CHEROKEE DAD

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "Yeah. Me, too."

  "I knew she was pregnant, but I wasn't at liberty to divulge that information then. I assumed it was your child, but after she disappeared, I didn't know what to think."

  Michael tried not to react, to lose his composure. "Heather came to see you? Before she went to California?"

  "She surely did. I gave her the result of the urinalysis myself." The doctor cupped Justin's cheek. "And here's our proof. A handsome little Cherokee boy."

  "Yes." Michael lifted Justin and feigned a casual air, even though his heart, his betrayed heart, slammed against the wall of his chest.

  If Heather had been pregnant, then where, dear God, was the baby?

  * * *

  Heather came home and found Michael slumped on the sofa, staring at the TV, flipping channels with the remote. He looked up at her, his eyes much too dark. Was he angry? Depressed? Tired?

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "I took Justin to the doctor today."

  "Oh, my goodness, why?" Fretful, she set her purse on the coffee table. "Is he sick? Did he get hurt?"

  "He has an ear infection. But the doctor said he'd be fine. I gave him his antibiotic and put him to bed."

  "I'm sorry you had to deal with that alone. I should have been here. I should have—"

  "I had an interesting chat with Dr. Mills, Heather. You wouldn't believe what he told me."

  Oh, God.

  His gaze drilled into hers, snaring her like a rabbit caught in a trap. She wanted to run, skitter away, but she couldn't. So she stood, her limbs frozen.

  He set the remote on Mute, shutting out the sound of the TV, leaving the room quiet.

  Ghostly quiet.

  She waited for the bomb to drop, for the past to explode in her face.

  "Is it true?" he asked. "Were you pregnant when you left?"

  A chill sliced her spine. He looked so hard, so unforgiving. His hair fell to his shoulders in a razor-sharp line, and shadows edged his face, leaving hollow marks beneath his cheekbones.

  "Yes," she said. "It's true."

  His mouth, set in a grim line, barely moved. The words that escaped his lips were tight and drawn. "What happened to the baby?"

  Tears rose to her eyes. "He was stillborn."

  Michael's voice turned raw. "He? We had a son?"

  "Yes. He was born a week after Justin." Her mind slipped back to the pain, to the ache and confusion of losing a child. "It never occurred to me that anything could go wrong. Beverly was the one who struggled, who had a difficult pregnancy. I was healthy and strong."

  "Then why did the baby die?"

  "The umbilical cord got tangled. It—" She wrapped her arms around her body, hugging herself, consoling an ache that wouldn't heal. "Reed tried to save him, but he wasn't breathing."

  She could still see herself, crying over the lifeless form. Her baby. Michael's child. "My brother buried him. He built a wood box and sprinkled it with sage."

  Michael fell silent, and she wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Did he hate her now? Did he feel differently about Justin?

  "What was his name?" he asked. "What was my son's name?"

  "I never chose one. Reed said we should name our children the old Cherokee way, to wait until we saw them. Until they lived outside the womb." When her knees turned watery, she sat, sliding bonelessly into a nearby chair. "Before either baby was born, my brother brought home two stuffed ponies, one for his child and one for mine."

  "The toy Justin likes so much," he said.

  "Yes." She closed her eyes, opening them a moment later.

  "What happened to the second pony?" he asked.

  Weak with remembrance, she pressed a decorative pillow to her chest. "We buried it with the baby."

  He turned toward the window, and she followed his gaze. The sun still blazed in the sky, sending golden streaks through the blinds.

  "Where's his body?" He shifted to look at her. "I want to bring him home."

  "You can't. Oh, God, Michael. You can't. If the mob finds out there was another child. If—"

  "Damn you."

  He cursed beneath his breath, and the words scraped her heart, like nails, broken and brittle, on a chalkboard.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry. It wasn't supposed to be like this."

  "But it is, isn't it?"

  He pulled a hand through his hair, and she knew he was craving a cigarette, keeping his hands busy to stop himself from trashing the house to find one. Finally he picked up a magazine and tossed it across the room. It landed against the wall, the pages spilling open.

