She took a deliberate step back toward Cinnamon's curious nose. The horse sniffed her hair and Melanie reached up behind her to pat the mare's neck. "Are you going to yell at me, too?" she asked. Colt's sexy pout looked a tad vicious.
"No." The pout quirked into a lazy smile. "I just want to talk."
What woman in her right mind would refuse that smile? "Okay."
They left the barn and strode alongside the roping arena. Colt wore a pair of distracting fawn-colored chaps. Melanie considered walking behind him. A man in chaps was an admitted weakness, and Colt's taut, blue-jeaned butt looked exceptionally good, cupped between the rough leather.
He stopped and leaned against the fence. "How are you feeling?" he asked, studying her hair as it blew across her cheek.
In other words, did she feel pregnant? It had been two weeks since the insemination. "Fine. It's a bit early, I suppose. I'm not sick or anything."
"Yeah, too early," he agreed. "But damn if this waiting isn't driving me crazy."
"I know." As Melanie climbed onto the first fence rail, Colt grasped her waist to help her up. She settled her bottom against the wood, but he remained standing, tall and wicked in his slim-fitting chaps.
The lines around his mouth tightened and she assumed he was going to make an admission. She had come to recognize his expressions.
"I can't say I remember much about my wife's first trimester. I hadn't been overly involved in the early stages of her pregnancy," he said. "At eighteen, I was too busy mourning the loss of my freedom to consider her feelings. Marrying a girl I barely liked, let alone loved, was making me ill every morning." He shook his head. "Served me right, I suppose. I had no business sleeping with her in the first place."
Melanie tucked her windblown hair behind her ears. "Planned parenthood is easier, right?"
"Yeah." He laughed. "But I'll probably throw up this time, too. You know, sympathy pains or whatever they call it."
"You'd do that for me?" she asked with a teasing smile.
He lowered his chin and looked up beneath the brim of his hat. "Aw, shucks, ma'am, it ain't nothing, not fer a purty little thing like you."
Melanie reached over and pushed the Stetson farther down on his head, shielding his eyes completely. "Cowboys."
In a flash the cowboy in question stood in front of her, between her knees. The top fence rail put her at a slightly higher level than him, but his towering height presented a gorgeous view.
He tapped the underside of his hat, lifting it back up. Just as he unveiled his mischievous gaze, a grin twitched one corner of his lips, making him look a little like Elvis. "Admit it, California girl, you've got a thing for cowboys."
She looked down and found herself undressing him with her eyes: peeling a T-shirt off, flipping a buckle open, unzipping suede chaps, releasing blue jeans buttons. "Just one," she said, her voice breathy.
He moved closer. "How about Indians?"
She skimmed her fingers across his whiskered jaw. "What do you think?" she asked, the question slipping out in a near whisper.
"I think this is a dangerous game." He shuddered, caught her hand and pressed it tight against his face. "One we shouldn't play."
His actions defied his words. The hand that held hers tightened its grip. Dangerous or not, he wanted to be touched. "We're just flirting, Colt."
"That's all?"
"Yes." For now, she thought. Later she hoped there would be more.
He smiled and released her hand, apparently trying to lighten his mood. "Flirting is harmless," he said.
"And perfectly normal," she reassured.
Colt backed away and leaned against the fence rail once again, resuming a safe place beside her. Both stared straight ahead as a light breeze rippled over them. When the silence seemed to intensify their heartbeats, he interrupted it.
"I'm sorry about what happened between you and Shorty. He's a stubborn old man."
"I can be stubborn, too."
Colt turned to look at her; "Yeah, but I think Shorty is taking little things out on you because he doesn't approve of our situation."
"You mean the baby?"
"Not the baby as much as how I set out to get it. He thinks people who have babies together should be married."
Maybe old Shorty wasn't such a bad guy after all. "You can't blame him for being old-fashioned. He's from that generation."
"I know, but sometimes I think he's trying to direct my life because of the tragedy in his own. Believe it or not, the old guy was in love once. I mean, really in love. She died a couple years after they were married and they never had any kids. So, he's been pretty much alone for a long time."
