CHEROKEE BABY

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "Well?" she asked.

  "It's good." The vinegar gave the cabbage and potatoes a tangy flavor. "Different. I like it."

  "It's easy to make."

  "Then you can teach me sometime."

  "Okay."

  When their conversation faltered, he continued eating, wondering why he was nervous today. He shouldn't be, not after last night. Of course, there was the matter of that date.

  "There's a barn dance coming up," he ventured to say.

  "Really?"

  "It'll be similar to the one we had when your cousins were here. We have them fairly often."

  "When is it?"

  "Tuesday. The chef is planning an Italian menu. He used to do a country barbecue every time, but these days he likes the idea of creating an international theme. He hasn't done an Irish one yet, though. He's probably waiting for Saint Patrick's Day." Bobby rinsed his plate and placed it in the dishwasher, trying to keep his cool. Suddenly he felt like a tall, gawky kid preparing to ask the prettiest girl in school to the prom. "Do you want to go with me?"

  She smiled, brushed her feathery bangs out of her eyes. "That sounds nice. Fun."

  Because Bobby couldn't think of anything else to say, he made a show of checking his watch, wishing he could cart her off to the bedroom instead. "Well, I guess I better go. I've still got a few more lessons this afternoon." He paused, glanced at the mutt. "I can take Chester back to Michael's."

  "That's okay. He can stay."

  Chester panted and Bobby rolled his eyes.

  Julianne laughed. "You two are funny together."

  "You think him trying to steal my girl is funny?" Bobby swept her into his arms and gave her the kiss he'd been craving all day, a sexy assault of mouth, tongue and teeth.

  She staggered afterward.

  "Are you sure you have to go?"

  His pulse shot up his arm. "Maybe I can stay."

  "Maybe?" she challenged.

  "Definitely." He didn't care if he was late for his next appointment, if he dropped everything to be with her, to have her. "I can stay." He grabbed her, kissed her again. "But we'll have to make this fast." And hot and hard, he thought. The excitement they both craved.

  He looked around the kitchen and backed her into the herb closet, the room he'd designed for drying medicinal plants. The counters were scattered with wildflowers she'd collected and the heady scent rose to his nostrils.

  It was perfect. It spoke of her. Of the woman who cherished the sun, the moon, the vibrant blooms that dotted the hills. Julianne, with her garden-printed dress and wind-tousled hair.

  He lifted her onto the floral-laden counter and she tipped her head back. So warm, so willing, so fragrant.

  With as much finesse as he could muster, he opened the front of her dress and fought a vicious war to not rip the damn thing off, to send buttons popping.

  She leaned forward to kiss him and he battled the hooks on her bra.

  As he sucked in a barely controlled breath, her breasts filled his hands and her dress bunched around her hips, leaving her panties to his disposal.

  He yanked them off and she went after him. She snagged his belt, flipped open the buckle and deliberately brushed his fly.

  She looked wildly erotic half dressed, tugging at his shirt and unzipping his jeans.

  What was left of their clothes didn't matter. They would make love around them. Fast, furious – the way they both wanted it.

  She stroked him, making him more aroused than he could endure. Feral, anxious, he thrust into her, plunging deep.

  With a gasp, she wrapped her legs around him, locking him in, taking him deeper. His lady, his lover, the wood nymph with her beguiling dimples and bare feet.

  Warm and wet, she moved with him. The tempo set his mind spinning, his vision blurring.

  She arched against him, wanting more.

  So he gave, all that he was capable of. Every brand stemmed from his blood, every hot, demanding thrill from the edge of his sanity.

  She dug her nails into his shoulder, and he thrust harder. He took her, with greed, with passion, with masculine fury.

  And when she climaxed, when she cried out his name, he dragged her tight against him and emptied his body desperately into hers.

  * * *

  On Tuesday evening, Julianne got ready early, preparing for the night ahead. She hadn't seen much of Bobby since he'd asked her to the dance, but they'd both been busy.

