WARRIOR'S BABY

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  She gave up trying to read his mind and assimilated his beauty instead. Like an aesthetic reminder of his wayward father, his glossy black mane had been combed away from his face and rested between his shoulder blades in a tight ponytail. Colt had inherited more than Toby Raintree's wild nature. The burnished copper tone of his skin, the slight slant of his eyes and angular cut of his cheekbones were gifts from the man who had charmed his teenage mother. Although evidence of Colt's Native American heritage was strong, the Anglo in him was visible, too. The line of his nose, small cleft in his chin and dark beard stubble peppering his jaw boasted of European ancestry. Of course his smooth hairless chest belonged to that of a warrior, as did long, powerful limbs and well-defined, work-roughened hands.

  "Melanie?" Colt's enticing drawl broke through the quiet. "You're attracted to me, aren't you? You know, sexually?"

  This time his candor startled her, and she steadied herself as a result. Her brain dizzied as a wave of vertigo took hold. Why would he ask such a thing? Especially now? She struggled to meet his unwavering gaze as the answer slipped out in a near whisper. "Yes. Very much."

  "I'm attracted to you, too," he said. "I think you're incredibly beautiful."

  Melanie's smile quivered. "Thank you."

  Even though deep down she knew he found her desirable, she hadn't expected him to mention it so casually. Fear of rejection kept her from pressing her lips to his and letting him know the extent of her attraction. What if his next statement was a lecture on how improper it would be for them to act on their feelings?

  He scooted away, and her heart fell to the floor. Here it comes, she thought. The lecture. You're my surrogate, Melanie, and it wouldn't be right for us to behave in an unprofessional manner. In the future, we shouldn't kiss or encourage our attraction to manifest itself—

  She lifted her chin and waited for his verbal punch. It came, but not as expected.

  "I think we should consider making love," he said, each word edged with a rough timbre. "Going through another insemination doesn't make sense. We both want to touch each other and if we don't follow through, the need will only get stronger." He riveted her with a fathomless gaze. "Would you be willing to make a baby the way God intended?"

  Every pore in her body imagined him seeping into it. "Yes."

  "I'm not suggesting a relationship. This isn't a vow."

  "I understand." Melanie believed just the opposite. The joining of flesh would fuse their hearts, wouldn't it?

  "We'll be together until you conceive and after that—" Colt waved his hand in the air as though dismissing something, or someone "—no more sex. Does that work for you, being temporary lovers?"

  No, but she wasn't about to say so. Falling in love worked for her, raising their baby together, making love for the rest of their lives. "Of course it does," she said, trying to sound as casual as he. "I'm a modern woman." Who wants a traditional marriage.

  He smiled. "Good. So it's settled then."

  "Sure … but … um…" Suddenly timid, she glanced down at her nails, at the pale-pink polish. Never in a million years could she have imagined a conversation such as this. "How … I mean … when exactly should we first get together?"

  Colt had a ready answer, but he looked down at his hands, too. "Next month, when the time is right for you to conceive. Except instead of scheduling an insemination, we'll … ah, plan a date … so to speak."

  "Oh … okay."

  Her response was followed by a long stretch of silence while they both studied their own hands, the shape of their nails, shade of their skin, length of their fingers. Melanie couldn't remember ever feeling bliss and overwhelming shyness at the same time. It was an odd blend of emotion.

  Colt's bare feet hit the floor. "I guess I'll go dump that ice cream in the sink."

  Melanie took that as her cue to leave. "Okay … well, I should go. I have some work to do and it's getting late."

  He paused, ice cream bowl in hand. "No more tears, right?"

  She neared the front door. "No, I'm fine now."

  "Yeah." A sexy smile slashed across his face. "Me, too."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  The summer weeks that followed were still blessed with a marigold sun and a vivid sky, but Melanie hardly noticed her surroundings. Today, she strode across the ranch looking for Colt. She had purpose to see him and needed to get it done before her limbs turned to mush or her heart succumbed to panic. One of Colt's young ranch hands had told her he was in the "serving area," whatever that was. She assumed she was headed in the right direction because the youth had jutted his chin toward the chicken coop.

