Longwalker's Child

by Debra Webb

  "Where would you like to start?" he asked.

  "Wait," she said suddenly. Sarah scrambled to her feet and hurried to retrieve her abandoned doll. She set the doll carefully on the table next to the mound of puzzle pieces. "Leah wants to help, too."

  Gray's gut clenched, and he stared down at the little girl. "That's a nice name," he told her quietly. He wondered if it could be coincidence or if…No, he argued with himself, it couldn't be anything but a coincidence.

  Sarah straightened the doll's yellow dress. "She's named for my grandma," she informed him proudly.

  Gray didn't speak for a long moment, he simply watched Sarah fuss over the doll's hair and ribbon. "Do you visit your grandma often?" he ventured finally. Maybe Leah was Lauren's mother's name as well as…

  "Nope. She went to Heaven a long time ago, but my first mommy told me all about her." Sarah smiled up at him. His heart skipped another beat. "Grandma Leah looked just like me. And you," she added, touching his hair.

  Gray could only nod. His voice had left him. He never dreamed that Sharon would share anything about his mother with the child. Why had she, when she had left him out of the scenario? Gray had resented his mother almost as much as he had the selfish bigot who had fathered him. Sharon evidently had very different memories of Leah Longwalker than those firmly entrenched in Gray's mind.

  "I have a picture, wanna see?" Sarah asked, breaking into his haunted thoughts.

  Gray didn't really remember agreeing, but the next thing he knew he was following Sarah to her room. She went over to the many bookshelves lining one wall and retrieved a small silver frame that sat next to a fuzzy white bunny. He had somehow missed seeing it the other night. Maybe because his full attention had been focused on his child.

  "See." She held the picture out for his inspection.

  Gray took the silver frame, his hand shaking slightly. He stared down at the woman in the photograph and a very old, very deep pain stabbed his heart.

  Beautiful…she was beautiful. Leah Longwalker had been a stunning woman in her time. She looked young and happy, the picture had been taken before—before she had given up all hope of happily-ever-after. This was the mother he had loved and who had loved him back. But that woman had gone away too many years ago to remember.

  He handed the picture back to Sarah. "She's very beautiful, Sarah." He leveled his gaze on the little girl's gray eyes. "Just like you."

  "I know," Sarah chirped as she placed the frame back in the exact spot from which she had taken it. "Let's put the puzzle together now," she added, her voice containing the same excitement as her step when she skipped out of the room and down the hall, her heels scuffing against the shiny hardwood floor.

  Gray followed and settled himself on the braided rug across the table from Sarah as she began the monumental task of picking through the colorful puzzle pieces. Gray watched her little fingers work and her studious concentration as she inspected piece after piece until she found just the one she wanted to use first.

  Nothing he could call to mind accurately described the sensation of watching this child…his child. She was part of him—part of his mother—that lived on. Something good and innocent, traits he had lost long ago.

  Gray would teach her about her Navajo heritage. He would help her to understand the importance of believing in oneself. And above all else, he would give her his name.

  * * *

  LAUREN TRIED NOT TO HOVER outside the living room door. She told herself over and over that this was the right thing—the only thing—to do.

  She had peeked in on Sarah only two times in the last hour. With tremendous effort she forced herself to attend to her bread baking. She loved to bake and it was a great outlet for her stress. Today's baking frenzy was motivated as much by anxiety as by the need for an excuse to stay clear of the visitor in her living room. Lauren had pounded the dough until her arms were weak from it. She had busied herself in the precise process of mix, knead, roll, rise, repeat the last three steps and bake.

  Lauren scanned the cluttered counters, the aftermath of her battle to escape the reality of Longwalker's presence. Now she stood in the middle of her homey kitchen with its blue gingham curtains and clay-tiled floor and no longer cared that she had worked so hard to make this room special.

  What good would any of this be without Sarah?