Suddenly Melanie's heart ached for the elder cowboy. "That's so sad. Can you imagine how lonely he is?"
"Yeah, I can," Colt answered. "That's why this baby is so important to me. I just wish I could make him understand that."
A need to heal, to create balance and harmony immersed her soul like a balm. Melanie believed in happily-ever-afters. "Colt, do you think if we invited Shorty to go to the fair with us, he'd accept?"
His eyes widened. "We're going to the fair?"
She nodded. "It opens next week. I thought we could take Gloria's kids with us. I'm sure she and Fred would love a day off."
Colt laughed. "You and me, eight rambunctious kids and a grumpy old man? This I've got to see."
* * *
There were only five rambunctious kids, the other three thought they were too old to walk around the fair with "babysitters," so consequently, were allowed to roam the festivities unchaperoned. And convincing the grumpy old man to join them had been like pulling teeth from a rhino. Prune-faced, he shuffled along in his dusty boots, holding Joey Carnegie's hand. The four-year-old had decided the lanky ranch hand was grandpa material.
The other Carnegie siblings, two sets of twins, had chosen their favorite adult, as well. Sandy and Sarah, three minutes apart and identical in appearance, vied for Colt's attention. The six-year-old freckled blondes giggled uncontrollably every time he mixed their names up.
Melanie noticed Cory and Steven, fraternal twins who looked quite different, didn't seem to mind walking along with her. The nine-year-olds thought skateboarders and surfers from California were "pretty cool." Melanie lacked the courage to tell them she was neither.
"Time to eat," Colt said. "I'm starving."
"I want to go on the Ferris wheel again," little Joey whined.
"Can we get red candy apples?" one of the female twins asked, displaying a gap where her front teeth should have been.
"I want caramel!" her sister exclaimed, front teeth missing as well.
Colt examined the toothless grins with an arched eyebrow. "How about cotton candy instead? After we eat some real food."
"Come on!" Joey tugged Shorty toward the Ferris wheel line.
"All right, son." The older man looked back at Colt and Melanie. "We'll meet you at the burger stand."
Melanie shook her head and Colt laughed. "Talk about spoiling someone. He's indulged that kid's every whim," she said, secretly pleased. Sour-faced as Shorty appeared, she suspected he enjoyed the little boy's affection.
They ordered hot dogs, hamburgers and bushels of fries, then scooted into an empty picnic bench. Sandy and Sarah insisted Colt sit between them. He peered over at Melanie and grinned. She returned his smile, thinking she had never seen his brown eyes so bright.
The boys quarreled about who got more French fries while slurping noisily on their milkshakes. Melanie decided she wanted more than one child. Feisty as the siblings were with each other, they shared a special brand of love.
When one of the girls spilled ketchup down the front of her green blouse, Colt wiped it off, then stared at the faint stain. "What's your name?" he asked her.
"Sandy."
"Great. Now I can tell you apart. I think your mom must have dressed you alike just to drive me crazy."
With a devilish light in her eyes, Sandy peeked over at her sister. Sarah
nodded to her twin as though a silent language had been conveyed, then deliberately squeezed ketchup onto her blouse and wiped it off, leaving a similar stain. Both girls pealed into laughter as Colt's head ping-ponged between them.
"Why you little pixies," Colt said, winking at Melanie.
Shorty and Joey showed up just then, stuffing hot dogs in their mouths as they strolled over. The older man shooed the child onto the bench seat and met Melanie's gaze. They stared at each other over the commotion at the table and the activity of the fair. Shorty swallowed his last bite and sat down.
She could swear a quick, faint smile had just twitched the elderly rancher's mustache. And all day long, he'd been watching her and Colt as though taking mental notes on their behavior. Did he approve of what he'd observed?
"Where to?" Colt asked the gang at the table.
"Cotton candy!" came one youthful reply.
"Petting zoo," was another.
"Let's try to win some prizes."
"Yeah!"
Colt smoothed his hair. "Okay. How about this? We'll get some cotton candy first, then go to the petting zoo and get eaten alive by baby goats and—"
Joey gasped. "The goats are gonna eat us?"
