WARRIOR'S BABY

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Melanie cupped the pinecone and met his curious gaze. "No. They moved away years ago. Besides, I only lived there for a couple years, during high school. I'd been shuffled around a lot. Mostly city homes. I didn't really grow up in Mountain Bluff, but I fell in love with it." Because you were here. "And I was lucky enough to live next door to Gloria. Her family treated me like one of their own. I tell people this is my hometown because Gloria's still here." And so are you.

  "I guess that explains why we never met. I pretty much know everyone who grew up around here or have at least heard of them, but if you only lived here for a few years…" He grinned. "You really are a city girl, aren't you?"

  "I suppose I am."

  "You mentioned Saint Theresa's the other night. I used to know some girls who went there." Colt paused, then shrugged. "But I can't recall their names. It's been a while."

  She remembered a few girls from her high school had briefly dated some of Colt's buddies. She had always thought that they had spread her despised nickname around Colt's elite circle.

  "You're such a mystery," he said, leaning forward to skim his hand across the water. "I'm an open book … but you—"

  "Then come to California with me," Melanie blurted.

  Beneath the Stetson, his features startled. "You're kidding, right?"

  "Not at all." She assumed her "sales pitch" posture, squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin confidently. She didn't want to be so much of a mystery that it hindered his final decision. Colt seemed suspicious by nature, or had acquired the habit after his wife had kidnapped their daughter. Apparently trust didn't come easily. That thought saddened her. Colt had been so trusting in the past, free spirited with a sense of humor. She intended to bring that part of him back.

  "I'm assuming that if you were considering a surrogate who lived in Montana, you'd visit her home, see how she lived, meet her husband and kids. Of course, with me, there's no husband, no kids and no home to visit, at least not in Montana. But if you come back to California with me, you could see for yourself who I really am. Clear up the mystery and ease your conscience."

  A majestic hawk circling overhead made a breathtaking sight but Colt didn't appear to notice. He continued swishing the water as though deep in thought. Melanie fixed her gaze on the shadow of his bronzed hand beneath the surface of the stream. The water swirled around his fingers in clear, blue circles.

  "We can't drag this decision on forever," she said, continuing her rationale. "Figure it this way—if we go to California together and you feel comfortable about my background, then I can tie up my loose ends there and come back here for the insemination."

  Colt lifted his gaze, removed his wet hand and dragged it across his jaw. "There's something about me I think you ought to know. Something I should have told you before now."

  She flashed a teasing smile. She knew all she needed to know. In her eyes this man was perfect. "I thought you were an open book—"

  "I'm a recovering alcoholic."

  Colt's startling admission rammed her like a fist, jolting her mind with disturbing images of her youth. They filled her with despair: the pungent smell of cheap liquor permeating a dingy apartment, stale bread for lunch, nothing for dinner, unkind men frequenting her mother's rumpled bed. She remembered ironing her own tattered clothes and getting herself off to school while the woman who had given her life lay in a drunken stupor. The day the authorities had placed her in foster care, her mother had solemnly promised to "do better." She never had. Melanie had remained in the system until her eighteenth birthday.

  "You drink?"

  He steadied his gaze, spearing her with his guilt. "Used to. Partied a lot when I was a kid, got drunk for the hell of it, like teenagers do. It didn't appear to be a problem, though, because I grew out of that phase when Meagan came along." His fingernails scraped the dirt, imbedding the ground with catlike scratches. "But after she died … I hit the bottle pretty bad. The year she was missing I lived on hope … after I buried her, there was nothing left … nothing mattered. I've been sober, going on five years now, but it's been a rough road, and I'm not sure I could have made it without Shorty. He never gave up on me."

  Melanie couldn't think of anything to say. Because of her mother, alcoholics had always been intolerable in her mind. Yet this was Colt, the man who had helped heal her wounded teenage heart. If someone as beautiful as him had defended her, she used to tell herself, then she must be special, worth much more than her biological mother had thought her to be.

