CHEROKEE DAD

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "What makes you think I don't have a new woman in my life, that I'm not dating someone?" he asked, reminding her of how long she'd been gone.

  Her voice quavered. "Do you? Are you?"

  "No." But he was glad to see the suggestion had rattled her, that he'd planted a seed to make her wonder. The way he'd wondered for eighteen grueling months if she'd run off with another man, if that had been the reason she'd disappeared.

  "You should have risked a phone call, Heather. You should have called me. Just once."

  "I wanted to. So many times, I wanted to."

  "But you didn't."

  She glanced at the mist-fogged window, at the overcast light shadowing the room. "I thought about you every day."

  He'd thought about her, too. She was always there, the beautiful ghost from his past, the girl who'd disappeared.

  She twisted her hands on her lap, and he noticed her nails were bitten to the quick. He considered apologizing for the barb about another woman, but decided he would sound like a wuss, like he was still obsessed with her.

  He held his ground. "Why didn't you think about me before you took off to California? Before you got tangled up in this mess?"

  "You wouldn't allow me to see my own brother. What was I supposed to do?"

  Michael turned cynical. "Everything is always about Reed."

  "This is about Justin. An innocent child." Her eyes turned watery. "Please understand. This is important. More important than you can imagine. Beverly's dad will probably keep an eye on us, just to see if we hear from Reed. He'll probably try to lure information from people we know. So I need to make sure everyone we socialize with believes Justin is our baby. If a rumor leaks that he could be Reed's son—"

  He cursed before she could finish her sentence. What in the hell was he supposed to do? Ignore her plea? Let the mob take the boy away from her?

  "Two months," he said. "And I'm explaining the entire farce to my uncle."

  "No!" She nearly flew off the sofa. "You can't tell anyone. Not another living soul. This has to be our secret. The lie we take to our graves."

  "It isn't right." He hadn't lied to his uncle since he was a kid, a smart-mouthed youth who hadn't given a damn about anyone but himself.

  "Please." She went to the baby and picked him up. "Please."

  Michael frowned, and Justin took that moment to smile, to blow bubbles at him.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  "All right," he said as the boy's slobbery grin tunneled an unwelcome path straight to his cautious, it'll-be-over-in-two-months heart.

  * * *

  The day passed quickly, but as evening rolled around, Heather grew more and more anxious.

  Michael had gone to work that morning and that was the last she'd seen of him.

  She'd kept busy, baby-proofing the house the best she could, moving Justin's crib, unloading her rental car, preparing the guest room for Justin and herself.

  She'd cleaned everything. She'd even dusted the third bedroom, the one filled with junk Michael had been storing for years.

  And like Suzy-homemaker, she'd organized the kitchen cupboards, too.

  Then she'd gotten the brilliant idea to fix dinner, believing quite foolishly that Michael would come home in time to eat.

  The table was set and the food had gone cold. It wasn't a fancy meal, considering the simple contents in Michael's fridge, but she made a pretty good meat loaf. And he liked mashed potatoes, with pools of melting butter instead of gravy.

  She sat at the table and fidgeted with a bowl of wilting green beans. She'd lost her appetite hours ago. Deciding to clean up, she headed to the kitchen for aluminum foil and plastic containers.

  What was she doing? Trying to resume where they left off? If he hadn't loved her then, what made her think he would fall in love with her now? That the next two months would change her life?

  She needed Michael to help her set the stage, to establish Justin's paternity, but beyond that, she had no right to expect anything more.

  Want it, crave it, but not expect it.

  She wrapped the meat loaf and scooped the potatoes into a plastic bowl, closing the vacuum-sealed lid. Then the front door rattled, and her heartbeat tripled.

  Michael was home.

  Should she greet him? Or continue clearing the table? Cursing her quaking hands, she chose the table. How could a man she'd known for over half her life make her so nervous?

  Because she'd loved him for over half her life, and he'd always given her butterflies.

  She heard him moving around in the living room. Removing his hat, most likely, brushing the moisture from his clothes.

