WARRIOR'S BABY

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Mabel handed him his change and tapped the pencil behind her ear, pushing it into her starched hairdo. "Guess you'll be back tomorrow night, huh?"

  "Yeah." No more home cooking. He had barely set eyes on Melanie since he'd discovered her identity, let alone enjoyed one of her meals.

  Colt exited the diner and came face-to-face with Melanie in the parking lot. He startled. "What are you doing here?"

  "Looking for you."

  She dropped her car keys into an oversize purse. The big bag made her appear smaller, as did the loose-fitting jacket and baggy pants. He wondered if her tummy had expanded. He hadn't touched her stomach in over two weeks.

  "So you found me. What do you want?"

  "For you to be polite, for one thing. You've been rude, Colt. You barely speak to me, and when you do, you're far from civil."

  He raised an eyebrow. "So you think approaching me in public is going to make a difference?"

  "If that's what it takes. I refuse to be ignored. We have to talk sometime."

  She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. It looked heavy, he thought, wondering why women carted around everything they owned. He clenched his fists to keep himself from reaching out to touch her. Her hair had blown across her lips. Lips he longed to taste once again. Lips that had spoken deceitful lies.

  Two elderly women walked past. Colt recognized Margaret Sneed, a sales clerk at the pharmacy, and the biggest gossip in town. When she glanced back, he scraped a booted foot against the asphalt.

  "If you want to talk, we can sit in the car for a while," he told Melanie, as he returned Margaret's wiggle-fingered wave. "No point in giving the locals an earful."

  Melanie followed him to the Suburban. He unlocked the doors, and they settled into the bucket seats. A stream of silence ensued. She studied his profile while he stared out the windshield. The setting sun shot streaks of gold across a scarlet sky. It reminded him of fire, of her hair.

  "You wanted to talk, so talk," he said, his tone deliberately impatient.

  "I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow."

  He whipped his head toward her. "Is everything all right?"

  "Fine. It's just a routine visit. Do you want to go?"

  He glanced down at her tummy where her hands rested protectively. "Do you want me to?"

  She nodded. "I miss you, Colt. I miss sharing leftovers at midnight and sleeping in your arms." Her tongue darted over her lips, moistening them. "I miss feeling your hands on me."

  "Don't do this." He turned back to the setting sun, silently cursing its beauty. "I don't want you anymore."

  Her voice softened. "Yes, you do."

  She was right. He did. Just the nearness of her sent his body into a thunderous arousal. But lust, he told himself, meant nothing. Not as long as his heart remained intact.

  She moved closer. "I'm not going away."

  He gritted his teeth. Her lotion-scented skin wafted through the vehicle like peaches on a spring day. He could almost taste her. Almost. "We've already decided you're going to be part of our baby's life, but being part of mine is altogether different."

  She touched his shoulder briefly, gently. "You'll always be part of mine, Colt. Don't you realize how you've helped me grow? You used to tell me time and time again how sweet and smart I was, until eventually I began to believe you. You nurtured me in that bad-boy way of yours." She gazed at him, laughing softly in fond remembrance. "And every time you winked at me, my legs quivered and my heart skipped a beat. It was all I could do not to melt at your feet."

  Her words made him ache, as did the tenderness in her tone. The past and all those bittersweet memories haunted him daily. "I don't want to talk about this."

  Melanie crossed her arms. "Fine, Colt. Live in denial, but don't you dare treat me badly in the process." She kicked the floorboard. "Boy, have you changed. You're certainly not acting like the valiant cowboy you once were."

  He blew a nervous breath. His emotions, all two thousand of them, were tied up in knots. "Fine. I'll be civil, okay? But that's all."

  A smile tilted her lips. "That's a start." She opened the door, looking far too beautiful for her own good. "Bye, Colt. I'll see you later."

  He watched as she strode away, marveling at how the sunset played upon her hair. Was his heart still intact? Colt closed his eyes and damned himself. Now he wasn't so sure.