Colt responded on a chuckle. "No, tiger, they're going to eat our clothes. Goats nibble on anything they can get their mouths on."
"Maybe we better not go to the petting zoo," the boy said with a serious expression. "I don't want to walk around with no clothes on."
His brothers and sisters laughed as the adults exchanged a smile between them. "They won't eat our clothes off, Joey," Colt explained. "Just chew a little. And if we buy some goat treats for them to munch on, they'll probably leave our clothes alone."
"We'll buy lots of goat treats," Joey decided, fingering his striped T-shirt.
Colt nodded and continued planning the agenda. Melanie watched him through adoring eyes, thinking what a terrific father he was going to make, then caught herself looking up at the heavens, apologizing to Colt's daughter. He probably was a terrific father, she corrected, and will be again.
When the subject of winning prizes came up for review, Shorty surprised Melanie by challenging Colt to a duel at the shooting arcade. She hadn't thought the old guy had it in him to be so playful. "I'll bet I can win a bigger stuffed animal," Shorty said. "The biggest one they got."
"No way." The younger cowboy accepted the challenge. "My name isn't Colt for nothing, you know. I'm a better shot than you anyday, old man."
Shorty narrowed his eyes dramatically. "We'll see about that, boy."
Melanie decided they both resembled characters from the West. Colt had that long-haired, dangerous half-Indian outlaw appeal and Shorty, aside from his sheriff-style mustache, reminded her of the town undertaker, tall, thin and solemn faced.
The twin boys picked up on the macho vibe and started boasting between themselves about which one of them was a better shot, prompting little Joey to puff up his chest and chime in. Sandy and Sarah listened to all the masculine self-glorification, then demanded in a very female fashion just how many stuffed animals they expected.
Colt looked over at Melanie. "I suppose you want a prize, too."
"A big yellow teddy bear for the nursery," she said.
He offered a flirtatious wink that set her heart aflame.
"You got it Mo—" Colt paused but recovered quickly. "Melanie."
She smiled and pretended not to catch his slip. Colt had almost referred to her as Mom, something expectant fathers probably did regularly with their pregnant wives. Her heart sprouted wings and silently soared.
Four hours later Joey slept in Shorty's arms, the boys whined because they wanted to stay longer, and the girls had their tiny arms filled with toys from the shooting arcade.
Melanie walked beside Colt, a big pink teddy bear cradled on one shoulder and a blue one on the other. There weren't any yellow bears available so Colt and Shorty decided they had to win one of each "baby" color, so as not play favorites.
Colt chuckled as they headed out to his utility vehicle. "For as much money as we spent trying to win those," he said, referring to the stuffed bears, "we could have bought the little papoose ten more."
She cuddled the fluffy toys. "That wouldn't have been half as much fun."
"I suppose not." He grinned and glanced over at the children. "It was fun, wasn't it? Being around the kids."
"Yes, it was. Almost like being part of a big family."
He chuckled again. "How does becoming a full-time surrogate sound? I might want to do this a second time." He maneuvered his hand around one of the bears and poked her ribs playfully. "Maybe even a third."
* * *
Colt flinched, stiffened his neck and blinked rapidly. The paintbrush coming toward his eyes looked dangerous. How in the hell had he become involved in this, anyway?
"Colt, you're going to have to sit still and relax," Melanie said, placing the menacing little brush beside the tray of water colors. She had told him the paint was actually a form of makeup produced in Germany, nontoxic and quick drying.
Now that he'd had time to contemplate the odd circumstances surrounding the body-paint design, he couldn't help but wonder about it. "Did you set me up?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?" Melanie fixed her hands on slim hips.
She looked kind of wild. Sexy. Her paint-splattered Levi's hugged her legs like a well-worn, comfortable glove and her unbound breasts teased an equally faded T-shirt. Good God, the woman's nipples were as ripe as cherries; they poked erotically against the pale blue cotton fabric. And that fire-streaked hair. A knot at the top of her head loosely secured part of the silky stuff, and the rest fluttered around her face and shoulders, making her look like a modern Gibson Girl, innocent yet seductive.