  She didn't flinch. She'd seen him do worse when he was hurt, when he crawled inside himself with the pain. He'd smashed a sink full of dishes when his mother had died. He'd cut his hands, then cried and bled. He'd been just a boy then, the boy Heather had always loved.

  The man she kept hurting.

  "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?" he asked. "Why did you go to California without telling me?"

  She drew a breath, afraid of admitting the truth but knowing she had to. "I wanted to talk to Reed first. I knew you'd offer to marry me, and I was worried about it. Worried about marrying a man who didn't love me."

  "People who have kids should be married."

  "No, Michael. People should get married because they're in love. I didn't want you proposing for the wrong reason."

  "And running off to see Reed was going to change that?"

  "Reed thinks that you love me. He's thought that for years. And I wanted to hear him say it, to convince me it was true."

  Silence stretched between them, a painful yawn in the golden light. What would happen when darkness fell? When the moon ghosted through the trees and the hills faded into the night?

  Michael rose, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. "I thought about it today. I wondered what it would be like to be married to you."

  "You did?" Stunned, she rocked forward in her chair, her heart filling with hope, with a young, girlish prayer. "Why?"

  "Because we were getting along so well. Because I was becoming Justin's dad. Because it felt right."

  But not because he loved her, she realized. Heather watched him walk out the door, where he stood on the porch and stared at the horizon. A tall, lone figure against the sun. The man she'd lost. The man she'd never really had.

  Nothing had changed. With or without her betrayal, with or without their baby, Michael Elk didn't love her.

  And he never would.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  «^»

  Michael didn't try to sleep. Instead he roamed the house like a predator, drinking black coffee and dragging his hand through his hair. He wanted a cigarette so badly, he could scream, rage and tear down the walls.

  But he refused to light up, to give in to temptation. One way or another, he would hold himself together.

  Heather was in the guest room, tossing and turning, he suspected. She'd taken it upon herself to abandon him, to leave his bed empty and cold. Not that he gave a damn. He didn't want to sleep beside her anyway.

  Liar! a voice in his head challenged. You're as addicted to her as you are to smoking.

  "Oh, yeah?" he spoke to the voice out loud. "You don't see me puffing on a cigarette, do you?"

  He didn't need a woman in his life, not a woman who kept lying to him, hurting him, making his heart go numb. He headed to the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee. Was it his third? His fourth? Maybe he ought to add a shot of brandy to it, just a little something to take the edge off. Michael shook his head. Caffeine, alcohol, tobacco. What the hell was wrong with him? Did he have to rely on a vice for everything?

  He dumped the coffee in the sink, turned around and nearly tripped over his own booted feet.

  Heather stood in the doorway, a long, flowing nightgown melting against her body like rose-colored wax.

  "What are you doing?" he asked. Trying to haunt him?

  She took a hesitant step.
"I'm getting Justin a bottle."

  "He's awake?"

  She nodded. "His fever was up a little. I gave him something for it."

  And now she would nurse him back to sleep, Michael thought. She was a good mother, tender and nurturing, but her maternal skills only made him ache.

  The baby she'd carried in her womb had died. His baby. The child her brother had buried in a makeshift coffin.

  She crossed to the refrigerator and filled a bottle. Michael wanted to bury his face in her hair and cry, mourn the way a father should be able to do. But he couldn't bring himself to touch her.

  "How high is Justin's temperature?" he asked.

  "A hundred and one."

  "That sounds bad."

  "Fevers tend to spike at night. He'll be okay. The medicine will start to work."

  She capped the bottle, and Michael stared at her, wondering how she had looked all those months, swollen with his child.

  Beautiful, he imagined.

  "I better go," she said.

  She turned away, and he drew a hard breath. "I'll go with you. I want to see Justin."

  They entered the nursery together, careful not to touch, to brush shoulders, to make the slightest physical contact.

  She lifted the boy from his crib and settled onto the recliner, offering him the milk.