  * * *

  Later that evening Melanie entered Colt's house without an invitation. She made her way to the kitchen and lifted the cover on the peach cobbler she'd brought along. It smelled heavenly, and the cream she'd whipped looked rich and tantalizing. After helping herself to a tall glass of milk, she removed two dessert plates from the cupboard.

  Colt's kitchen was spotless, but then he had a housekeeper. Of course, he didn't cook much for himself, either. Unused kitchens managed to stay clean.

  "What in the hell are you doing here?" Colt stormed into the room, his hair dripping beads of water onto his bare shoulders.

  "I told you I'd see you later."

  "I didn't know you meant tonight."

  "Well, I did." She sliced a piece of the treat and heaped a spoonful of whipped cream on top.

  His nostrils flared. "What's that?"

  She thrust the plate at him. "Peach cobbler. Gloria gave me the recipe."

  He set his jaw stubbornly. "I don't like peaches." Melanie rolled her eyes. She knew he loved peaches. He loved the taste and the scent. Her lotion always made him hungry—for the fruit and for her. It wasn't easy living without him, pretending she didn't hurt, that she didn't cry herself to sleep at night.

  "Suit yourself." She dipped a spoon into the cobbler, catching a frothy glob of the cream.

  Colt watched her like a wary cat, his exotic-shaped eyes darting between the plate and her mouth. He looked gorgeous. His freshly showered skin glowed like polished brass. Pale gray sweatpants, his usual lounging attire, rode low on his hips.

  "Maybe I'll try a small piece," he said, scooping a large helping of the cobbler onto the other plate.

  He tasted the dessert and moaned. She managed a heavyhearted smile. Winning his affection back wasn't going to be easy. It would take a lot more than a pan of warm peaches.

  Melanie leaned against the tiled countertop. "I thought we could watch a movie tonight."

  "No, thanks. I'm turning in early."

  "Do you want some company?"

  He spilled his next bite. The pastry crumbled back onto his plate. "No."

  She sipped her milk and tried to act casual even though her heart pounded like a native drum. "Well, just in case you change your mind—"

  "I won't." Colt narrowed his eyes. "Stop trying to seduce me, Melanie."

  An ache flooded her chest. What she had in mind went beyond seduction. She loved him, and she believed he loved her. Somewhere deep inside his tortured soul, he loved her. She knew because of how badly he was hurting. At times, she could see her own pain reflected in his eyes. "I wouldn't know how to seduce a man. I'm new at this, remember?"

  He shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Can we talk about something else? Something less personal?"

  Melanie sighed. Healing his heart might take a lifetime. "Like what?"

  He finished his cobbler. "Like how Sparky's obedience training is coming."

  She found herself giggling. She'd enrolled Sparky in one of those puppy kindergarten classes, but the Queensland managed to flunk out. "The trainer suggested private sessions. Sparky's just too hyper for group lessons. The other dogs distract him."

  Colt set his plate aside and grinned. "That pooch is a pain in the butt."

  "True, but he's ours."

  The grin faded. "Yeah, ours."

  They stood silently then, gazing at each other with pained expressions. The baby was theirs, too. She closed her eyes, opened them. They hadn't discussed her parental rights, or the original document she had signed. "I want to be a full-time mother, Colt. I couldn't possibly just visit a few times a year."

  "I know." He
pushed his damp hair away from his forehead. "We don't have a surrogate contract anymore. I destroyed it."

  A rush of air escaped her lungs. "Thank you," she whispered.

  His expression remained tight, his mouth set in a grim line. "I did it for the baby. Regardless of how I feel about what you did to me, I know you'll be a good mother."

  Regardless of what you did to me. Those words hurt. No matter how many times she had tried to tell him that her intentions had been honorable, he refused to listen. He just kept saying love wasn't based on a lie.

  "I figure we'll share custody," Colt said, interrupting her thoughts. "That's the way it should be."

  No. They should be married, raising their child in the same house. She touched her stomach and pictured the tiny being growing there. "We're having a boy," she said. "I'm sure of it."

  "A son." Colt's features softened. He stepped forward and reached a hand out. "Do you have a tummy yet?"

  Melanie raised her blouse. "A little one."

  His hand connected with her skin. She shivered on contact.