"This whole thing," he answered finally, trying not to focus on her nipples. "I'm not a model."
She rolled her baby blues. "You think Tiffany and I discussed it ahead of time and deliberately coerced you?"
With a shake of her head and a loud huff, she dipped the paintbrush into a thick cleaning solution that came out of a tube, then wiped it off. Colt watched her, then looked around. Melanie had done a nice job converting the bedroom into a studio. Bright and pleasant, it was furnished with several portable white cabinets, a slanted table and a tall easel. The walls were lined with what he assumed was her work, sketches and paintings, some simple, others elaborate. The entire cabin had been uniquely enhanced by her artistic touch. The rough furnishings in the living room were softened by vintage gypsy shawls and decorative pillows. Scented candles flickered above the stone hearth. Baskets of dried corn had been sprinkled with potpourri and sea shells.
"You're off the hook," she said.
"What?"
Melanie closed the metal paint trays. "Tiffany's in Italy, but I can call her and tell her you changed your mind. I'm sure she'll want me to contact Drake Stallion's agent. Of course, that means I'll have to go back to California for the painting sessions."
Drake Stallion? What kind of stupid name was that? "Who's Drake?"
"The exotic dancer," she said. "He's the only logical choice. With Tiffany being out of the country it would be impossible for us to get together to select another model. We both liked Drake, so…"
She intended to fly to California and spend time alone with a guy who takes his clothes off for a living? Suddenly Colt remembered why he had agreed to be The Bandit.
Melanie backed away and Colt found himself staring down at her glossy pink toenails. The expression "barefoot and pregnant" popped into mind. It was still too early to confirm whether or not she'd conceived, but odds were in their favor. She was young and healthy and he had a potent sperm count. Colt narrowed his eyes. No damn way was she flying off to California to paint some stripper's half-naked, muscle-bound body while she carried his child. Drake, the cad, probably had a potent sperm count, too.
"I didn't say I'd changed my mind," Colt said finally, wondering why having a baby with
her was making him so damn possessive.
"You accused me of setting you up. What possible reason would I have for doing that?"
Good question. He probably sounded conceited for suggesting such a thing, but he was far from vain and honestly didn't understand why he had been considered for a modeling job. "It's in my nature to be suspicious. My ex did a number on me, remember?"
Melanie squinted at him. "All right then, you're forgiven." She grabbed a paintbrush and nibbled the wood. "But you have to promise to sit still, Colt. No matter what."
"Fine. Whatever." Anything to keep her away from a guy who called himself Drake Stallion. "Lets get on with it."
She reopened the paint tin, dampened the brush, dipped it into the concentrated black circle, then studied him. As soon as she tested the consistency of the makeup and brought the brush near his eyes, he jerked.
"Colt!"
"Sorry. I feel like you're going to poke me in the eye." He envisioned himself living out the rest of his life wearing a pirate-type eye patch. One meant to conceal his upcoming blindness.
"I will if you keep jumping around."
"Is it really necessary to paint the mask on, can't you strap one around my head. Like the Lone Ranger?"
"The Lone Ranger?" Melanie laughed. "That's kind of silly."
And a bandit in body paint wasn't? "That's what you said The Bandit was going to wear originally. A cloth mask." Like the Lone Ranger, he added mentally.
She put the end of the brush into the corner of her mouth again. Habit, Colt noticed. Kind of a sexy one. She nibbled on it while she talked. "That's before I was inspired by your heritage. Native American men in tribal paint is strong and sensual. A cloth mask seems hokey now, too comic bookish."
He tightened his shoulders, bit the inside of his lip and clenched his fists. "Go ahead."
"I can't." She set the paintbrush down and removed the headband she'd placed in his hair earlier, sending the long mass falling forward. "Not with you sitting there looking like you've been sentenced to death. I'm just going to have to get you to relax."
She moved closer and began playing with his hair, running her fingers through it. Since he was seated and she leaned over in front of him, her pert little nipples were face level. All he'd have to do was lift her blouse, lower his mouth and…
WARRIOR'S BABY Page 9
