Cheyenne's Lady

by Mindy Neff

  “Have I?”

  John’s fork paused for just an instant. “You are a man of honor, Nephew. You have made the family proud.”

  Cheyenne sighed and leaned against the pitchfork, abandoning his chore for the moment. Martin was measuring feed and checking the mares they would soon breed. Mustangs were a species whose bloodlines had degenerated over the years. Cheyenne’s goal was to strengthen those bloodlines by breeding them with Thoroughbreds with barb ancestry. Ethan Callahan and his brothers helped out with the breeding, Cheyenne raised the animals and Stony Stratton trained them. With the combined efforts, his mustang stock was becoming some of the finest in the land.

  And that, too, made the family proud.

  “Emily’s concerned that she’s out of her element with the babies. She came only to get my help for a few months.”

  “Yet you wonder if it will last past Hoats en shi.”

  The Hoop Moon, Cheyenne translated mentally. January. It wasn’t a question. His uncle had visions, yet was mysterious about them. He often spoke in riddles, would drop a bombshell, yet make recipients figure out the meaning on their own.

  Did he hope it would last longer?

  “We have nothing in common, Uncle. She has a job in Washington.”

  “The children need family.”

  “And they’ll have it. I won’t try to hold her.”

  John stopped pushing the hay around, straightened. Like Cheyenne, he was a tall man. Proud. Wise. And when he looked at you, it was as though he could truly see inside, ferret out all your secrets.

  “There is no shame in a man asking for what he needs.”

  Cheyenne felt his gut twist. “I have everything I need.”

  John studied him for a few minutes longer. Then in a move that Cheyenne was used to, he changed the subject.

  “Will you still be inviting the children to come out and ride?”

  “Yes. I’d like to postpone it though. Give me time to be on hand for the first few weeks that Emily will need the most help.” Each month his uncle brought the children from the reservation to Cheyenne’s ranch to spend a few hours riding horses, eating burgers and roasting marshmallows in the fireplace. Cheyenne looked forward to the monthly visits as much as the kids did.

  “Let’s make it early December. As soon as I get the Christmas lights up.”

  “That will be more of a treat.”

  There were still hardships on the reservation, although dealings with the gas and oil companies had greatly elevated their income. Cheyenne ached for some of those children, seeing himself in them.

  “I should take leave so that you can get back to your new wife.”

  New wife. The words had his heart pounding. And for some really odd reason, he was almost afraid to go into the house.

  “Why don’t you come in and meet Emily?”

  “As I said before, we have met. Another time I will come for a proper visit.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with now.”

  “Another time. When the babies come, I’ll bring gifts.”

  Cheyenne knew he couldn’t budge his uncle once the man’s mind was made up. “As you wish. You can go ahead and take Martin with you. I can finish up with the horses.”

  He still needed time to himself, time to come to grips with the changes today had wrought in his life. Changes he’d instigated himself.

  Why did he sense that his life was slipping out of his control?

  Chapter Five

  They’d only been married for two days and she already had something to confess.

  Emily sighed and took off her coat, tossing her car keys on the counter. The kitchen was her least favorite room in the house—not that Cheyenne’s was anything to complain about. Spacious, it had all the required gadgets, was made warm and homey by maple cabinets and furniture and pale-green tile on the counters.

  Her own kitchen in her Washington condo was solid white, decorated with a cherry-blossom theme. But that was pretty much the extent of her contribution to that particular room. Decorating. And keeping the cookie jar stocked with goodies.

  She scooped dry dog food into Blue’s dish, then gave him a French fry by way of apology. “I’ll share my dinner with you later if you promise not to tell.”

  Blue licked her hand, then perked up his ears and whipped his head toward the doorway, his tags jingling.

  Cheyenne stood there, one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, watching her. He looked incredibly sexy in his jeans and khaki uniform shirt. A sheepskin jacket hung open on his tall, muscular frame, and the brim of his black Stetson hat rode low on his brow.

