WARRIOR'S BABY

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  His eyes flew open, but he didn't respond. Instead he watched her walk across the balcony to retrieve the food bag. She smoothed her wet hair, wishing she knew how to saunter like a seductress. Her iridescent swimsuit could have been designed for an Egyptian queen. Cleopatra would have worn it well, and she would have known how to glide across the tile. Antony would have been panting at her feet by now.

  Colt's dark eyes revealed nothing, not one trace of emotion. "I don't want anything," he said when Melanie sat on the edge of the tub, dipped her feet in and proceeded to peel the lids off several plastic containers.

  "Suit yourself." She popped a cheese square into her mouth and flashed him a sickeningly sweet smile, feigning indifference to his irritating behavior.

  When his eyes drifted closed, she opened a box of crackers and crinkled the paper. When that failed to rouse him, she crunched on a carrot stick, then another.

  His eyes shot open just as she licked a dollop of ranch dressing from her fourth carrot.

  Their gazes locked and she froze, suddenly self-conscious. His piercing stare was fixed on her lips. For a man who had refused food, he looked hungry. Downright ravenous, like he was on the verge of a ferocious attack, capable of devouring her entire mouth in one voracious swoop.

  A more sexually experienced woman would have seized the moment, Melanie thought, done something provocative and enticing. But not her. She just sat there, immobile, too discomposed to know how to react.

  "Are you trying to drive me crazy?" he asked in a voice rougher than the harshest sandpaper.

  Did his question have dual meaning? "Excuse me?"

  "You're making all kinds of noise."

  "Sorry." She snaked her tongue out again, and licked the last dollop of dressing off the carrot, thinking that's probably what Cleopatra would have done. She had better learn pretty darn quick how to seduce a man. Once she was waddling around in maternity dresses it might be too late. She assumed part of the fun of falling in love was making love, something most couples experienced before pregnancy. Now that her relationship with Colt had progressed, artificial insemination didn't sound the least bit romantic.

  "I better go." Dark and brooding as ever, Colt emerged from the tub, then grabbed a towel, which he hastily wrapped around his waist.

  She gazed up at him and did her damnedest to appear unaffected by the moisture trailing down his body. The hair on his long, muscled legs glistened, and one tear-shaped droplet had captured one flat, brown nipple. Where he stood, water pooled at his feet.

  Gorgeous. Stubborn. "Whatever, Colt."

  "Yeah, whatever," he mimicked, unconsciously licking his bottom lip when she dipped her finger into the dressing. "It's been a long day. I'm tired."

  She tasted the dip and shrugged. "I'd invite you to stay but I know how old-fashioned you are about such things. Besides, I could use a little time to myself." She tugged on the strap around her neck. "This bathing suit is getting uncomfortable. I'll probably just slip it off, then slide back into the water. There's nothing more soothing than being naked in a whirlpool."

  He gulped the night air, released the towel around his waist and tossed it toward her. "Don't you dare catch cold."

  Barely casting a glance in his direction, Melanie found the grapes and treated herself to one. "See ya, Montana man. You sleep tight."

  The rustling sound of movement told her he was shoving his sweats on, right over his still-damp body. "I mean it, Melanie."

  "Goodbye, Colt."

  "I swear," he seethed in a low, uncontrolled voice, searching the balcony for his shoes, "if you get sick, I'll kill you."

  Sexual frustration was written all over him. His eyes moved over her like flickering torches, and every time she sucked a grape into her mouth, he caught his breath. She forced back a smile. If his tennis shoes had been any closer, they would have jumped up and bitten him.

  "I'm so touched that you care," she said, twisting the bikini tie around her neck as though intending to release it. Cleopatra would have been proud. Colt actually groaned.

  He stumbled over his shoes, picked them up and cursed. A moment later he stomped off the balcony and into her house. From her vantage point, she could see him tearing out the front door, his exit creating a slight thud and deliberate rattle.

  "I love you, Colt Raintree," she whispered, reaching for the towel he'd worn while staring at the water puddle he'd left behind. "And before the year is up, I pray you'll love me, too."