  His little cheeks looked flushed, his pajama top askew. Heather righted the material, covering his tummy.

  Michael stood beside the crib and listened to Justin suckle. Then he reached for the yellow pony and smoothed its gilded mane. "Was the other pony just like this one?" he asked.

  Her voice was but a whisper. "Yes. It was identical."

  He brought the stuffed toy to his face, touched it to his cheek, then took it away, unable to bear the softness. "Did it play the same music?"

  "Yes." Again, a whisper. "The same lullaby."

  Music that had taken their child to heaven, Michael thought. "Where is he buried? I need to know." He needed to see the site in his mind, to envision it.

  "He was buried in the same place he was born. In Oklahoma. We were staying in a remote cabin in the hills, a tiny place with a woodstove and log walls." She angled Justin's bottle, tipping it gently. The boy was too tired to hold it himself, and the helplessness made him seem younger, more infantlike. "Reed laid him to rest near a flowering tree. The blooms were white, and when they fluttered to the ground, they looked like wings."

  Michael didn't meet her gaze. He couldn't. He knew her eyes were glossed with tears. He could hear them in her voice, in her heart.

  "I was going to tell you about him," she said. "When things were stronger between us."

  He gave up, shifted, looked at her. "Stronger?"

  "I had dreams. Hopes. Foolish wishes." Moisture beaded her lashes, shimmering like faceted jewels. "Maybe he'll fall in love with me, maybe he'll commit to a future."

  "I did commit." He tried not to snarl, but his voice still came out rough. "We were becoming a family."

  "But you don't love me. How can we be a family if you don't love me?"

  Justin made an incoherent sound. He'd drunk half of the milk, snuggling against Heather, tugging at the ribbon on her nightgown, loosening the silk. Michael envisioned her nursing a baby at her breast. Just as quickly, he banished the image, refusing to let it take root.

  "Love isn't all it's cracked up to be," he said.

  "How would you know?" she challenged softy.

  "I saw my mom suffer from it," he shot back just as quietly.

  At an impasse, they fell silent, words deadlocked between them.

  Justin nodded off. Heather carried him to the crib and tucked him in. Michael placed the yellow pony beside the boy and touched his forehead. His skin was cool, cooler than a hundred and one degrees.

  "Justin is still my son," he said.

  "I'm not trying to take him away from you."

  Then why did he feel as if he were losing everything? The way he'd lost the other child?

  He wanted to know what the boy had looked like, but he didn't have the heart to ask her to describe a dead baby. He glanced up and saw Heather watching him. Tears still speckled her lashes.

  "You're going to leave, aren't you?" She'd promised to stay, but he knew she wouldn't keep that promise.

  When she blinked, a teardrop fluttered without falling. "If you could only give me a reason to stay."

  He shook his head, took a step back. She wanted him to love her, to let himself feel what he'd vowed to avoid. "I can't. I can't make it happen."

  "I know." She wiped her eyes. "And I can't cry anymore. I can't dream, hope or wish." Reaching for the ribbon on her nightgown, she retied the bow. "I've hurt you deeply and I'm sorry for that. So terribly sorry. If I could undo the damage, I would."

  But she couldn't, he thought.

  And they both knew it was ending. Vanishing into the night, into a memory he would never forget.

  * * *

  The following day, Heather waited at Julianne and Bobby's door.

  Julianne answered, wearing a sundress and a ponytail, looking bright and springy, stunning for her forty years.

  "Hi," she said, flashing an Irish smile.

  "Hi." Heather felt young and confused, eager for Julianne's wisdom. "Bobby isn't here, is he?"

  "No, he took a tour group into the hills. Were you hoping to see him?"

  "No, actually, it's you I came to see. But I thought it would be easier if we were alone. You know, girl talk."

  "Then come in." Julianne reached for her hand, offering compassion already. "Where's Justin?" she asked, studying Heather's anxious expression.

  "He isn't feeling well. Michael is with him." And she and Michael had barely spoken, not knowing what to say to each other this morning.

