CHEROKEE BABY

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "She's important to you," his nephew said.

  "Who? Julianne? Of course she's important to me. She's having my baby."

  "Funny how history repeats itself. First my dad and now you."

  Bobby met Michael's gaze, knowing exactly what he meant. Cam hadn't married Celeste and Bobby wasn't going to marry Julianne.

  "It's complicated," he said, studying his nephew's strong, chiseled features.

  Michael looked so much like Cam, so much like Bobby's brother, with his long, loose hair and dangerous charm.

  When Bobby was a kid, he'd wanted to be like Cam. To walk with a swagger, to talk fast and hard, to make tough men wary and beautiful women hungry. But that had been idol worship, a younger sibling in awe of the older one.

  "Do you still wish your dad would have come through for you?" he asked. "Or doesn't it matter anymore?"

  "It still matters. But you matter more. You're the one who changed my life." Michael leaned forward, his dark eyes flecked with emotion. "If it weren't for you, I'd probably be in jail. Or trying to escape the law. We both know I was headed for trouble."

  "You turned yourself around. You were willing to change."

  Michael shuffled some papers on his desk, but his gaze never wavered. "That's true. But at least you never gave up on me."

  Because he loved Michael, even more than he'd loved Cam. Probably more than he'd ever loved anyone. "I was hard on you."

  "You had to be."

  And at times he still was. Bobby would always worry about Michael. The boy still had a restless side.

  He looked at his nephew's desk and shook his head. Folders, flies, memos, unanswered mail, discarded junk food wrappers. The boy had a messy side, too.

  "I think you should marry her, Uncle."

  Bobby's heartbeat blasted his chest. He didn't need another conscience, another troubled voice. "Don't do this to me, Mike."

  "But it isn't fair to the baby."

  "I'll be good to my son or daughter. I'll do whatever I can to make the child's life secure. That baby means everything to me."

  "I know. But it'll still be a bastard." Michael blew a rough breath, pushed his chair back and glanced at the wet bar. "I could use some coffee. Do you want some?"

  Bobby tried to act casual, tried to act as if his heart wasn't steeped in guilt. "That sludge you make?"

  "I suppose not." The younger man rose to pour himself a cup of the thick, dark brew. "I just wanted to tell you how I feel."

  "And I respect your feelings. I understand them. Hell, I'm the one who instilled those values in you."

  Michael tasted the coffee. He stood near the window, the light shining behind him. "That's right, you did. And you told me that if I ever got a girl pregnant I should marry her. That I shouldn't do what my dad did."

  "This is different."

  "Is it, Uncle?"

  "Yes, it is," Bobby said, although at the moment he couldn't find the words to explain why.

  * * *

  On Friday morning the doorbell rang, sending Julianne rushing from the bathroom into the living room, fussing with her appearance along the way. She wasn't expecting Bobby, not this early. She was dressed, but she'd yet to do her hair or makeup.

  Why didn't he call? Warn her that he was on his way? Breathless, she answered the door and discovered Maria on the other side.

  The Latina woman smiled. "Señorita Julianne, I came to welcome you." She held up a platter of what appeared to be brownies. "You've been here almost three weeks. I should have stopped by sooner."

  Touched, Julianne accepted the gift. "They smell heavenly."

  "I made them especially for you. Señor Bobby says you have cravings."

  "Yes, thank you." She felt her heart flutter, her mind race. Bobby had been talking about her to his employees? "Come in, please."

  She offered Maria a cup of tea and they sat at the breakfast nook, sipping chamomile and enjoying double-fudge brownies.

  "Señor Bobby is happy man."

  "He is?"

  "Sí, yes. Very happy about the baby."

  "I'm happy, too." She touched her tummy. "I've always wanted children. Do you have a family?"

  "No. No husband, no babies." Maria laughed, patted her salt-and-pepper hair. "I'm too old now."

  So am I, Julianne thought. Older than most first-time moms. She looked at Maria and wondered if the woman was still in love with Lloyd, if he was the man she'd hoped, many years before, to many and have children with.