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  Melanie placed the sketch pad on the coffee table. The person knocking on the cabin door must be Colt. Even though they had spent very little time together since returning to Montana last week, she figured he would visit today.

  "Morning." His jeans were faded, boots dusty and shirt soiled, but she had never seen a more beautiful sight. She couldn't help but wonder if men like Colt had any idea how appealing their work-roughened appearance was. Almost every city girl she knew had some sort of secret cowboy fantasy.

  "Hi. Come on in." She backed away from the door and watched as he passed. He had a loose-hipped gait. Long, lean and lethal. "Do you want to sit down?"

  "No. I just stopped by to see if you're settled in all right," he said, gazing around the rustic interior of the cabin. "Compared to your condo, this place is pretty primitive."

  "It suits me fine." The native-timber structure had wood floors, a stone fireplace, a faded Navaho area rug, wrangler-made furnishings and a view from every window: lush green pastures, rolling hills, tall pines. Melanie had turned the larger of the two rustic bedrooms into her studio. Luckily it had plenty of natural light.

  "The kitchen is small," he said. "The bathroom, too."

  "I'm only one person."

  "Yeah." He adjusted his Stetson out of what seemed like habit, then reached into his pocket and held out a key. "It's to the main house. You're welcome to use it anytime you want. You know, in case you ever feel like cooking a big meal or something."

  Melanie nibbled on her smile. Apparently Colt craved some home-cooked meals. For a man who wanted to raise a baby on his own, he was a bit of a chauvinist where food preparation and women were concerned.

  She accepted the key. Colt's chauvinism just might work in her favor. As the saying went: The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. "Thanks. I really do like to experiment with new recipes. And this kitchen is a bit old-fashioned." She glanced back at the cast-iron stove, which in truth she found charming. "The one in the main house has everything an amateur chef could need."

  He nodded, shifted his stance, then asked, "Are you getting a lot of work done?"

  She spied her empty sketch pad. "Not really, how about you?"

  "Not much, I suppose. There's more horses to be shod."

  "Don't you have someone who comes out to do that?" She knew that much about ranch life. Equine vets and farriers made regular rounds.

  "I prefer to handle it on my own. My grandfather was a blacksmith by trade. He taught me what I needed to know."

  "That's good." Melanie exhaled, wondering when Colt was going to say what was really on his mind. Of course, she thought she knew but decided to let him bring it up. "Are you sure you don't want to sit down? I made a fresh pot of coffee. You know I grind my own beans."

  A grin split across his handsome face. "Sure. Okay."

  He headed for the rough-hewn sofa while she made her way into the tiny kitchen. She knew Colt appreciated the gourmet coffees she had introduced him to in California.

  "Almond mocha," Melanie said, handing him the strong brew in a stoneware cup. The old-fashioned kitchen was equipped with copper pots and a matched set of stone-laden dishes.

  "Thanks." He sipped the coffee then looked up. "Aren't you having any?"

  She shook her head, smoothed her denim dress, sat down in the curved-back chair near the fireplace, and crossed her legs. "One morning jolt of caffeine is enough for me." She decided not to explain that she brewed a full pot
every morning because she liked the aroma.

  Colt placed the clay-colored cup on the end table beside the couch. "Are you nervous about tomorrow?"

  Finally. The true reason for his visit. The scheduled insemination. "A little," she said, thinking she was a basket case. After tomorrow there would be no turning back. Morning sickness, weight gain, labor. What woman wouldn't feel anxious about pregnancy?

  He offered a weak smile, not much in the way of comfort. "Can you plan on being ready by nine? I'd like to be early."

  Nine? Her appointment wasn't until eleven. The last thing she wanted to do was sit around in the doctor's waiting room while her stomach did cartwheels. "You don't have to take me. I can drive myself over."

  "Be kind of foolish to take two cars," he said, as though her preference didn't count. "I'll pick you up at nine."