  Ranch activities took up most of his time and preparations for the boutique had been keeping her occupied.

  She'd ordered some samples, including a hand-embroidered shirt from an up-and-coming designer. A shirt she'd purchased in Bobby's size. Or so she hoped. She wasn't certain about his measurements.

  She went to the bedroom and took the shirt out of the box. It had arrived this morning and she intended to give it to him tonight, hoping he would wear it to the dance.

  She rewrapped the garment, insisting she owed Bobby a visit. How many times had he stopped by her cabin, bearing gifts?

  He'd never brought her clothes, but he supplied her with plenty of chocolate.

  With her confidence bolstered, she tucked the package under her arm and got in her car. Taking the bumpy road to his house, she listened to the radio.

  Within the hour she would be dancing in Bobby's arms. And within a few minutes she would be standing on his porch.

  The man she loved.

  When she rapped on his door, her heart pounded with every knock. Foolish girl, she thought suddenly. She should have stayed home and waited for him to pick her up.

  But no, she'd found an excuse to foist herself on him. He opened the door just then and she knew – oh, God, she knew – she had truly made a mistake.

  He didn't speak. Not a word. He flinched, frowned, flinched again.

  Balancing himself on crutches, he wore nothing but a pair of sweats. One leg filled the fabric, but the other dangled loosely at the bottom, where the hem had been cut.

  "I thought you were Michael," he said finally. "No one comes to my house unannounced except my nephew."

  "I'm sorry." Was that a privacy rule? Something everyone at the ranch automatically followed?

  She ran her tongue across her teeth, felt her mouth go dry. Bobby's hair was loose, damp from a recent shower and trailing water down his bare shoulders.

  "I was supposed to pick you up, Julianne."

  "I know." She tried to summon a smile. His amputated leg wasn't visible, but the knowledge of it ghosted between them, making her wonder about the car accident, the surgery, the pain and depression he'd suffered. "I only stopped by to bring you something."

  She handed over the box. "It's a shirt. I thought maybe you'd want to wear it tonight. If it fits, of course. It's from a new designer. I'm considering carrying her line in the boutique."

  He took the package, but he held fast to his frown, to the discomfort in his eyes. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." She wished she could make this easier. But knowing she couldn't, she stepped back. How could she tell him that answering the door without his prosthesis didn't diminish his appeal? That he was a man – a strong, virile man – no matter what?

  "I'll pick you up around eight," he said, letting her know, quite politely, that he had no intention of inviting her into his home. Not now. Not while he was crutching around the place.

  "Maybe I'll go to the dance a little early. By myself for a while," she added, too shaken to return to her house to wait for him. "Is that okay with you?"

  "That's fine. I'll meet you there."

  She said goodbye and Bobby thanked her again for the gift he'd yet to open.

  An hour later Julianne sat with some guests from the ranch, feeding her nerves with Sicilian entrées from the buffet: sweet and sour eggplant, meatballs, a zucchini salad.

  The international/country theme worked. The Italian food complemented the Texas barn, especially when the band played a movie score, a catchy song from one of those delightful old Spaghet
ti Westerns.

  Just as Julianne set about to taste the watermelon pudding, Bobby arrived. He'd paired the shirt she'd given him with black jeans, a trophy-buckle belt and snakeskin boots.

  He acknowledged his guests and took the chair she'd saved for him.

  "I like the shirt," he said quickly. "It reminds me of rodeo garb from the fifties. I've always been into that vintage style."

  Pleased that he approved, she brushed his hand, a little apprehensive to touch him. "Then I'll make sure to order them for the boutique."

  He smiled and she knew he was pretending the awkward encounter at his door had never happened. Her cue, she realized, to never bring it up. To stay away from his house. Unless, of course, she'd been invited.

  Suddenly she wanted to cry. For him, for her, for the wall he was building, the barrier that kept them from getting too close.

  "Do you like the pudding?" he asked.

  She gazed at the parfait glass in front of her. "I haven't tried it yet."

  He scooted his chair closer to the table. "It's one of my favorite desserts."