  Julianne led her to the kitchen, directed her to the table and made two cups of tea. They sat across from each other, the sun beaming through the window, glinting off the appliances.

  Baby Brendan slept nearby in a cradle-type swing, the tick-tock of the automatic motion lulling him into infant-sweet dreams.

  Heather studied him for a moment, the way his fingers curled around the blanket, the way his tiny mouth puckered around a pacifier.

  When she shifted her gaze, she caught Julianne watching her.

  She couldn't tell the other woman about her stillborn baby. The child she'd nourished in her womb would always be her secret. Her heartache, her sadness. And now the grief was Michael's, as well.

  Julianne tilted her head, her eyes as green as a never-ending meadow. "You look lost, Heather."

  I am, she thought. Lost without the man I love. "Michael and I aren't going to make it. It's not going to work."

  "Oh, sweetie. Are you sure?"

  "Yes. It's over." She tasted her tea, but the honey-laced brew failed to warm the chill of rejection. "He's not in love with me. He never was."

  "That's impossible." The freckles sprinkled across Julianne's nose twitched. "Have you seen the way he looks at you?"

  "He cares. He's always cared. But it isn't love. He admitted as much."

  "Oh, my." The other woman sat back. "I don't know what to say. You came to me for help, and I don't know what to say."

  "It's okay. It helps just being here."

  "Bobby and I had problems, too. I nearly left him. But in the end, he came through. He brought me into his life the way I needed him to. He shared his past with me. Everything about himself."

  "I kept secrets from Michael, but he knows them now. He knows everything about me, the way you know everything about Bobby."

  "Then give it some time," Julianne said.

  "Time won't make him love me." She tried to let the motion of Brendan's swing relax her, to summon the strength to make a decision only she could make. "I'm going to move out. But I'm not sure where I should go."

  "When I was prepared to leave, I chose to return home. To Pennsylvania, where I grew up." Julianne left her seat, opened a cupboard and retrieved a box of cookies. After
lining a platter with vanilla-cream wafers, she placed them on the table. "Home is a good place to start."

  Heather reached for a cookie, took a small bite. "Texas is my home. The Hill Country is where I grew up."

  "I know." Julianne gave her a small smile.

  "You think I should stay?"

  "Yes, I do."

  It was good advice, sound advice, logical advice, but Heather couldn't follow it.

  Leaving Texas, and the fairy-tale wishes that went with it, was the only way to survive.

  * * *

  Heather returned to the farmhouse in a quiet mood. Michael expected as much. They didn't have much to say to each other. They seemed like strangers now.

  Maybe they always had. Maybe there had been something missing all along, an ingredient Michael couldn't name.

  Justin was awake, seated in his high chair, just as quiet as his parents. Did he sense something was wrong? Or was it the ear infection that kept him sullen?

  "Hi, sweetheart." Heather smoothed the boy's thick dark hair, and he looked up and gave her a halfhearted smile. "Are you feeling better?"

  "His fever broke," Michael said.

  "You're fixing him lunch?" she asked.

  It was a redundant question, considering the mashed and diced meal on the counter, but he figured it was the only thing she could think of to say.

  "It's my day off. I don't mind staying home and being a dad." He set a shatterproof plate in front of Justin and let the boy pick at the finger foods.

  Heather leaned against the counter. She looked tired. Pale yet pretty. She'd twisted her hair into a heavy bun on top of her head. Several long strands fell from the confinement, making Michael itch to tug all of it free.

  She wore an embroidered blouse, tan trousers, a leather belt and boots to match. They were clothes from the past, articles he recognized, things she'd left behind when she'd disappeared.

  "I need to make arrangements," she said.

  He glanced at Justin, saw the boy squish a banana slice. "To leave?"

  "Yes."

  Michael froze. He knew this was coming. Yet the idea of losing her, of losing the child they'd agreed to raise, made fear claw like talons. His stomach went tight. A thorn pierced his chest. "Where are you going to go?" he asked.