  Stubborn male arrogance, she thought. "You might as well stay here tomorrow and get some work done. Like you said, there's lots of horses to be shod. I don't need you to go with me."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, you do."

  Melanie let out an irritated "tsk" followed by an equally irritated sigh. She was certainly capable of getting herself to the doctor on time. Did he think she was going to change her mind and hightail it back to the coast? Besides, the whole thing was somewhat embarrassing. Much too personal. She didn't want to face him right after it was done. "Honestly, Colt—"

  "Melanie, I have to go."

  She gazed at him curiously before realization dawned and her entire face flamed. Oh, God. Talk about embarrassing. Of course Colt had to be there. The procedure required his sample. Without him…

  She toyed with a button on her dress. "I'll be ready by nine."

  "Good. Fine." He stood up to leave, and she noticed his dark skin looked a little flushed, too.

  * * *

  The following morning nine o'clock came too soon. Melanie had changed her clothes three times before settling on her favorite faded blue jeans, a simple white blouse, a brown tooled-leather belt and a pair of Tony Lamas to match. She'd curled her hair and applied a cream concealer beneath her eyes. She hadn't slept a wink. Well, maybe a wink. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, she'd dozed off, only to be jarred back to life by a screeching alarm clock.

  Melanie stared at the man standing in the doorway. He wore jeans, too, and brown boots. A pale-blue Western shirt complemented his bronzed complexion and a trophy buckle rode low on his narrow hips. Midnight hair flowed over wide shoulders.

  Handsome as ever.

  He held out a small bouquet of fresh-picked wildflowers. The colorful posies looked delicate in his large, callused hand. "For a pretty lady," he said.

  She blinked back tears. Today, of all days, she needed flowers, needed to feel appreciated as a woman. The scheduled procedure had her feeling like a scientific specimen.

  "Thank you." She accepted the gift and brushed the petals against her cheek, inhaling their scent. Incense from the earth—fresh, sweet and clean. "I'll put them in some water, then we can be on our way."

  She clipped a bluebell into the gold barrette that secured one side of her hair and arranged the bouquet in an antique copper vase.

  "I'm ready."

  They climbed into his Chevy Suburban and strapped in. Her red convertible rested in the three-car garage. As much as Colt had argued with her that the vintage Mustang belonged in storage in California, she'd had it brought to Montana, anyway. "I'll lease you a nice, new, safe truck," he'd said. "A four-wheeler that won't get stuck in the snow. These country roads are brutal. Half of them aren't even paved."

  What could she have said to him? That she didn't want to go back to California? That she hoped to make Bluff Creek Ranch her permanent residence? "I like my car" had been her response.

  Unfortunately they hadn't gotten along well their last few days in California, and once they returned to Montana, Colt all but ignored her. Luring him into a body-painting session had been next to impossible. "I don't want to think about that nonsense until after the insemination," he'd told her. She had stewed for days over his flippant attitude. Her artwork was hardly nonsense.

  Melanie touched the flower in her hair as Colt maneuvered the vehicle down a narrow, winding road. Her perfect man had his flaws, but she loved him nonetheless.

  He glanced over. "I'm sure we have time to grab some breakfast. We could stop by the diner, if you'd like."

  Mountain Mabel's, the country diner. Bittersweet nostalgia washed over her. As teenagers, she and Gloria had spent many an afternoon there, sipping cherry colas and whispering secrets. "How about lunch instead? I'm not really hungry right now."

  "Okay."

  They rode in silence the rest of the way, each lost in thought. Colt's ranch was on the outskirts of town, thirty rough miles from the medical center. When they finally arrived, it was 10:00 a.m.

  As they entered the building through the double glass doors, Melanie's stomach decided to growl, much too loudly.

  Colt glanced her way but didn't comment until they neared the elevator and her stomach rumbled again. He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't hungry."

  She pushed the button and eyed the other people gathering near the elevator. She'd skipped dinner last night and breakfast this morning. "I'm just a little too nervous to eat," she whispered.