  She pictured him, as he was, tall and dark, amid the homespun furnishings. Michael had inherited the old farmhouse from his mother, a hardworking waitress who'd acquired it from her ancestors – German immigrants who'd settled in the Texas Hill Country.

  The house bore hardwood floors, paned windows and hand-stenciled trim that dressed up door frames and plain walls. A live oak in the front yard stood guard throughout the year, and bluebonnets blanketed the ground every spring.

  As Heather made a face at the green beans, wondering if she should toss them out, Michael entered the dining room.

  "You made dinner?"

  She looked up. His hair was long and loose and slightly damp. "Yes." She wished she'd thought to remove the two place settings, the scented candle still burning. The romantic ambience, she thought. "Are you hungry? It's cold, but I can reheat it."

  "I grabbed a bite in town."

  "Oh." She fidgeted with a fan-shaped napkin, suddenly embarrassed that she'd folded it that way. "So you went out?"

  "Yeah. Did you think I was working all this time?"

  She shrugged as if his whereabouts didn't matter. Then she couldn't stop herself from asking. "Where'd you go?"

  He shifted his stance. "To have a few beers."

  "At the Corral?"

  "Yes."

  So he'd gone to the local honky-tonk. "What'd you do there?"

  "I just told you. I had a few beers."

  He didn't play pool? Or dance? Or flirt with the country barflies? The bimbos with their big hairdos and tight jeans? "So that's all you did?"

  He peered in the foil-wrapped package, checking out the meat loaf. "Yep. That's all."

  "I cleaned the house," she said, changing the subject, hating herself for feeling like a suspicious lover.

  "You didn't have to. I don't expect you to pick up after me. I never did."

  "I needed to baby-proof the place."

  "Oh." He broke off a corner of the meat loaf, ate it, then caught himself. "I guess I worked up another appetite."

  Doing what? she wondered. "I'll fix you a plate."

  "This is fine." He took a few slices and devoured them cold. Next he uncapped the mashed potatoes and ate a large portion directly from the bowl.

  Hardly the intimate meal she'd planned. "Did you tell anyone about me and Justin?"

  He tasted the soggy green beans. "No."

  "Not even Bobby?"

  "My uncle was busy today."

  "Too busy to talk to you?"

  Now it was Michael's turn to shrug. "I didn't feel like going into all of it."

  An ache, as solid as the hills, slammed into her heart. He hadn't felt like talking about her, the woman he'd lived with, the woman who still loved him.

  "Seems to me that a man whose girlfriend just returned to him with his baby would've explained the situation to his family instead of going out for a few beers."

  He raised his brows, two wicked slashes of black over exotic-shaped eyes. "Justin isn't my son."

  "He's supposed to be, Michael."

  "But he isn't."

  She wanted to cry, to sink to the floor and weep. The way she'd cried over the other pony. "You can't act this way, not if we're going to tell people that Justin is our baby."

  "Then give me a day or so to get used to it. To cope with the idea."

  "Fine." She carried the dis
hes into the kitchen, going back and forth, putting away the leftovers.

  "Where is the kid?"

  "Asleep. It's after ten. Or hadn't you noticed?"

  "You're not my girlfriend anymore, Heather. I don't have to stay home at night."

  Her chest hurt again, with pain and fury, heartbreak and devastation. "Yes, you do. We're supposed to be reconciling."

  His eyes blazed. "Does that mean I get to sleep with you? Get my hot-and-nasty fill before I kick you out?"

  Heather froze. Was that the way he thought of her, of the nights they'd spent in each other's arms?

  She wanted to throw a plate at him, but she'd already cleared the table. "Not on your life, buster. And when the time comes, I'll be leaving on my own."

  "Of course you will. You already left once. How hard can it be to walk out a second time?"

  She banked her fury. She was the one who'd taken off, who'd lied about why she'd gone to California. "I never meant to stay away."

  "But you did. And now you're back with Reed's son."

  "Our son, Michael. You have to start thinking of him as our son."