  Her gaze clung to him, moving from the top of his head down. Just looking at him made her forget to breathe.

  Neither she nor the dog had heard him come in.

  “Don’t you wear a gun belt?” Well, good one, Emily. Blurt out to the man that you were looking at the front of his pants! Obviously lack of air had affected her brain.

  “Sometimes. Not usually when I’m home, though.”

  “Oh.” Brilliant conversationalist. She didn’t know why she felt so tongue-tied all of a sudden. This was ridiculous.

  He tipped his hat farther back on his head, glanced at the aluminum containers of chicken she was taking out of the oven. “I heard you made a trip to the beauty shop today.”

  “How?”

  “Deputy saw your car. Then Arletta was talking about you over lunch at Brewer’s.”

  “I’d forgotten how fast word travels in small towns. She wasn’t saying anything bad, was she?” And if the deputy had told him about seeing her at the beauty shop, had he told him about the other incident?

  “No. Unless you think it’s bad that everyone in town knows you had your fake fingernails removed.”

  “They weren’t fake. Merely acrylics overlaid on my own nails.” Why was she defending her fingernails? “I thought it’d be smart with the babies coming and all. I might not have time for the upkeep. But why in the world would anybody be interested in that?”

  He shrugged, his gaze dipping to her stomach. She had an idea that he saw a lot in a single glance.

  “Everybody’s interested in anything around here. Arletta’s fairly awed by you.”

  “By me? Why?”

  “You’re a celebrity in her book. To hear her tell it, you practically star in the commercials you do, rub elbows with some pretty impressive people.”

  She laughed and absently smoothed her hand over her stomach where the babies were frolicking. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. We just come up with the ideas and sell them to the media buyers. I don’t mingle with the cast.”

  “Arletta’s pea green that you did actually mingle with Mel Gibson.”

  “That one was special. I actually flew out for the taping and screening—which I usually don’t do.”

  “Just couldn’t resist the lure of Gibson, hmm?”

  “Jealous?”

  “Maybe.”

  She laughed. “That particular commercial was pretty special. My main arena is print advertising, but that idea came to me like a gift fully formed and fairly begged for a different medium. It was solely my baby and it aired on Super Bowl Sunday. I won a Clio award for it.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. The recognition meant a lot. And Mel’s a really great guy. Charming and hysterically funny, a real jokester.”

  “Mel, huh?”

  She gave him a saucy, secretive look. Like he’d really be jealous, she thought. “The guy’s a committed family man, Bodine. He wouldn’t look twice at someone like me.”

  “Then he’d be a fool.”

  His voice was so soft, his eyes so intense, she shivered. Why in the world did he say things like that to her? Use that sexy, exciting tone of voice as though she was a tempting package wrapped in a pretty bow that he was just dying to untie and get his hands on?

  She tugged at the hem of her sweater, flustered, not knowing where to look or how to act.

  And he still ha
dn’t mentioned the other thing.

  She opened the cupboards, looking for paper plates. Cheyenne reached over her head and took down two ceramic plates. The blue-and-tan Southwestern design was faded from use.

  “You don’t have paper ones?”

  His dark eyes settled on her, and his sensual lips twitched ever so slightly. “No.”

  She ignored his amusement. “I’ll have to fix that. I hate to do dishes.”

  “You cooked. I’ll do dishes.”

  “Well, I didn’t actually cook.” She transferred the chicken onto the plates, then abandoned the task and quickly wadded up the brown to-go bag with the Brewer’s Saloon logo on it and tossed it into the trash. She wasn’t a domestic goddess. He’d just have to deal with it.

  He was still watching her with that almost-there smile.

  “Well,” she said in her own defense, “the town hasn’t grown any fast-food places since I left. Brewer’s is it.”

  “Did I say anything?”

  “No. And if you did, you’d be doing the cooking.”

  “I’ll do it, anyway. I don’t mind.”