  The elevator door opened, apparently stilling a response from Colt. He ushered Melanie in behind two elderly women and a uniformed lab technician. No one spoke in the elevator, including Colt. As soon as he and Melanie exited on their designated floor, she looked for the ladies' room. "I need to splash some water on my face," she told him.

  When she emerged from the rest room, he took her hand, then cocked his head in a concerned gesture. "You're trembling, Melanie. Are you that nervous or don't you feel well?"

  "I…" How could she explain the range of emotions rioting within her? She was the one who had called him, offering to be his surrogate. Why would a surrogate be anxiety ridden because the father-to-be wasn't in love with her, and the procedure made her feel like a rented womb?

  No, she couldn't reveal all of her trauma, but she could at least explain part of it. "I've never been comfortable in doctors' offices," she said, glancing down the hallway. "When I first went into foster care, I was kind of sickly. Pale and anemic. I had to get vitamin shots regularly…"

  Melanie fidgeted with the flower in her hair. "As hard as it had been living with my mom, she was still my mom. Going to live with strangers was frightening. And then on top of it all, I was sick. Although my first foster mother provided adequate care, she wasn't particularly loving. At the time I felt as though my condition was a burden to her, like the doctor visits were a nuisance."

  She glanced up and met Colt's sympathetic gaze, suddenly feeling foolish and a little guilty about her admission. She had spent more time in doctors' offices than he could possibly know. For a time, hospitals and doctor's visits were part of her daily routine. She had hairline scars to prove it. "Look, I don't usually get so weird about going to the doctor. It's not as if I'm neurotic or anything … it's just this procedure."

  Colt touched her hair, then the side of her face. "What about it, Melanie?"

  His touch brought on an unbearable ache, a need for compassion. She hadn't expected the insemination to trigger her insecurities to such a degree. "Creating life should be joyous, but this procedure is so cold and clinical. I feel lonely, like I did when I was a kid."

  His hand drifted from her cheek to her shoulder, then slid down her back, where he drew circular motions with his fingertips. "Tell me what to do. How can I help?"

  Tears sprang to her eyes as she leaned into him and clutched his shirt. Quickly he enveloped her in warmth, the strong embrace tripling her need. She raised on her toes, buried her face in his hair and pressed her lips to his ear. "I want you to kiss me," she whispered.

  Colt's sharp exhale vibrated his chest. "I will," he said in a quiet, husky voice, turning his head. "But not here, there's
people…"

  Melanie followed his sight down the hall. There were men and women, probably other patients, coming toward them. "Where?"

  A smile touched his lips, just slightly. "How about the stairwell? No one uses the stairs in these kind of buildings. Too many stones."

  "All right."

  When he took her hand and led her to the other end of the hallway, to the door leading to the stairs, she felt a tad wicked, as though they were headed to a secret rendezvous.

  "How's this?" he asked.

  Melanie looked around. The walls were industrial gray, the stairs cement, the white paint on the metal rail chipping in spots. Drab as the setting was, there was not one sign of life. She was alone with Colt, the man who had just agreed to kiss her.

  Suddenly this quiet stairwell was the most beautiful place on earth and the most fragrant. Colt's spicy cologne and her floral perfume formed an enticing aroma.

  "Perfect," she said.

  They stood on the small slab of cement above the first step and faced each other. Colt reached out and cupped her chin with both hands, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead, each eyebrow and the tip of her nose. He even kissed her cheeks with his eyelashes, fluttered them like butterfly wings. When he finally settled his mouth over hers and pressed gently, Melanie closed her eyes.

  How many years had she dreamed of this, of feeling his lips worship hers? That's what he was doing, she decided, as his lips moved over hers with excruciating tenderness. The velvety contact was too chivalrous to be considered anything but reverent.

  She basked in him, in his texture, his taste, in the man he'd become, in the boy he once was. They were both there, exploring her for the first time, a teenage boy teaching an innocent girl to kiss, a man coaxing a woman, praising without words.

  It ended too soon. He moved back to look at her. They hadn't caressed, hadn't opened their mouths or teased each other with their tongues, but the exchange had been deep. Filled with emotion.