  "Did you grow up in this area?" Julianne asked.

  "Sí, and I've worked here since Señor Bobby built the ranch."

  Then Maria had been around when Bobby had married Sharon. The mystery wife. The ghost. The lady Julianne wanted to know more about.

  Dare she ask?

  She reached for another brownie. One simple question wouldn't hurt. She lived in Sharon's old house. She had a right to be curious about her.

  "Maria?"

  "¿Sí?" The woman glanced up from her tea. She sat at the cozy table, the morning sun spilling in from the window beside her, illuminating her colorful cotton blouse.

  "Did you know Bobby's wife very well?"

  Maria sighed. "Sí, yes, I knew Sharon. But I did not approve of her. I felt badly about that later. So ashamed."

  For a moment Julianne merely stared. Maria didn't appear to be judgmental, a person who would discount someone so readily.

  "Why did you disapprove?"

  "I thought she was too young for Señor Bobby."

  "Too young?" A familiar pain shocked Julianne's system. A pain of betrayal. A pain of disbelief. "How old was she?"

  "Twenty when they started dating, twenty-one when they married. Sharon was the same age as Señor Michael, not Señor Bobby. To me, it seemed strange. Mixed up, no?"

  "Yes." Strange. Mixed up. Hurtful. Bobby's wife had been as young as his nephew, as young as the boy he'd raised – seventeen years his junior.

  Yet Bobby had never said a word, not one single word. Not even when Julianne had confided in him about her ex-husband's affair with a younger woman.

  "Was Sharon pretty?" she asked, fighting tears.

  "Sí. Very pretty. A college student." Maria dropped her gaze. "I should not have disapproved of her."

  Julianne blinked back another threat of tears, doing her damnedest to steel her emotions, to tell herself that Bobby's past didn't matter.

  She wouldn't cry, damn it. She wouldn't lose her composure over this.

  Maria looked up. "I never told Señor Bobby how I felt. I did not think it was my place."

  Is it my place? Julianne wondered, battling the ache in her chest. My right to confront him?

  Or should she let it go? Ignore it? Pretend she'd never found out?

  "Maybe we should talk about something else," Maria suggested. "Something happier."

  Julianne nodded and then faked her way through a lighthearted conversation.

  Fifteen minutes later, after Maria left, she went back into the bathroom to finish getting ready.

  To work on her appearance, to look presentable, to stay strong.

  But even after she'd curled her hair and applied cosmetics to her face, she knew her efforts were in vain.

  She'd made herself look as pretty as possible, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make herself twenty again.

  She couldn't compete with Bobby's attraction to younger women.

  And because she couldn't, she turned away from the mirror and started to cry.

  In the next instant her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, allowing tears to flood the gaping hole in her heart.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  «^»

  Bobby left the barn and climbed into his truck, preparing to get Julianne for their outing.

  What was he going to do about her? About the frustration? The need? The all-consuming attraction?

  He couldn't marry her, he couldn't bring her that deeply into his life. Yet he wanted to make love with he
r.

  He took the tree-flanked path, barely conscious of the road, of the climbing and descending hills, of the picture-perfect scenery leading the way.

  If he didn't get this off his chest, he was going to explode. Which meant he had to talk to Julianne.

  And say what? "I want you to be my lover?"

  Why did this have to be so damned complicated? Why couldn't he just remain friends with her?

  Because he wanted her too badly, that's why.

  And he suspected she wanted him, too.

  Bobby arrived at her doorstep in a bundle of masculine nerves, preparing his speech and faltering with every anticipated word.

  There would be terms attached to a sexual relationship, conditions Julianne would have to accept. And he wasn't sure how to broach the subject.

  Finally he gave up and rang the bell. He didn't have to rush into this. He could play it by ear, say it when the moment seemed right.

  She didn't answer, so he pressed the button again. Where was she? He knew she had been looking forward to their outing, to getting ideas on decorating the nursery.