  "I thought you steered clear of sweets."

  "I do. Usually. But I might indulge tonight. Gelo di melone. Even the name makes me hungry."

  Without thinking, she dipped into the pudding and offered him a spoonful. He took it without hesitation and she wondered if his wife had fed him cake on their wedding day.

  Once again she wanted to cry, to mourn the marriage she feared she would never have with Bobby.

  He licked whipped cream from his lips. "Try some yourself."

  She ate from the same spoon. "It's wonderful." And to her, it tasted of him. Of Texas nights and wishful dreams.

  Together, they finished her dessert and he leaned in and brushed her cheek with a gentle kiss. "Do you want to dance?"

  "I'd love to."

  The music was softer now, a slow country ballad. He took her in his arms and she realized he wasn't hiding their romance.

  But why would he? Everyone at the ranch knew about the baby. Everyone, she supposed, except Lloyd, who probably couldn't recall being told.

  She caught sight of the old cowboy standing in a corner, watching her and Bobby with a scowl on his face.

  Maria walked over to Lloyd and took his hand, guiding him outside. Julianne closed her eyes and fought the fear creeping back into her soul.

  The urge to weep once again.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  Julianne stood at a fence rail, trying to shake the melancholy from the night before. After the dance Bobby had dropped her off at the cabin, given her a passionate kiss and told her he'd see her sometime today.

  It had been a perfectly confusing date, with a confusing man.

  And after the way he'd behaved, the way he'd twisted her emotions, she had a right to be upset.

  Bobby simply wasn't letting her into his heart.

  With a sigh, she gazed at the horses in pasture. A pretty palomino nibbled playfully on the coat of a gray, and a chestnut appeared to be handing down a pecking order, letting the herd know he was in charge.

  "Ma'am," a voice said from behind her.

  She turned to find Lloyd studying her the way she'd been studying the horses, analyzing her with watery blue eyes.

  "I saw you at the dance," he said.

  "I saw you, too. You were with Maria."

  Lloyd squinted. His face was tanned and weathered, as hard as sun-baked leather. "Are you really having Bobby's baby?"

  She gulped the air in her throat. "Yes."

  "Maria claimed you was, but I didn't believe her. We argued about it."

  "I'm sorry," was all Julianne could think to say.

  He shifted his stance, bending one bony knee. "Maria keeps telling me that I forget things, mix up my years and such. Maybe I'm gettin' senile."

  "We're all forgetful now and then," she said, hoping to comfort him. Apparently he didn't understand the magnitude of his disorder.

  "Maria says Bobby's wife is dead. Is that true?"

  Julianne nodded. "Sharon died three years ago."

  "I don't recall her dying. I just don't." He frowned, changed his posture again, bending the other knee. "I remember when her and Bobby got married. I was at the weddin'."

  "You were?"

  "Yes, ma'am. They had themselves a traditional Cherokee ceremony." He made a pained face. "I can't believe that little gal is gone."

  She closed her eyes, opened them a few seconds later. "I didn't know her."

  "No, I suppose you didn't." Lloyd sighed. "Are you and Bobby married now?"

  Her heart bumped her chest. "No."

  "Then how come Bobby wears a weddin' band?"

  Her legs went weak; her eyes began to water. Somehow she'd known Bobby's ring was the reason Lloyd had been keeping Sharon alive.

  Was that Bobby's way of keeping her alive, too?

  She inhaled a breath, willed her tears not to fall. "I guess he can't bear to remove it."

  "Yet he's having a baby with you?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't like to stick my nose in other people's business. But Bobby should know better. He ought to marry the woman carrying his child. He ain't like his dead brother. He ain't a hellion."

  No, he was a proper, responsible man, Julianne thought. But that didn't automatically bind him to her.

  Would he remove his ring if she asked him to? Discuss his dead wife? The accident that had left him widowed?

  She blinked, felt the sting of unshed team. Would he undress in front of her? Trust her enough to be his partner in every way?