  Lauren closed her eyes and released a heavy breath. She had spent months designing and overseeing the renovations to this house. She had called it her baby—her special project. Not work, like all the other designing she did, this one had been for her own personal benefit. Her own house. Not long after the renovations were complete, Sarah had come to live with her, and soon Lauren's house had become a home.

  At first Lauren had tried desperately to convince Sharon that she wasn't the right person to take care of Sarah. What did she know about children? Lauren had no siblings. She had never baby-sat anyone in her life. She had never been married. The fact was, Lauren had only been involved in one serious relationship. She was a career woman, or had been until the accident. After that, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, she had taken a giant step back from life. Lauren had built a protective wall around herself emotionally.

  But Sharon would have none of it. "Sarah loves you and you love her—I can see it," Sharon would say. Lauren had been fond of the child. But…There had been no acceptable buts as far as Sharon was concerned. Eight months after being diagnosed with terminal cancer and proposing that Lauren take Sarah, Sharon had died, and then there had been no turning back.

  Lauren had brought Sarah home to live with her, and in no time at all she had lost her heart to the child.

  Her movements on autopilot, Lauren checked the oven and then drifted to her favorite spot in the house—the dining room's huge bay window seat. She dropped onto the cushioned seat and propped on a mound of loose pillows. Fluffy stirred and stretched, but then curled back into a sleeping ball. Lauren stroked the lazy cat as she peered out the window. The view looked out over the acres and acres of pastures that surrounded the house that had once belonged to her great aunt Dorothy. An ancient barn, its siding weathered to a washed gray, stood beyond a hen house, smoke house and bunkhouse.

  Lauren had never once visited Thatcher as a child. Her parents had always been too busy, and then Aunt Dorothy had passed away when Lauren was nineteen. Who would have thought, she mused, that a few years later Lauren would be living in Texas on this old ranch in the middle of nowhere. The place was a far cry from the apartment in which she had grown up in Chicago.

  Lauren worked now by fax and e-mail. No more power meetings, conferences or business luncheons.

  The accident had changed many things in Lauren's life—geography and working conditions being the easiest to accept. Losing Kevin had been the hardest.

  Kevin. Lauren closed her eyes and summoned the image of the only man she had ever loved. His blond hair and laughing blue eyes had stopped haunting her dreams a while ago, but the sore place in her heart still ached from time to time. They had both worked at Cutting Edge Architecture after graduating from the same college. She and Kevin had been considered prime recruits and were well on their way up the corporate ladder. Kevin had shared her career-minded attitude. They had agreed that marriage and children could come later. Much later. How could they have guessed that later would never come?

  One night had changed everything.

  Why had she let him drive that night? She had known he'd had too much to drink, but he had insisted. Rather than have a fight, Lauren had given in. That one mistake had cost her a great deal. She had lost him and gained the devastating headaches. But she had learned a painful lesson—loving anyone was too monumental a risk. Sarah had been the only exception to her hard-and-fast rule. But there would be no others.

  Lauren pushed away the thoughts of things best forgotten. Dredging up the past had too often brought on her headaches, and right now she couldn't afford that. At all costs she must stay in control of the situation with G
ray Longwalker. He represented a threat to her in too many ways.

  The smell of freshly baked bread summoned Lauren back into the kitchen. She smiled as she withdrew first one and then another of the golden-brown loaves. She did love to bake. Cookies, cakes, bread, anything. Maybe she and Sarah would make cookies later.

  After placing the hot loaves on cooling racks, Lauren removed her oven mitts and turned the stove off. She swept an errant wisp of hair away from her cheek with the back of her hand and surveyed the less attractive step involved in the baking process—clean up.

  Lauren exhaled mightily, set her hands at her waist and tried to decide where to start. The dishes, she supposed. Some she could put into the dishwasher. Some—like her nonstick baking pans—required a more personal touch.

  "Smells good."