  Oh, dear. This was starting to stack up pretty onesided. If he was going to do the dishes and the cooking, plus get saddled with marriage in the bargain, not to mention babies on the way, what was he getting out of the deal?

  “Have a seat, speed demon.”

  She’d wondered when he’d get around to bringing that up. Sighing, she noticed he’d efficiently added the coleslaw and French fries to the plates.

  She eased her huge self into the chair at the kitchen table. “You heard about that, too?”

  “Mm.” He sat down across from her. “Deputy wrote you up for doing eighty-eight miles an hour.”

  “I’m sure it was only eighty-five. And I told him I was your wife.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He bit into a French fry.

  “Are you laughing?”

  “Certainly not.” Yet the corners of his mouth tipped. “Trying to bribe an officer of the law is serious business.”

  “I wasn’t…” She took a breath. “I thought everyone knew we’d gotten married. And I’d like to know what kind of men you’re hiring these days who would threaten to haul a pregnant woman to jail.”

  He chuckled. “Boyd’s new. And the way I heard it, you threatened him first.”

  She took a sudden interest in the juicy chicken in front of her. “There wasn’t a speck of traffic on the road. It was ridiculous. And I was late.” She pushed the meat around on her plate. “Honestly, this kind of thing hardly ever happens to me.”

  He raised a brow.

  “Well, not since I was young, anyway. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  “Do I look embarrassed?”

  “No. Come to think of it, you look pretty smug. So, what’s the deal? Is this going to end up on my driving record?”

  “I’m the boss. I imagine I can get your ticket fixed.”

  She felt her grin growing. “You imagine? If I told you I got one of Eden Stratton’s raspberry cheesecakes for dessert, would that tip the scales in my favor?”

  “That’d probably do it. The woman bakes like a dream.”

  A statement like that might have made another woman feel inadequate. Not Emily. She could cook. She just didn’t particularly like to do it—nor did she usually have the time.

  “Then you’ll be ecstatic to know that despite the fact that cooking’s not high on my résumé’s list of assets, I do great takeout. And I even brought home some of her scones and caramel buns. Brewer’s carries a whole line of Eden’s baked goodies. Though frankly, I’ll probably wish I’d never found that out. I’ll be big as a barn, instead of a mere house.”

  “You’re not big as a house. You’re pregnant and cute. And I imagine doing takeout’s going to become more trouble than it’s worth. Especially when the snow comes. Besides, I’m not all that keen on you running up and down the highway as it is. You look like you’re ready to pop.”

  Emily couldn’t decide which statement or emotion to grab on to. Her mind rolled his words around. He thought she was cute. She’d have preferred beautiful, but then that was stretching honesty. Still, it made her feel warm and giddy. He’d also said she wasn’t in competition with the house—sizewise—then in nearly the next breath had told her she looked ready to pop. She decided not to take offense.

  As for the running-up-and-down-the-road comment, well, that was a little too bossy-sounding for comfort.

  “Guess it’s a good thing that I’m married to such a handy guy, isn’t it? I mean, you do have experience delivering babies on the highway.”

  He choked on a swallow of chicken, reached quickly for his glass of water, then glared at her. “Don’t even think that. Knowing you, it’ll come to pass.”

  She wondered if she should feel insulted that he was obviously thinking there was merit to this jinx thing.

  The masculine horror on his handsome face was so endearing she couldn’t work up a decent pique.

  CHEYENNE CAME HOME the next day to find his house in utter chaos.

  Well, not utter, but close.

  “Mort,” he said, nodding in greeting to the telephone-installation guy shoving tools back in his belt.

  “Afternoon, Cheyenne. Just finished up. Sorry about the mess. Told the wife to give a call over to Jake McCall’s office. He’ll send someone out to patch up that drywall, and you’ll never even know I was here.”

  Mort wasn’t known for his perfectionism. But he knew his way around a phone system.

  Not that Cheyenne was aware anything was wrong with his to begin with.

  Evidently “the wife” thought differently.

  “What do I owe you?”