  The edge in his voice softened, but his stance remained defensive. "Was Reed okay about you bringing Justin to me? About me pretending to be his father?"

  "Yes. He thinks you'll make a good dad. That you'll treat Justin right." But Reed also thought that Michael loved her, that he'd loved her for years. Of course she doubted that Michael would believe that Reed had interceded for him, giving their relationship his blessing. "He doesn't hate you the way you hate him."

  "Yes, he does. He's just telling you what you want to hear. He's always done that."

  Telling her what she wanted to hear – like Michael loving her. "He's my brother. It's his job to protect me."

  "The way he protected you from getting caught up in the mob?"

  Weary, Heather closed her eyes. "I don't want to talk about Reed." To think about him running for the rest of his life, mourning his wife and son.

  When she opened her eyes, Michael was staring, watching her eyelids flutter. Self-conscious, she took a deep breath. He used to watch her sleep, and then wake her with a stirring kiss.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I know you've been through a rough time."

  "Yes." And losing him was making everything that much harder.

  He reached out as if to smooth a strand of her hair away from her face, but drew back and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I should get to bed."

  She let out the breath she'd been holding. "Me, too."

  A few seconds later, their gazes locked, making the moment even more awkward.

  She broke eye contact first, blowing out the candle, sending the flame dancing before it disappeared.

  Then she and Michael separated, and like the wounded ex-lovers they'd become, they drifted into different bedrooms.

  And closed their doors without making a sound.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  Michael heard the shower running and the baby crying.

  Great. He buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. Mother anxiety-ridden morning.

  Should he let Justin cry? Ignore the baby's angry wails and let Heather deal with him after she finished her shower?

  Yeah, he thought. That was exactly what he should do. Yet as he reached for his boots, the kid's bawling made him guilty.

  What if the little guy was sick? Or afraid? Or—

  Oh, hell.

  Michael shoved on his boots. Heather could be in the shower forever. Washing that hair of hers was a major task. He knew. He'd shampooed it for her plenty of times. And like the idiot he was, he still had fantasies about her hair – the way it streamed down her back, slid through his fingers when he kissed her.

  Which, he warned himself, was something he shouldn't be thinking about.

  Justin let out another wail, and Michael gave up and went into the kid's room.

  The baby stood in his portable crib, screaming like a pint-sized banshee. When he spotted Michael, he gulped, and then cried some more.

  "What's the matter?" Michael asked.

  The boy gulped again. Tears streamed down his face, and his hair, tousled from sleep, stuck out at odd angles. He had thick, dark hair. A lot like Reed's. Or mine, Michael thought.

  Justin made a distressed face. "Pa…pa…pa."

  Papa? Daddy? Was he crying for Reed?

  "I can't help you, buddy. I have no idea where your papa is."

  The boy glanced at the floor. "Pa."

  Michael looked down, then saw the stuffed animal at his feet. "Is this what all the commotion is about?" He reached for the toy, a yellow horse with threads of gold in its mane. "Here." He handed it over, and the kid snatched it like candy.

  Justin hiccupped and hugged the horse, and Michael ruffled the boy's messy hair. "Let's see if I can find something to dry your eyes."

  He looked around the room and noticed a bunch of baby junk on the dresser. Diapers, pop-up wipes, lotion. He studied the wipes. Would it be all right to clean the kid's face with disposable cloths designed to wipe his bottom? Like the packets of wet-napkins barbecue joints handed out? Or the fancy ones the chef at the ranch provided?

  Unsure of what else to do, Michael untucked his shirt and used the end of it, dabbing the child's face. He wasn't sure if butt wipes had the same ingredients as face wipes, and he wasn't about to make a stupid mistake and irritate the boy's eyes.

  "There. That's better."

  Justin rewarded him with a goofy grin.

  "I guess you think so, too."

  "Pa." The kid held out his horse.

  Michael took the toy, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with it. Then he spotted the key on the side. "Does it talk?" He wound the key and a lullaby played. "Oh, I see. It's a musical horse. Can't say I'm familiar with the tune, though."