  As she passed the empty coops and proceeded on, the serving area and its function became plain as day. She had noticed this fenced area many times and had assumed it was a corral of some kind. It wasn't. Not really.

  Blinded by shock, embarrassment and even curiosity, she stopped a short distance away and watched the activity. Shorty and another ranch hand appeared to be assisting a stallion mount a mare. The dark-skinned ranch hand held the mare's head while Shorty, standing near the stud, held the upper portion of the stallion's front leg. Both horses appeared to be wearing bridles, and the massively muscled stallion had its neck extended and upper lip curled as it nibbled gently on the mare's neck.

  Melanie decided to slip away quietly and pretend she hadn't witnessed this, especially today of all days, when Colt, who had been observing the mating from the fence rail, turned suddenly in her direction.

  He nodded and strode toward her before she had the chance to turn tail and run. "Hey, Melanie." He smiled casually and reached out to touch her hair, something he did often. The familiar gesture sent goose bumps racing down her arms.

  She averted her eyes from the scene before them. "Hi."

  "Impressive, isn't he?" Colt asked.

  She looked up again, assuming Colt referred to the stallion. Thank goodness Shorty's body shielded the part of the stud engaged in servicing the mare. That was something she'd prefer not to be viewing with Colt standing beside her.

  Melanie nodded, recalling the name of Colt's prized stallion. "Outlaw's Fancy, right?"

  "That's him," Colt responded proudly as he watched the sorrel's performance.

  Melanie hoped her cheeks didn't look as hot as they felt. Blushing would make her seem like a greenhorn city girl. Colt's ranch was a breeding-and-training facility. What did she expect?

  "Does he fancy himself an outlaw?" she asked. Maybe joking around would take her mind off the situation at hand and what it reminded her of.

  "Naw." Colt leaned in close, his breath tickling the side of her neck. "He fancies himself a lover."

  The goose bumps reappeared. "That's his job, right?"

  Colt chuckled. "Yeah, I get paid and he gets to have all the fun."

  They gazed at each other after a silent moment, and Melanie was certain she was blushing. Colt moved even closer and started telling her things she preferred not to hear. By the time he finished talking, she had knowledge of a mare's reproductive cycle, how she was prepared for service, what she did to accept the stallion's advances, how he approached and mounted, the ways in which a mare could injure him, why assistance was necessary and what procedures were done after the mating had taken place.

  "So it will be about thirty days before you know if the service was successful?" Melanie asked. In truth, Colt's clinical explanation had eased the awkwardness of the situation and made her realize how common an occurrence this was to him.

  He nodded and guided her toward the barn. Even though she didn't look back, she knew the mating had ended and the stallion was being led away. "Of course, Outlaw's not my only stud, but he's always been my personal favorite. He produces some flashy offspring."

  Melanie knew Outlaw had quite a reputation in the show ring, too. She had seen the impressive display of ribbons and trophies associated with the stallion. She was also curious as to whether Colt bred mares through artificial inse
mination, but decided this wasn't the time to ask. Their own experience with that procedure had caused discomfort and heartache, and today she had other news. Good news, albeit it closely related to what she had just witnessed.

  She followed Colt to the cluttered office located near the tack room. He opened a small refrigerator and held out a can of grape soda. "Want one?"

  "Sure." She flipped the top and sipped slowly while Colt guzzled his.

  Melanie knew the paneled room with its pine desk and matching chairs was an addition to the barn. Colt's grandfather had used the sitting room in the lodge for conducting business, but the nature of business at Bluff Creek Ranch had changed. Colt's home was no longer a lodge.

  As he shuffled some papers, Melanie sat in one of the straight back chairs and tried to compose herself. Just as she prepared to give him her news, the phone on his desk rang.

  He excused himself and answered it. "Hello? Oh, hey, how are you doing?"

  Melanie stared at her perspiring palms while Colt continued his conversation.

  "Sure, I'll be there. You're doing all right, aren't you?"

  She couldn't help but wonder who was on the line. It sounded more personal than business.