  "I'll talk to Bobby," she told Lloyd, knowing she didn't have a choice. She couldn't go on day after day, month after month, hoping the man she loved would bare his soul.

  The old cowboy stepped forward. "I'm sorry if I made you sad."

  "I was sad already," she admitted. Living in denial, pretending everything was all right one moment and battling her emotions the next.

  "Bobby took a group into the hills, but he should be back soon. Why don't you wait for him in his office? Get yourself a glass of milk."

  "Thank you. Maybe I will."

  He gave her a paternal nod and they parted company. But as she started toward the barn, he stopped her.

  "Ma'am?"

  She turned. "Yes?"

  "What should I do with all those pinecones?"

  She looked at him, saw the distress in his eyes. He was rational today, but tomorrow he might slip into a state of confusion. "I don't know."

  "Can I bring them to your place?"

  God help her. She couldn't take over for Sharon, not like that. She wanted to be Bobby's future, not a replica from his past. "Why don't you scatter them in the hills? As a memorial for Sharon."

  "All right." He smiled a little, content with the idea. "Now go on and get yer milk."

  Once again, Julianne started toward the barn. A cool breeze blew her hair across her face. Summer had ended and fall was in the air. Soon, she suspected, the hills would be alive with autumn leaves and burnished sunsets.

  Was Texas hers to keep? she wondered. Could she stay here and wait for Bobby to love her the way she loved him? To trust her? To marry her? Or would that be like waiting for a miracle?

  A dream that wasn't meant to be.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later Bobby headed for his office, then stopped in the open doorway.

  Julianne sat at his desk, focused on the coffee cup in front of her, as if the liquid inside wielded the power to tell fortunes. She was drinking tea, he assumed. Doctored with cream and sugar.

  He watched her, knowing she was unaware of his presence. He liked catching her during quiet, reflective moments, and wondered if she knew how important she'd become to him. How special.

  He went to bed every night thinking about her, anticipating the next moment they would spend together. The next smile, the next touch, the next stolen kiss.

  Of course, last night had been difficult.
After she'd showed up at his place, catching him off guard, he'd struggled to keep the date going, to not feel like a cripple. But he'd gotten through it. He'd survived.

  She glanced up and his heart went crazy, striking his chest. A physical reaction he couldn't seem to control, a boyish backlash that made him feel young and stupid.

  She didn't smile, but he wasn't smiling, either. He was too busy trying to calm his rebellious heart.

  "I've been waiting for you," she said.

  He moved forward, reminding himself that he was a man, not a moonstruck kid. "Were you reading tea leaves in the meantime?"

  She shifted her cup. "It's milk."

  "Oh." The day after they'd made love, he'd bought her favorite tea and stocked the cupboards with it. But milk was a good choice, healthy for the baby. He'd have to remember to replenish the supply. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting long. I had a tour today."

  "I know. You guided a group into the hills."

  He brushed at his clothes, at the trail dust that lingered. Was this conversation strained? Or was it his imagination? "You seem preoccupied, Julianne."

  "I'm afraid, Bobby."

  "Of what?" Concerned, he took a chair.

  "Of what I need from you. Of things I don't think you're willing to give me."

  Nerves tightened, coiling like an unfriendly snake. "Things? You mean, emotional stuff?"

  "Yes."

  Restless, she twisted her hair, twining it like the anxiety in his gut. He leaned forward, frowned, saw her frown, too.

  Was she going to fill him in? Or would she let him sit here and suffer, waiting and wondering?

  "Why do you still wear your wedding ring, Bobby?"

  The room crashed in on him. He could almost hear books falling from the shelves, glass shattering from the windows, cutting his skin, making him bleed.

  "I just do." Explaining why was impossible. Admitting to Julianne that he and Sharon had argued over the ring just days before she'd died, just days before he'd killed her, wasn't something he could manage.

  "You're still in love with her," she said.

  No, that wasn't true. He was guilty about his wife. Sickened by what he'd done. "I died the day she died, but I've started living again. I've gone on."