  Gray Longwalker's dark, irresistibly masculine voice generated an all-too-feminine shudder in Lauren. She whirled around to find him watching her from his relaxed stance in the doorway. He had leaned against the jamb. She wondered briefly how long he had been there. The faded blue shirt and jeans he wore emphasized his bronze coloring. Lauren had never cared much for men with long hair, but there was something sinfully intriguing about all that silky black hair falling over his broad shoulders.

  How had he sneaked up on her like that?

  "Bread," she said quickly, and gestured toward the cooling loaves. "I just took it out of the oven."

  "I know," he said. The hint of a smile twitched one side of his mouth.

  He had been watching her. Lauren didn't quite know what to say next. She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and looked anywhere but at him. That searching gaze never deviated from her. She didn't have to look to know—she could feel it. She could feel him.

  "Can I get you tea or…" Lauren's voice trailed off when she at last allowed her gaze to connect with his. All coherent thought ceased, and every part of her being was drawn to the man across the room. She opened her mouth to finish her sentence, then snapped it shut and simply shrugged, hoping he would understand what she intended.

  Gray straightened and moved in her direction. For such a tall man, his movements were fluid, sleek—like a cat's. No wonder she hadn't heard him come in. The man could give lessons in stealth. When he stopped and stared down at her, Lauren instinctively stepped back only to be blocked by the counter. Desire shot through her at his nearness, followed immediately by a burst of need so strong it made Lauren weak in the knees. She wasn't supposed to feel this.

  "Sarah?" she asked, feeling awkward and nervous under his intense appraisal.

  "She fell asleep on the couch."

  Lauren glanced at the wall clock and frowned. "It's her nap time. I'm sorry, I should have thought of that this morning when we scheduled your visiting time."

  "Sarah showed me the picture of Leah," he said carefully.

  Lauren blinked rapidly to conceal her surprise at his announcement. She hadn't considered that he might see the picture of Leah or what kind of impact it would have on him. "Sharon told Sarah stories about her grandmother. She…she thought it would help her to understand why she was…different."

  A muscle flexed in his tightly clenched jaw. "You mean a mixed breed—not quite Anglo and not quite Navajo, but something in between."

  "No." Lauren shook her head in denial. "That's not what I meant at all."

  He looked away, clearly reaching for calm. "I suppose it's not," he relented.

  Had it always been this way for him? Had his life growing up been so hurtful that any remark that could even remotely be construed as racist was a personal attack? Lauren scrambled for what to say next. "How about we give this bread a try," she suggested, hoping to lighten the moment.

  He met her hopeful gaze, his own still too solemn. "I'd like that."

  She gestured to the table. "Have a seat."

  But he didn't turn that penetrating gaze away from her. Instead he reached up and touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. The gesture wasn't threatening. It was simply a touch. The pad of his thumb slid across her skin, the friction sent goose bumps skittering down her neck and across her breasts.

  "You have flour—" he swiped her cheek once more with the pad of his thumb "—right there."

  Lauren swallowed hard and forced herself to ignore the feelings he evoked with a mere touch. She watched the raw emotions on his handsome face go from solemn pain and frustration to need—a need as strong as the one she felt right now. A need she desperately wanted to deny. Could he possibly know the battle raging inside her? The almost overwhelming desire for his touch warred with the logical knowledge that she should resist. Even over the aroma of home-baked bread, she could smell his earthy essence. The scent beckoned to her on a very elemental level. She wanted to reach across the mere inches that separated them and touch him. To see if the dark skin that lay beneath that faded chambray shirt felt as smooth and warm as she remembered.

  And taste him. The thought sent a shiver across her skin. Would he taste as dark and mysterious as he looked? Her own thoughts frightened her more than the man himself.

  "Butter," he murmured. "Do you have butter?"

  "Yes," she breathed. "I'll get it." Her heart thumped hard in her chest.

  He moved away, breaking the spell. Lauren forced her weak limbs to take the necessary steps to the refrigerator. Gray sat down at the table and waited, but she could feel his gaze on her. He watched her every move. She quickly sliced a slab of warm bread and slathered it with butter. Her heart still raced for some unseen finish line. Her reaction to the man was purely foolish. Flustered, she set the plate down before him and strained for calm.