  A minute later he checked his watch. It wasn't like Julianne to be late.

  Once again he tried the bell, but this time when she didn't answer, he panicked. What if something had happened to her? To the baby?

  Because he didn't have a key to the cabin on him, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone, but he came up empty.

  He'd left his cell at the barn.

  Damn it.

  Not knowing what else to do, he tried the door, praying it was unlocked.

  When it opened he thanked the Creator and rushed inside, calling her name.

  "Julianne!"

  She didn't respond.

  He tried the master bedroom first, afraid of what he might find. But the room was empty, the bed neatly made.

  Then he heard muffled sobs coming from the adjoining bathroom. Without thinking, he pushed open the door.

  She sat on the tiled floor, her knees drawn to her chest, crying like a shattered little fairy.

  Dear God.

  "Julianne." He said her name softly and she looked up. "What's wrong, honey? What happened?" He crouched on the floor in front of her. "Are you hurt? Is it the baby?"

  "No." She wiped her tears and got to her feet.

  He rose to his full height, as well. "Did you get bad news from home?"

  "No." She gulped a shaky-sounding breath and grabbed a box of tissues from the counter. "I just felt like crying."

  He watched her dry her face. "Why? Tell me why."

  She gazed at him with dark-rimmed eyes. Sad, lonely eyes. "It doesn't matter."

  "Yes it does. It has something to do with me, doesn't it?" He could feel the painful connection, the emotion that bound them. "I did something to hurt you."

  "I don't have any right to feel this way." She blew her nose and tossed the tissues into the trash. "But I can't help it."

  "Feel what way?"

  Her breath hitched. "Betrayed."

  His heart went still. "I betrayed you? How?"

  "You didn't tell me how young Sharon was. Why didn't you tell me, Bobby?"

  Oh, God. He looked into her eyes and saw his own shame. "I'm sorry. It isn't easy for me to talk about my wife. To go into all that."

  "I know. But it makes me feel so old." She started crying again. "So ugly."

  "No." He shook his head and reached for her, pulling her into his arms. She buried her face against his chest and continued to cry. "You're not old and you're not ugly. You're in the prime of your life and you're beautiful." He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "So beautiful."

  She pulled back to look up at him and he could see that she didn't believe him.

  "I thought you were beautiful from the first moment I saw you," he told her, hoping she would see herself through his eyes. "You bewitched me. You still do." He slid his hand to her tummy. "And you're having my baby. No other woman has given me a child."

  "But your wife was only twenty-one when you married her, Bobby. That's so young."

  "It wasn't her age that first attracted me to her. It was the similarity in our backgrounds, our culture." He paused, explaining the best he could. "We were both raised in traditional homes, with some of the same ideals. The same spiritual beliefs."

  She sniffed and dried her eyes. "Her age was never a factor?"

  He shrugged and tried to contain the tightness in his chest, the guilt that surrounded Sharon's memory. "I was flattered that she was interested in me. It was exciting in the beginning. But the newness wore off."

  "I don't believe you. How can being around a young, beautiful woman wear off? How can that kind of excitement ever go away?"

  "I don't know. It just did." He wasn't sure what to say, how to delve into this without revealing too much. Sharon was dead. He'd put her in the grave. How could he speak ill of her? He glanced at his ring, faced the clench of the past. "Sometimes she argued about things I thought were silly. And sometimes she wanted more attention than I could give her."

  "Why?"

  He tried for a little humor, hoping it would dull the ache. "Maybe I was just old and boring. Turning gray too fast."

  "I should have tried it," she said. "I should have found a young lover."

  Bobby frowned. "Why? Because guys with gray hair are losing their appeal?"

  She made a teasing face. "Maybe."

  "Oh, yeah?" He tickled the side of her rib cage and they both laughed.

  A second later they fell silent, two people caught in an emotional situation.

  "I need to fix my makeup," she said. "I'll be ready in a few minutes."

  Bobby wondered how long she'd been crying, how long she'd been curled up on the cold floor sobbing over him.