  "Good. Do you need a ride? No? All right, I'll see you at seven, then. Take care. Bye."

  He replaced the phone on its cradle and looked up.

  Melanie clasped her hands and eyed her soda can. "So, you have plans later?" Apparently he was meeting someone at seven. It wasn't her nature to pry but tonight concerned her.

  "Yeah. Sort of. I attend meetings on Wednesday nights."

  "You do?" Strange she had never realized that. But then, they didn't spend every waking moment together. "Meetings, huh?"

  He looked her straight in the eye. "AA. I've been going for years."

  "Oh, of course." Alcoholics Anonymous. On Wednesdays. Tonight. She knew he was still involved in the program but didn't understand why. He had told her he wasn't the least bit tempted by the desire to drink. And she believed him, wholeheartedly. "I don't suppose you ever miss?"

  "No, well, I did when we were in California." He squinted. "What's going on with you, Melanie? You're acting kind of strange."

  She reached for the soda, then replaced it without drinking. She glanced at her trembling hands, realizing the impossibility of nibbling a nail. She'd cured that nervous habit by wearing acrylic tips. If ever she wanted her own fingernails back, it was now. "I'm acting strange?"

  "Yeah." Colt raked his hand through his hair. "Did that make you uncomfortable or something?"

  "What? The phone call?"

  "I was talking about Outlaw servicing the mare."

  Funny he should mention that. "No, well … sort of, at first. But then after you explained … anyway, that's not really … um…" She hadn't been this tongue-tied in front of him since her teenage years. "It's my … I mean…" She swiped the soda, wet her mouth with a small sip and rushed the words out. "It's time, Colt."

  He leaned forward, frowning as though perplexed. "Time for what, darlin'?"

  Good God, did she have to spell it out to the man? After Outlaw's performance, she assumed he'd get the picture. Melanie raised her voice a pitch. "You know, time."

  "Oh!" He widened his eyes, then slapped his forehead. "For you and me."

  Melanie twisted the gold chain around her neck. "Yes." She intended to leave the date planning to him.

  Colt went on to chastise himself. "God, I can't believe I didn't think of that. I mean, hell, I've thought about it, imagined it almost every day, and then when you finally tell me…"

  She swallowed. He imagined what almost every day? Lovemaking, or her telling him?

  He stopped ranting and gazed over at her, his dark eyes alight with a feverish sort of glow. Without a doubt the answer to her question was in that sensual stare.

  Lovemaking. He'd been fantasizing about being with her. For weeks. Almost every day. Her skin tingled at the thought. He wanted her as much as she craved him.

  "I promised Mike, the guy on the phone, that I'd be at the meeting tonight," he said regretfully. "I'm his sponsor, so I don't want to let him down. He's new in the program and having a bit of a rough time."

  That was it. Colt remained in the program to act as a sponsor, help others through their struggle. She couldn't help but admire him for that. Maybe if someone had been there for her mother, things would have turned out differently.

  He searched her gaze. "I'll be back by nine. Is that too late for dinner?"

  Dinner? "No, that's fine."

  "I can pick up some Chinese food and come by your place, or would you rather go out?"

  She smiled. In a sense he actually did mean a date. Apparently, Colt wanted her to feel like his lady tonight rather than the hired surrogate. Nothing could have pleased her more. "Chinese tastes better at home. I like to eat out of the cartons."

  "Yeah, me, too."

  After a bout of silence, Melanie stood to leave. Whenever their conversations ceased, she felt awkward. "I'll see you later."

  He seemed reluctant to let her go, at least his sensual gaze did. It was riveted on her cleavage now, and the slight amount exposed appeared to be enough to please him. "Any special food requests?"

  "Lemon chicken," she said, darting out the door, in desperate need of fresh air. "And sweet-and-sour anything."

  * * *

  Melanie glanced at her alarm clock. Eight-twenty and she still wasn't dressed. What should a woman wear on a date that would ultimately end in lovemaking?