  Colt's humble voice interrupted the silence. "I hope this doesn't affect your decision. Because I want you to know, no matter what hardship comes my way, I won't choose alcohol as a remedy. I was a disgrace to my daughter's memory, as well as to myself. I'd never consider bringing another child into my life if I had the slightest doubt about my sobriety."

  Melanie looked at the man questioning her gaze and did something she had hoped never to do in his presence. Burst into tears.

  For a long uncomfortable moment, Colt just stared, uncertain of what to do. Although his first instinct was to draw her into his arms, he refrained. If he touched her and she shattered, broke into a million vulnerable little pieces right there in his arms, he'd be tempted to kiss the hurt away. To place his lips on every salty drop and taste her sadness. He recognized tears that ached, he'd shed enough of them.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "No … yes … I don't know…" She covered her face with trembling hands.

  He moved closer, knelt down beside her and cursed his knotting stomach. He tamed horses. This sweet little creature was a woman. "I'm sorry if I said something to upset you."

  She dropped her hands. The dark smudges of mascara around her eyes made her look like a blue-eyed raccoon. Adorable, yet destructive to a man's conscience—the kind of trophy he'd feel guilty about later.

  "I wish she'd have cared enough to stay sober," Melanie muttered bitterly.

  "She?"

  The dam looked like it might break again. Another flood of tears gathered in her eyes. "My mom."

  Colt swallowed. "Your mom was an alcoholic?"

  She nodded. "My childhood wasn't easy."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "You deserved better."

  "Yes, I did." She blinked her tears back. "But it took a long time for me to believe that. I waited for my mom to change, to take me back home and live a normal life." Her distraught gaze avoided his as her hand nervously picked at the pinecone, chipping pieces off. "But that never happened."

  "Is your mom still alive?"

  She shrugged. "I don't know. I've lost touch with her. Is yours?"

  "No." Colt couldn't contain the sadness in his tone. "My mom died of cancer when I was still a boy."

  She looked up and dropped the broken pinecone sending it into the stream. "I'm sorry."

  Colt removed the bandana around his neck, dipped a corner of it into the stream and gently cleaned Melanie's mascara-stained cheeks. The stricken blue gaze belonged to the neglected daughter of an alcoholic, the chic California girl hidden somewhere deep within. For one brief moment his lonely heart tagged after both.

  "Life is hard sometimes," he said.

  "Yes, it is," she whispered.

  When they both fell silent, the beauty around them intensified: the morning sun teasing the jagged rocks, gold-tipped leaves rustling through the trees, the rush of cool water, his admiring gaze, her smooth skin.

  Colt tucked her hair behind her ear and handed her the red cloth. She dabbed her runny nose with the dry portion. "I feel better now," she said. "Thank you."

  "Good." He smiled and reached for her hair again. The fire-lit strands slipped through his fingers like ribbons of silk. When she leaned toward his caressing hand, he realized how intimate their gestures were. "Are you still willing to be my surrogate?"

  "Yes." Her breathless voice sent a surge of sensual heat coursing through his veins.

  Colt shuddered. He wouldn't permit this to happen. He wouldn't confuse his
need for a child with desire for the woman willing to carry it. That's what was happening, he told himself. He was vulnerable and so was she. Their physical compulsion to produce a baby was creating false intimacy. His urge to taste her citrus-scented skin and run his hands through her thick, autumn hair would go away once his seed was planted. Artificially, of course.

  Colt transferred his hand from her hair to the water flask and took a cold, desire-dousing drink. As casually as he could muster, he uncoiled his long body and rose to his feet. "I think California is a good idea. And not because you need to be on trial. We're both about sure as we're going to get, so we may as well start on the legal and medical side of this. And you'll probably need some help getting packed."

  Her smudgy eyes brightened, but he kept his expression tight and professional. "Before we leave for Los Angeles, we'll see my attorney and get the contract drawn up so you can consult your own lawyer back home and have him look it over."

  "Her," Melanie interjected.

  "What?"

  "My attorney is a woman."