  “Got it covered. Take care of that lady of yours. She’s a gem.”

  Yes, Cheyenne thought as Mort let himself out. Emily was definitely a gem—and more. And that was starting to worry him.

  Because she wasn’t really his lady. She was only temporary. Like every other woman in his life.

  But she didn’t feel like every other woman in his life. She felt special. And she turned him inside out.

  He never knew what she was going to do next, which was why he felt the need to ease up on his workload and drop in at home more often.

  To his consternation, she didn’t seem inclined to pay his worries any heed. She should be taking it easy, yet instead, she raced up and down the road in her sporty Mercedes, visiting the beauty shop and ordering dinner to go from Brewer’s Saloon…getting a speeding ticket. He’d taken some flack over that one.

  He felt a grin tug and was helpless to stop it.

  He was amused by her, intrigued and so turned on half the time he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  He was used to being alone. And sharing living quarters with Emily was taking some adjustment. Feminine things were all around. Emily was a very feminine woman. And his whole house smelled like her. Vanilla. It made him hungry. And he ought not to be thinking about that kind of hunger when she was so close to delivering.

  He found her in one of the extra bedrooms she’d appropriated for office use. He recognized the scarred pine desk as one he’d stored in the garage.

  He’d spent hours studying at that desk as a kid, determined to prove his intelligence, determined to show Vanessa Peyton she wasn’t wasting her time on him. Ozzie Peyton’s late wife had been the schoolteacher in Shotgun Ridge, and Cheyenne hadn’t made her job easy. He’d been a sullen kid, a hell-raiser, but she’d straightened him right out using a firm hand and an ocean of compassion. She’d taken an interest in him, taught him to reach for his dreams.

  And for that, Cheyenne owed a lot to the Peytons and to this town.

  He stepped into the room, and Emily’s head jerked up. She slapped a hand to her chest. “Cheyenne! You scared me half to death. I thought everyone was gone.”

  “They are. Busy morning?”

  “Not bad. I had an extra telephone line installed.”

  “So I see. I didn�
�t know we needed one.”

  She shrugged. “There’s no need for you to foot the bill for my business expenses.”

  He frowned. He didn’t know her financial status, but there was every possibility that she made more money than he did. Oh, he had plenty of money, had made wise investments over the years. His riches came from the land and the horses he bought and sold. His salary from the county was a good one, but he doubted it matched hers.

  “I think I can afford to pay the phone bill.”

  “I have an expense account, Cheyenne. If I’m making business calls, the company should pay for it.”

  He didn’t know why he’d gotten so touchy. Or maybe he did. Linda, who’d been engaged to him for all of forty-eight hours, had looked down on his ranch life and sheriff duties. He hadn’t been good enough—rich enough.

  He hadn’t had the right address. One with a big-city zip code.

  He glanced around the room at the laptop computer, portable printer, fax machine and all the papers and files scattered over the desk.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on maternity leave?”

  Emily straightened her papers and put them back in their files. For a minute there Cheyenne had seemed in an odd mood. There were times when he went silent and watchful, and she didn’t have a clue what he was thinking. She had an idea, though, that he was worried about her. It was sweet. And it pleased her more than she wanted to admit. There weren’t many people in her life who worried about her.

  “A working leave. A cosmetics company I’ve been trying to get is on the verge of signing with us. I can’t drop the ball now.”

  “Can’t you delegate the work?”

  “I have. Most of it. But I started this campaign before I knew I’d be taking care of the babies.” She frowned at her own choice of words. She still said things like “taking care,” as though she were babysitting. She hadn’t gotten used to thinking in terms of the children being her sole responsibility.

  Well, not hers solely anymore. Hers and Cheyenne’s. But it still changed things. Negotiations with Cherie Cosmetics were fierce. Even getting a piece of their business would be major. And Emily was the one who’d made the contact. She was the one who’d sold the idea, the one they’d put their trust in. Cockran Advertising had an excellent reputation, but Emily had brought in the account.