  "Are you sure you're up for this, Julianne? We can go into the city tomorrow."

  She gave him a brave smile. "I'm fine. And I want to go today."

  "Okay." He watched her turn away to repair her smudged mascara.

  She looked so delicate, he thought, in her silky blouse and floral-printed skirt. Her eyes were slightly swollen, her nose chafed, her hair mussed.

  The bathroom counter held a collection of creams, lotions, sprays and gels. He reached for her perfume and fingered the bottle, tracing the curvaceous shape of the glass.

  Julianne caught his gaze in the mirror and suddenly he longed to kiss her, to taste her, to lose himself in the warmth of her skin, the fresh-meadow scent of her hair.

  Bobby replaced the perfume and took a steadying breath. He might as well get that gut-churning speech out of the way. Waiting wouldn't do either of them any good.

  "Julianne?"

  She added a dab of powder to her nose, then turned around. "Yes?"

  "There's something I think we should discuss."

  She tilted her head, waiting for him to continue, and he worried if he'd spoken too soon, if he was truly ready to confront this conversation.

  But backing out now would be cowardly and he didn't fancy himself with a yellow streak down his belly.

  "This is about sex," he said.

  Her mouth formed a silent "Oh," and he realized bow blunt he'd sounded.

  Good going, he thought. Real smooth. Real romantic. Romantic? Bobby frowned, jammed his hands into his pockets. Since when were disabled men considered idyllic lovers?

  "I want to be with you again," he told her, wishing his palms hadn't begun to sweat. "Are you still interested in me?"

  She nodded and he wondered if her heart was pounding as rapidly as his.

  "It's impossible for me to treat this casually," he said. "To just take off my clothes and jump into bed. If we make love again, it will be like before. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  "I think so." With restless fingers, she picked up her compact and fiddled with it, opening the case, then snapping it shut. "I'll be naked, and you'll be half dressed."

  Feeling awkward, he shrugged. "It's easier for me that, way."

  But ex
plaining why was impossible. Imagining himself as a whole man when he was with Julianne was the only way he could cope with the intimacy that came with sex.

  He couldn't bear for her to look at his residual limb, to touch it, to ponder the accident that was a blatant reminder of why he was an amputee.

  "I saw a picture of a runner with a prosthetic leg. It was metal." She paused, toyed with her compact again. "What kind do you have?"

  Damn it, he thought.

  Technical curiosity. He should have expected it, been prepared for it. "I have several. And they're designed to look like my other leg. The components are padded and covered with a protective skin." He tried to sound casual, to let her think this wasn't bothering him as badly as it was. "The feet attached to my prostheses are called a cowboy high heel, designed for the shape of a boot."

  She moved a little closer. "So you can wear any boot you want?"

  "My boots are custom made, with a zipper."

  He saw her trying to calculate why, trying to picture the angle of an inanimate leg, a fake foot.

  "Do you ever wear your prosthesis to bed?"

  Did she assume that he concealed it under a pair of pajamas? The way he did with his jeans? "No one does. Or they shouldn't, anyway."

  "You'll never spend the night with me? Never sleep beside me?"

  "No." He knew some women liked to cuddle after sex, to keep their partners close throughout the night, but that wasn't in the cards. "If you can't handle this, that's fine. I just wanted to get it out in the, open."

  She met his gaze. "I can handle it."

  "So you're willing to be my lover?"

  "If you're sure you're willing to do it with a forty-year-old crybaby."

  He couldn't stop the smile that ghosted across his lips. "I'm sure."

  She smiled, as well. "Me, too."

  He removed his hands from his pockets and wiped his clammy palms. Okay, then, it was settled. They were official lovers. Or they would be, once he initiated their next encounter.

  "You better finish getting ready," he said.

  She turned back to the mirror, her voice a little shy. "I'm nearly done."

  "Good. Great." He stood behind her, so both of their reflections were visible. "You're not a crybaby, Julianne. You're perfect," he added softly.