  "Fine. You also need to make an appointment with Dr. Miller for a checkup, and of course, to discuss the best method of determining ovulation." He caught her amused smirk and prayed to God he wouldn't stutter like a flustered schoolboy. "I don't want to waste any time, I want you ready for the procedure when we return."

  He cursed his traitorous body for what it wanted and continued in an unemotional tone. "I'll hire a moving van and pay the storage fee for the things you don't bring. Maybe you should consider subleasing your condo so you don't lose it. I imagine a beachfront rental is hard to come by."

  "What altered your decision?" she asked, viewing his towering height from the ground. "I expected you to ponder over this for weeks."

  He resisted the nervous urge to pace. Regardless of the wide-open space, he felt like a caged tiger, trapped within his own distorted desire. "I've been thinking about this for years and meeting with potential surrogates for the past eight months—"

  "You have?" She stood up and brushed off her behind.

  "Yeah. And I've met with a lot of women. No one seemed right." Not the fifties TV moms or the desperate ones with financial needs. He couldn't see his unborn child in their eyes. With Melanie he could.

  "What makes me right?"

  Great Scott. Just like a woman to question a man to death, force him to spill his guts. "Maybe the idea that you're single is growing on me. The fewer people involved the better. And the fact that you're a career woman is a plus, too. I hadn't thought so at first but with you being so into your profession, I won't have to worry about your maternal instincts backfiring on me. My biggest concern is my surrogate deciding she wants the baby, but with you, I figure that won't happen."

  "Oh." She glanced down at her jeans and began dusting off her knees.

  Was his explanation so cold that she couldn't meet his gaze? Damn it. He wasn't about to tell her he wanted his child to inherit her smile.

  "I like you, Melanie. That means something, too. I feel as though we've known each other for a while. As you said, being friends is important. We don't want to get on each other's nerves for the next nine months."

  She offered a smile that went straight to his groin. Thank God pregnant women didn't really glow. His wife had whined and complained the entire time, making the gestation pretty darn unappealing. How attractive could Melanie possibly be in that state?

  Colt's jaw twitched. This California girl was going to bear him a child, but damn if he would allow her to get under his skin. This friendship would be short-lived. Fatherhood was the only emotional attachment Colt Raintree wanted, or needed. Once his son or daughter was born, Melanie Richards would be out of his life. For good.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  LAX had annoyed him. Actually, it more than annoyed him. The confusion of the fast-paced airport had made him feel like a big, dumb, country boy. Colt Raintree, Montana born and bred, was out of his element.

  Rather than breathing crisp mountain air, he was choking down smog and riding shotgun in a red convertible piloted by an auburn-haired beauty who made Mario Andretti seem like a slowpoke.

  "How about some music?" Melanie turned the knob on the stereo and started punching buttons.

  She settled on a country station, for his benefit, he assumed. Willie Nelson's nasal twang should have been a balm, but it only reminded Colt of how far from home he was. The unfamiliar roar of traffic offended the simple cowboy tune.

  Melanie glanced over her shoulder, switched lanes and questioned his pouting profile. "Colt, what's wrong?"

  He answered as honestly as he could. "I never cared much for cities."

  Melanie slid her right hand from the steering wheel and placed it on top of his, which rested on the center console. "You'll like the beach," she promised with a quick, reassuring squeeze. "We're almost there."

  She was right. The moment they exited the freeway and the sea breeze tousled his hair, he appreciated the freedom the rag top provided. When the Pacific Ocean came into view, a sense of well-being entered his soul. It looked as big as the Montana sky and just as blue.

  Saltwater, fresh-grilled seafood, hot dogs and lemonade permeated the air. They passed a pier that looked like a street fair—a menagerie of blinking lights, twirling carnival rides and trendy teenagers, their colorful T-shirts, baggy shorts and bleached blonde hair whipping in the wind.

  The sidewalks were lined with people, but they were different from the airport crowd. They moved at a pace his eyes could follow, dressed in sandals, suntan lotion and little else. Maybe it was the warrior in him, but the half-naked, bronzed bodies made him want to shed his own clothes, feel the sand between his toes, dive into the surf, let the sun beat down on his back.