  "Tea?" she all but squeaked, then cleared her throat.

  His gaze lingered on hers a little too long. "Sure."

  After pouring two glasses of ice tea, Lauren joined him at the table. She watched as he bit into the soft, warm bread, then as he licked the butter from his lips. Heat funneled beneath her belly button, sending desire deeper. Lauren blinked and straightened in her chair.

  "So, what exactly is it you do with horses?"

  He sipped his tea, his analyzing gaze studying hers so thoroughly she wanted to squirm in her chair. "I'll be glad to answer that question as long as you agree to answer one of mine."

  Oops. A tactical error. She hadn't thought of that. But it was too late now. She had already opened her big mouth. "All right," she said slowly. "You answer one question for me and I'll answer one for you."

  He nodded his agreement. "I can sense their feelings." He shrugged as if uncomfortable sharing the information. "I communicate with them on some level. I can't explain it, it just is. I haven't met one yet I couldn't reach."

  Lauren propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. "That's amazing."

  "Not amazing," he corrected. "It just is."

  "So you travel around the country reaching out to the horses that are labeled as problem animals."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "That's two questions."

  Lauren smiled. "No it's not, it's a request for a deeper explanation to my first question."

  He narrowed his gaze suspiciously. "I think you're making these rules up as you go to suit your purpose."

  She laughed then. And he smiled. One of those real smiles that took her breath. "Just answer the question, Longwalker."

  "Yes. I travel around the country working with problem horses. I guess you could say it's my calling."

  He finished off his slice of bread, then made a sound of approval. "Very good."

  "Thank you." A glow bloomed inside her. Why his approval should please her so, Lauren couldn't fathom.

  "My turn." He pushed his empty plate away and studied her a moment.

  Lauren tried not to squirm under his intense scrutiny.

  "Tell me about the headaches," he said quietly.

  She looked away. That was a big one. "How about we talk about something else?" she said with a feigned smile.

  He shook his head. "You have to ans
wer that one."

  Lauren took a deep breath and let it out slowly for courage, but mainly to stall. "Four years ago my fiancé and I were driving home after a party, and we had an accident." She stared at her clasped hands as she continued. "The car went over a railing and into the lake. Kevin, my fiancé, was killed." She felt suddenly cold. "I had a head injury. A man who saw the accident rescued me, but there was nothing he could do for Kevin." She blinked back the remembered heartache and met his intent gaze across the table. "When all was said and done I was left with the headaches."

  He didn't have to say he was sorry, she could see it in his eyes. He felt her pain almost as sharply as she did. Lauren looked away. How could that be? How could he be so keenly aware of her feelings when he barely knew her? When I choose to allow myself to get that close, he'd said. She had allowed him too close.

  "Why did you ask me about my work?"

  Lauren jerked from her intense reverie. "Trying to slip in a second question?" she countered, in hopes of closing that line of discussion.

  "Why?" he insisted. Suspicion glimmered in his eyes now, as if he'd only just considered her motivation.

  His answer to the question had been no surprise, but she'd wanted to hear the words from his mouth. He would no doubt use her headaches against her in the upcoming custody battle; she had to be prepared with ammunition as well.

  "I was curious," she hedged.

  "You've made up your mind that I'm not the kind of father my daughter needs," he suggested.

  Lauren swallowed hard. It was almost as if he'd read her mind. "Sharon warned me about your arrogant anger…your bitterness. She was afraid you'd fill Sarah's head with that same hatred." Fear trickled into Lauren's veins. Had she admitted too much? She couldn't afford to alienate him at this point.

  Stark pain etched itself into his angular features. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping across the floor. "So you've decided that Sarah would be better off without me."

  "I don't know you." Lauren pushed to her feet, putting herself more at his level and feeling far too uneasy in this volatile territory. "Sharon made that decision based on what she knew. I'm only following her wishes."