you’re there. I’ve learned the hard way that life isn’t always fair and can throw you some cruel punches.
If you want to write to me, send your letter to the post office box address on the outside of the envelope.
Maddie
Figuring that she’d written the letter either as some do-good, philanthropic club project or simply because she had a guilty conscience, Dylan hadn’t responded. And he never received another letter from her. But truth be told, he’d never forgotten Maddie Delarue. In a totally illogical way, she remained the ultimate, unattainable goal.
Dylan made his way into the living room of his luxury penthouse apartment, poured himself a drink—Jack Daniel’s, straight—and relaxed in the overstuffed, tan leather easy chair. Why was he thinking about Maddie, a girl he hadn’t seen since he was sixteen? It wasn’t as if he’d been pining away for her all these years. He hadn’t. In his twenties women had come in and out of his life like tourists through a revolving door at a New York hotel. And now, at thirty-three and the wealthiest stockbroker in Dallas, all he had to do was snap his fingers and the lovely ladies came running.
The only reason he’d thought about Maddie was that he planned to return to Mission Creek. He was going to do something he’d thought he would never do—go home to see his father. And who knew, he’d probably run into Maddie while he was there. Maybe he’d make a point of it.
Nothing would please him more than to show her—and everybody in Mission Creek—that the town bad boy had turned out all right. Actually better than all right.
After leaving Amarillo, he’d bummed around the country for a couple of years, had attended some night classes at several community colleges and then had come home to Texas and settled in Dallas. The odd thing was that when he finally channeled his energy—including his anger and aggression—into something productive, he discovered he had a talent for finances, the stock market in particular.
The kid who’d been sent to reform school for stealing another man’s Porsche now owned one of his own. And a Jag and several antique vehicles. His penthouse apartment had cost him in the millions, he owned a home in Aspen and he was part-owner of a chain of resort hotels in the Bahamas.
Oh, yeah, a part of him would love to rub Maddie Delarue’s nose in his success. Of all the people back home, she was the only one he really wanted to impress. She was probably married now, with a couple of kids. Surely she hadn’t married Jimmy Don Newman, Dylan thought.
Since her father’s death a few years ago, she was now the richest woman in Texas. Dylan chuckled. Hell, maybe she wouldn’t be that impressed with him after all.
Grinning, Dylan sipped on his whisky. Even after several days of mulling over the entire matter, he still found it difficult to believe that his father had called him. Out of the blue, after all this time, Judge Carl Bridges had set aside his unswerving pride and telephoned his only child.
“Son, I’m asking you to forgive me,” Carl had said. “Can you find it in your heart to give your father a second chance? Is there any hope that we can put the past behind us and build a new relationship?”
Strange that he hadn’t vented years of frustration and rage directly at his father. Even stranger was the fact that he, too, wanted nothing more than to put the past to rest, to reach out and forge a new relationship with his father. As a man of experience, he now realized what a rebellious hellion he’d been as a teenager, and how both he and his father had allowed their grief over Leda Bridges’ death to separate them instead of bring them closer together. Yes, his father had made mistakes, had concentrated on his career more than his son, had given Dylan no room for failure. But Dylan knew that he had made a lot of mistakes himself, that he’d acted up time and again hoping to get his father’s attention.
If staunch, unyielding Carl Bridges could admit mistakes and ask for forgiveness, then so could his son.
Dylan had ended his conversation with his father by saying, “Yeah, Dad, I’ll think about coming to Mission Creek for a visit. I just need some time to get used to the idea.”
This morning when he awoke, he decided right then, even before his first cup of coffee, that there was no better time than the present to find out if his dad and he could reconnect as father and son. Besides, he needed a vacation. He worked too much; even his closest friends told him he’d become a workaholic. But despite his wealth and great success, he didn’t have anything else in his life that truly mattered. Only work.
Long ago, he’d come to the conclusion that a guy couldn’t count on anyone or anything except himself. Family was a bogus term. He felt as if he’d lost his only family when his mother died. The desire to marry and start a family of his own had eluded him, mainly because he’d never met a woman he thought he could spend the rest of his life with—never loved or trusted a woman enough to make a serious commitment.
He supposed he should call his father and apprise him of his plans, but he liked the idea of just showing up on his dad’s doorstep and surprising him. He’d already gotten a reservation on a flight to Mission Ridge, the nearest airport to his hometown. He’d be home