Wildstar

Respect was not something that he could command, though. Even with all his wealth and consequence. Burke was helpless in this situation. It made Jess feel very strange and uncomfortable, knowing she had that kind of power over someone.

"I'm not asking you to accept me as your father.*' Burke said awkwardly into the silence. "I'm only asking for the chance to get to know you."

Jess met his eyes levelly. "You could never be my fa­ther. Riley is my father and always will be."

Even as she said the words, she knew they were right. The truth about her parentage didn't change that elemental fact.

"I would never attempt it," Burke replied solemnly. There was another long silence.

Finally Jess forced a small smile. "There is something you could do for me."

He leaned forward eagerly. "Yes?"

"Would you tell me about my mother?"

The strain in Burke's pale face suddenly faded. He looked like a man who had been given a reprieve from hanging. "It would be my great pleasure," he said softly.

She found Riley in the kitchen when the visit was over. He was sitting at the table, staring down at his work-worn hands. Without speaking Jess came up behind him.

She felt him stiffen as she bent down and put her arms around his neck, but she pressed her cheek against his weathered one and simply held him.

"Burke's gone," she said finally.

"I figured as much." His tone was low, uncertain. "Did you make peace with him?"

"Not entirely. But it was a good start. I told him he couldn't be my father. That place is already taken."

Riley's hand came up to cover hers.

"I love you, Papa. You'll always be my true father."

"Oh, Jessie. . . ."

There were tears of relief in his eyes when he held her away to look at her.

Jess gave a shaky laugh. "Don't do that, or I'll cry, too."

Riley chuckled and wrapped her in a bear hug. "I'm not about to cry. I have my daughter back."

A thousand miles away in Chicago, Devlin was facing his own father. The length of an impressive dining table separated them, while an elegant silver candelabra almost obscured their view of one another. Devlin had been in­vited to Sunday dinner.

It was a formal affair, which did little to mitigate the constraint that still lingered between them, but Devlin at least gave his father credit for trying. C.E. quite obviously was exerting himself to make amends for the years of es­trangement. In fact, for the past week he had found one excuse after another to secure his son's company.

He'd actually met Devlin's train from Denver. Devlin hadn't expected that courtesy, even though he had cabled ahead, reporting his success in apprehending the outlaw gang. But when he stepped down from his private car, his father was waiting for him.

They stood staring at each other for a long moment be­fore C.E. extended his hand.

"Thank you, son." His tone was low, gruff, as if the ad­mission hurt. "I'm in your debt."

Having his father indebted to him was precisely what Devlin had intended, but the pleasure he'd anticipated somehow fell short. What he wanted now from C.E. was far less petty, far more profound. He wanted the same kind of relationship Jess had with her father. The same kind of love.

It was an impossibility, of course, but they could make a start. Devlin clasped the hand that his father offered to him, firmly, without reticence.

C.E. had driven him home—Devlin's home—in his car­riage, and while the conversation had been stilted, before parting they had made arrangements to meet the follow­ing afternoon to discuss in more detail Devlin's trip to Colorado.

That meeting had led to other engagements, and culmi­nated in an invitation to dinner at C.E.'s mansion. Exquis­itely prepared by a French chef, the meal was a feast fit for a returning prodigal son—an analogy that was not lost on Devlin, to his wry amusement.

The two of them remained at the table, sipping their port, after the dishes had been cleared away by a servant.