  He handed the stuffed animal back to Justin, and the boy shot him another one of those goofy grins. Well, what do you know? He had dimples, kind of like Shirley Temple. Or Baby Face Nelson. After all, this was Reed's kid.

  Justin blew bubbles, and Michael wondered what Heather intended to tell the boy when he was older. The truth, of course. She couldn't let Justin grow up not knowing his true parentage.

  Could she?

  "I'm only going to be your dad for a few months. So don't get used to this."

  The kid handed over the horse again.

  "All right, fine. We'll play the song one more time."

  Just as Michael turned the key, the door opened.

  Damn. There stood Heather in a bathrobe, her damp hair teasing the terry cloth.

  "Justin was throwing a fit," he said. "He dropped his horse."

  She tilted her head. He wasn't close enough to inhale her fragrance, but he knew she favored fruit-scented soaps and shampoos.

  "Pony."

  The robe gapped, just a bit. She wasn't wearing a bra. That much he could tell. But whether she'd donned a pair of panties was anybody's guess. "What?"

  "It's a pony."

  "Pa," Justin parroted.

  Michael glanced at the toy in his hand. Pa meant pony?

  "Oh. Okay." Feeling foolish, he gave Justin his furry companion. The dang thing plunked out a song while Heather's robe played a distracting game of peekaboo.

  Why would she be wearing panties? She'd just climbed out of the shower.

  "I'll show you how to change a diaper," she said. He took a step back. Making the transition from her half-naked body to diapering a baby didn't register, not in his befuddled mind. "What for?"

  "Because you're supposed to be learning to be a dad."

  There she went, trying to get him into the Daddy mode, to embellish his short-lived role. "You can show me, but I'm not going to do it, especially if he's stinky."

  "He's wet."

  "How can you tell?"

  "Because he's wet every morning."

  She placed Justin on the bed and unsnapped his pajamas. Once he was exposed,
she covered him, much too quickly, then reached for the wipes.

  Michael rolled his eyes. Was she worried about the baby's modesty? "I've seen one of those before, Heather. In fact, I think I have one." He glanced at his fly. "Yep, sure enough, I do."

  She rolled her eyes right back at him. "Little boys tend to spray."

  "Really?" He couldn't help but chuckle. "Has he ever got you?"

  "No, but he got Reed."

  "Oh, yeah?" He poked the baby's belly. "So you peed on your dad, huh? I'll bet that put Mr. Hardened Criminal in his place."

  Justin laughed, and Michael grinned. "My sentiments exactly."

  Heather shook her head. "That's not funny."

  "Then why are you cracking a smile?"

  "I'm not." But she was, and they both knew it. She'd always had a silly sense of humor, even where her hard-ass brother was concerned.

  While Justin squirmed and kicked his feet, she utilized the baby supplies on the dresser, wiping him down and protecting his skin with lotion.

  Afterward, she put him on the floor and let him crawl, and the kid scooted through the bedroom like a windup toy.

  "Thanks for watching him while I was in the shower."

  "I just picked up his pony." But in the future, Michael wasn't going to cater to the little tyke. As cute as Justin was, he wasn't up for spoiling Reed's kid. Nor did he intend to spend his mornings making lighthearted conversation with Heather.

  Her robe was gaping again, and the walls were closing in. "I better go. I've got a full day ahead." He still had to tell his uncle that Heather was back.

  And lie about Justin being their son.

  * * *

  Michael caught up with his uncle at the office in the barn. Bobby Elk divided his time between giving riding lessons in the arena and hosting guided tours in the hills, Of course, these days, the wealthy rancher was content to stay home with his wife and baby son.

  He'd earned his right to happiness, Michael thought. Bobby had lost his first wife in an auto accident, a crash that had also left him an amputee. But that didn't slow him down. He wore a prosthetic limb and was as active and athletic as any cowboy Michael knew.

  "Hey," Bobby said, glancing up from his desk. His workspace, as usual, was spotless.