  Colt smiled and poked her belly button. "Are you sure that's not from the cobbler?"

  Her heart lunged forward and chased his smile. "It's the baby."

  He rubbed her stomach with circular motions, gently introducing the tiny life inside to its father. But a moment later, he removed his hand and stepped back as though he'd crossed some self-imposed line by touching her, even if it had been to address his child.

  "How are you, Melanie? Are you still sick?"

  Sick at heart, she wanted to say. "Every morning."

  "Are you keeping crackers by the bed?"

  She nodded. "Nothing seems to help." And she missed his meddling, his awful scrambled eggs and oddball nausea remedies. He used to offer a new one daily.

  Colt sighed, a heavy, masculine sigh. "You were right about being civil toward each other. If you're stressed, the baby will feel it. And more than anything, I want a healthy, happy child."

  "Me, too," she said, wishing she could fall into his arms.

  Another awkward silence stretched between them. She glanced down at her shoes, willing herself not to cry. If she met his gaze, she would. Tears would spill from the broken pieces of her heart.

  "You look tired, Melanie. You should go home. Get some sleep."

  She imagined he spoke the truth. Although the pregnancy taxed her, she had been incapable of a deep, relaxed slumber. She woke nightly and reached for him, only to discover emptiness, not just in the bed, but in her soul.

  "I'm okay," she said, knowing it was far from the truth. Neither of them was okay, and at the moment, she had no idea how to make things right.

  * * *

  For Colt, the weeks that followed didn't get any easier. Every time he saw Melanie, his heart battled his pride for control. There were too many times, like today, when he worried the ache in his chest might be love.

  Colt scrubbed his hand across his face. The land, his land, and the mountains surrounding every lush green acre usually soothed him. Today it didn't. Today he felt nothing but that damn ache where his heart thumped much too heavily.

  He leaned against a tree and let the rough bark scrape his shirt. Damn it, why couldn't he learn to trust? Melanie claimed she hadn't meant to trick him; she just hadn't anticipated the strength of her maternal feelings. From the beginning she knew the possibility existed that she may have to give up her child—a baby conceived with the man she loved.

  Once again Colt's heart knocked aggressively against the ache in his chest. Did she really love him that much? Of course she did. No matter how many times he told himself otherwise, Melanie was still Gertrude—a gentle girl with a pure soul. A girl who wouldn't lie. A girl who had been willing to give up her child to the man she loved—offer him the most precious gift of all.

  Melanie. Sweet, perfect, beautiful Melanie. How could he have ever doubted her?

  Oh, face it, Raintree, you're in trouble. You're in love, but your pride refuses to accept it. You don't want to admit a woman holds your heart in the palm of her hand.

  Colt glanced down at the colorful leaves scattered at his feet and imagined his future child as a toddler, its eyes filled with wonder as it lifted a burnished, gold-tipped leaf. Children found pleasure in the simplest of things. They could play with a cardboard box and squeal with delight, enjoy wrapping paper as much as a gift, pound on a metal pot as though it were actually a drum.

  The leaves crunched as he walked over them en route to his house. What he needed was to immerse himself in the nursery, the room where his future child would sleep … the room of past and present magic. Yes, he needed to go there and rock himself in the big padded rocker Melanie had bought, close his eyes and explore his heart.

  Colt passed the roping arena with long, anxious strides. He would find solace in the nursery with its polished wood crib and antique cradles. The splendor of the baby's room would grant him the familiarity he needed. Colt had been a father before, but he'd never been in love. The mere thought scared him senseless.

  As he walked, an image of the nursery came to mind. Both he and Melanie had added special touches to the room. She had painted the ceiling blue and warmed it with puffs of billowing clouds, offering their baby the sky. And he had chosen two antique cradles, one for the stuffed animals and the other in honor of his ancestors. The second was actually a cradleboard—a baby carrier constructed of a wooden base covered with soft animal skin. Glass beads and long fringe decorated the hide. Colt sighed. Just picturing the cradleboard gave him comfort.

  He entered the house and headed down the hall toward the nursery, but stopped when he heard the soft creak of the rocker coming from the partially open door.