  Her prettiest and most feminine undergarments, she decided, displaying several sets on her bed. She gazed at the selection, fingering each one. The pink bra and panties looked too girlish, the white too virginal. Why advertise her innocence? He'd find out soon enough. Melanie glanced back at the remaining choices—floral prints or basic black. The springy flower ensembles didn't seem sophisticated enough, so she opted for black. Would Colt prefer lace or silk? she wondered, anxiety mounting.

  She slipped on the silk panties, then hooked the matching bra. The less fuss the better. Colt was a simple kind of guy who appreciated quality. A woman in silk should please him.

  Now she had exactly thirty minutes to decide what to wear over her underwear. Pants were difficult to remove gracefully, she thought, rummaging through her closet. A dress was the answer, without pantyhose. There was nothing more unattractive than a naked woman in pantyhose, and although she owned a garter belt and thigh-high nylons, this wasn't the time for them. Too deliberately sexy. Bare legs were the answer, softened with lotion and bronzed by the sun.

  The sleeveless black dress she chose hugged her figure without looking ostentatious. The lines of the garment were smooth and sleek, as elegantly understated as the intimate apparel beneath it. A pair of gold sandals dressed it down just enough for an evening at home. A gold-chain anklet added a trace of sensuality.

  Melanie checked her appearance in the full-length oak-framed mirror mounted on the back of the bedroom door. As she studied her reflection, she critiqued each physical detail. Minimal makeup improved a heart-shaped face: lip gloss in lieu of lipstick, apricot blush, earth-toned eye shadows and black mascara. An auburn henna had enriched her loosely styled hair, and the black dress exposed legs that were well shaped, even if too petite for her liking. Breasts that boasted a full B cup accentuated her dress with a hint of cleavage.

  She was ready. And oh, so nervous.

  As she opened the door and glanced back at the bed, she gasped. Her rejected undies were displayed like a provocative lingerie ad. Imagine if Colt had seen them. This was the bed they were going to share tonight. She gathered up the flimsy articles and shoved them into the top drawer of an antique dresser.

  Why had Colt chosen the cabin instead of his house? He could have just as easily invited her to his place. His bed.

  Melanie smoothed the crocheted quilt, fluffed each pillow and tried not to dwell on her clammy hands or quickening pulse. What did it matter whose bed it was, so lon
g as it happened? She hoped making love meant falling in love. And once she was certain Colt's feelings mirrored her own, she'd be able to reveal her identity. Then no more guilt. Their relationship would be nourished by love and complete honesty.

  She checked the time. Ten minutes to spare. Melanie left the bedroom and seated herself on the couch. She had set the wood dining booth with plates and silverware. The built-in table was located just outside the kitchen and within view of the living room; a berry-scented candle flickered in the center of it. Melanie burned candles fairly often and assumed Colt wouldn't think she'd gone out of her way to create a romantic atmosphere. All the lights were on and there was no soft music. Just a woman in a black dress, clay-colored stoneware and a purple candle.

  The front door was open. Melanie needed the fresh air and enjoyed listening to the crickets chirp; she'd heard they were supposed to be lucky.

  At precisely nine o'clock, booted footsteps sounded on the stone walkway. She jumped up just as Colt ducked his head through the doorway. Odd that he wouldn't enter without an invitation, she thought. They both knew where the evening would lead, yet they both reacted almost formally to the sight of each other.

  "Come in." She relieved him of one of the brown paper bags in his arms.

  "Thanks." He followed her to the dining area. "I thought you liked to eat Chinese food out of the cartons."

  Now she wondered if setting the table had been the wrong thing to do. "It's a little hard to share the entrées that way. Plates seemed more appropriate."

  "That's fine." He placed the second bag next to the one she had put on the table.

  "Do you want tea?" she asked. "The water is already hot, so all I have to do is fill the teapot."

  "Sure."

  Just as she turned toward the kitchen, she heard her name on his lips. "Melanie?"

  She turned back to see him leaning against the table, his trademark smile slow and dangerous.

  "You look beautiful." The words were spoken in a rich baritone.

  "Thank you." He looked beautiful, too. Thick, shining hair fell to his shoulders and his white Western shirt was accented with an Aztec print. "I like your shirt," she said. "It suits you."