  He grinned at Melanie. Her unique style fit right in. "Interesting town."

  "I knew you'd like it." She continued down the busy coast highway, turned onto a narrow street and then another, until she parked in the driveway of an attractive white building.

  Her condominium faced the ocean. A wood staircase led to the front door, elevating the modern structure. Just like her denim and silk wardrobe, the eclectic style reflected the woman who lived there. A marble coffee table, gilt-framed mirrors and contemporary artwork were surrounded by seashells and scented candles. White leather sofas highlighted an exquisite fireplace, meticulously carved of polished stone.

  Colt placed their luggage on the living room floor and peered out the French doors. A redwood deck lush with potted plants, rattan furnishings and a whirlpool tub graced his eyes. Seaside elegance at its finest.

  "Your house is really nice." He had planned on booking a hotel room, but Melanie had extended her California hospitality, persuading him to stay with her. Their platonic relationship was off to an awkward start. Her condo seemed like a romantic getaway, a honeymoon suite.

  "Thanks." She glanced down at the suitcases. "I'll show you to your room. It has a private bath, so if you want to freshen up…"

  Freshen up? As in strip down and shower? Unconsciously he took a step back. "I think I should get a hotel room."

  She sank into one of the leather sofas and sighed. "Why?"

  Because if I shower in your tub or sleep in one of your beds, I'll want you there beside me. "Your neighbors might talk."

  Melanie looked as though he'd just said something incredibly stupid. "This is L.A., Colt."

  When she crossed her legs, her ruffled miniskirt exposed just enough thigh to constrict his throat. He'd been trying to avoid the outline of her curvaceous little figure all day. On the plane ride, she had fallen asleep against his shoulder, her scant Hawaiian print blouse gaping open for a private peep show. Pink satin, a hint of lace and not one visible tan line. He'd never been so aroused.

  "So?"

  "So, people don't care what their neighbors do."

  "Oh, yeah?" He trapped her gaze. "Would they talk if they knew you were going to be a surrogate?"

>   She held his dark stare. "Probably, but that's a little more controversial than having a man stay over."

  "Really?" In his hometown, people still talked about who slept at whose house. Her casual attitude piquing him, he spouted off like an envious suitor. "And just how many men have stayed here?"

  Her voice vibrated. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

  Colt only stared. She looked mortally wounded and, God help him, way too vulnerable. He gazed into Melanie's eyes and shook off a chill. Suddenly she looked like someone from his past—a sweet, innocent girl who had touched his reckless, teenage heart.

  The name came to him in an instant, hovering like a ghost. Gertrude. Little Gertrude. He glanced at Melanie's hands, at the slender line of her fingers, the long, perfectly manicured nails. Gertrude used to chew her nails, gaze up at him with those wide blue eyes and nibble her chipped, brittle fingernails.

  Colt sat on the edge of his suitcase and raked his hands through his hair, pushing away Gertrude's fragile image. "I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm sorry. I had no right to say that." What was wrong with him? He'd never felt possessive of a woman before. "I guess I've been thinking about how much gossip you and I are going to stir up back home."

  "There's no way to avoid that." Melanie twisted a tassel on one of the decorative pillows. "Our situation is unusual."

  He rocked the suitcase and tried not to stammer. "Sure, but … we could at least try to keep a low profile. Not dating other people while we're expecting might keep some of the tongues from wagging."

  Colt blew an anxious breath and waited for her response. He couldn't stand the thought of Melanie being with another man while she carried his child, not even something as innocent as dinner or a movie.

  Her near-timid smile warmed his heart. "Can we put that in the contract?" she asked. "Because you're the one who will still be trim and attractive. I doubt anyone's going to want to date me four or five months from now."

  "I'll take you out so you don't get lonely," he said, telling himself it would be for the sake of the baby. "And I promise not to get involved with anyone if you don't." A married surrogate was one thing, but making a single woman pregnant and dating another seemed disrespectful. "A jealous lover could create stress and even more gossip," he said, trying to justify his odd request. "We don't need either."