  A lump formed in Colt's throat. Melanie must have needed to immerse herself in the nursery, too. He remained where he stood, out of sight, but close enough to hear the gentle sound of the rocker. He couldn't walk away. Colt needed to be near her, feel her emotions, remember the quiet confessions she had made, recall her words in his mind.

  The only thing I lied about was my identity. I wanted us to make a life together, but if you didn't fall in love with me, I vowed to myself that I'd be noble and give up the baby.

  Colt exhaled a ragged sigh. He wished he had the courage to walk into that room and tell Melanie he believed her. Tell her he'd been wrong. So very wrong. But if he did, he'd have to tell her that he loved her, and he didn't know how to say those words out loud.

  As the creak of the rocker continued, Colt pictured Melanie secure in the chair, her hands resting on her tummy. She had purchased the oversize rocker so he, too, would fit comfortably in it.

  Dear God, what else had she told him? What other words had he ignored?

  You used to tell me time and time again how sweet and smart I was. You nurtured me in that bad-boy way of yours. And every time you winked at me, my legs quivered and my heart skipped a beat.

  Colt smiled, remembering those silly winks and grins he'd tossed her way. She had been the most fragile girl on earth, and without realizing it, he'd helped her grow into a successful, self-assured woman.

  Why hadn't he realized that sooner? He shook his head. Because he'd been acting like an idiot, that's why. He kept accusing her of being deceitful when her only crime was loving a stubborn, deafhearted man.

  Melanie, the beautiful artist. The woman who had loved him forever—loved him enough to cradle his babe in her womb—a child they had conceived from a loving, sensual joining. Colt's mind drifted back to the night he'd taken Melanie's virginity, and he shivered, unable to shake the erotic chill that crept up his spine. The memory washed over him like a sexual balm, like cool, feminine hands caressing his skin. Melanie had given him two precious gifts that night—her body and her soul.

  They belonged together. He knew that now, just as sure as he knew his own name. Melanie Richards should be his wife—his lifelong partner. They were meant to be a family—two people raising their child in a safe, nurturing environment. />
  Colt closed his eyes. He could see the three of them on long winter nights, cuddled in front of the fireplace, Christmas lights blinking on a tall evergreen, colorfully wrapped packages piled beneath it. And there would be more children later, he decided, happy, healthy children to run barefoot through the rich dark soil and breathe crisp mountain air.

  He opened his eyes, stared down the long, dim hallway. How could he ever propose to Melanie after what he'd put her through? Yet someway, somehow, he would have to. He intended to marry Melanie Richards, be the husband she had always dreamed of.

  With his heart stuck in his throat, Colt backed away and left Melanie alone in the nursery. He took a deep breath, then exited the house. Colt Raintree had some soul-searching to do.

  * * *

  Several hours later Colt stepped onto Shorty's redwood porch. The old cowboy sat in one of the high-back chairs he kept near the front door. The cabin belonged to Colt, but the porch belonged to Shorty. He had made the addition years ago. Colt assumed Shorty had built the porch as his own private window to the earth. The Montana sky above and sculpted mountains beyond offered a breathtaking view.

  Shorty looked up but didn't speak.

  Colt seated himself in the other weather-beaten chair while Shorty whittled a small piece of wood. It struck Colt as such a grandfather-type thing to do that he decided to keep silent until Shorty acknowledged him. Elders deserved respect, even gruff old cowboys.

  They sat quietly for a time, listening to sounds of the earth. Wind rustled the tops of trees as several birds pecked the bark for food. If a man strained his ears, Colt thought, or imagined hard enough, he could hear the peaceful lull of the mountains: fish splashing in streams, pinecones falling to the ground.

  Shorty turned to Colt, his agile hands still shaping the wood. "Something on your mind, son?"

  "I'm going to ask Melanie to marry me."

  "That's real fine. The right thing to do."

  "I don't want it to be your average proposal, though. I'm thinking of arranging a surprise wedding."

  Shorty's hands, much like his passive expression, didn't falter. "Doesn't sound quite possible. Weddings aren't like birthdays."