CHEROKEE DAD

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Slowly, deliberately, he brought her to a sweet, syrupy orgasm. Warm and wet against his tongue, her flavor filled his senses.

  He rose above her, tugged off his boxers and sank into her, moving in a lover's dance.

  This was their fairy tale, he thought. Their moment to lust, to linger, to drift on an ancient sea. They joined hands, fingers entwined, and a smooth, sensual current flowed between them.

  The reality of making love on the wings of a dream.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  «^»

  Two days after Heather and Michael returned to Texas, they took Justin to the barn, determined to introduce him to the horses on the ranch.

  Life was somehow settled yet confusing, Heather thought, as they strode along a row of box stalls. Michael had asked her to stay, to live with him again. But even so, he hadn't made a commitment.

  Would he ever? Or was that a hope? A pipedream? A coin-in-the-fountain wish that would never come true?

  She glanced at her lover, saw the paternal look in his eyes. Justin rode in his arms, pampered and content.

  "This is Sir Caballero," Michael told the baby, stopping in front of a gelding's stall. "Sir Knight. He's one of our favorites."

  "Ooooh." Wide eyed, Justin stared at the horse.

  "You can pet him. Like this." He took the child's hand and guided it along Caballero's nose.

  The gelding nickered, and Justin gasped.

  Michael chuckled. "That's just horse talk. He's greeting you." He turned to Heather. "I need to teach this little guy to ride."

  She couldn't help but smile. "He's still a bit young."

  He shrugged, grinned. "When he's older."

  Her heart went soft, melting in her chest. Little by little, Michael was becoming Justin's father. He was even contemplating the future, planning father-son activities in his mind.

  "Ba…ba…ba. Pa…pa…pa." Justin chattered, and the gelding perked his ears.

  "See. He's listening to you," Michael explained.

  "When a horse is relaxed and his ears are forward, he's expressing interest. Now, when he pins his ears, he's pissed. I mean angry." He caught himself, slanted Heather a sheepish grin and continued, "You don't want to pet a horse when he's angry. Isn't that right, Mommy?"

  "Yes." A sense of family winged through her, a flutter of belonging, of wishes coming true.

  Justin babbled again, and Heather studied Michael's profile, the slant of his cheekbone, the cut of his jaw. Did Justin truly resemble him? Or did people only see what they expected to see?

  Michael Elk's son.

  Suddenly her stomach tensed.

  He had a right to know about the other baby. The child she'd borne, the infant who'd died. But she couldn't tell him. Not now. Their reconciliation was, too new, too fragile. What if he blamed her for their baby's death?

  Heather's mouth went dry. When should she tell him? Six months from now? A year? How much time would pass before their relationship solidified? Before the secret she'd been keeping wouldn't shatter his soul?

  He was afraid to love her, afraid she would hurt him.

  What about forgiveness? Was he capable of absolving her? Or were her sins too grave? She'd left without telling him she was pregnant; she'd returned without telling him his son had died.

  The baby who'd been buried without a headstone, without a name.

  The other pony.

  Michael's voice sliced into her thoughts.

  "Let's go outside," he said to Justin, who wiggled in his arms. "We can watch Uncle Bobby work."

  Heather told herself to stay strong, to thank God for giving her a second chance with the man she loved. She couldn't turn back the clock, but she could move forward, be a loyal mate, a caring mother.

  "Maybe we can picnic later," she said. "Order something from the chef."

  Michael smiled. "Sounds good to me. How about you, buddy?"

  Justin grinned his approval, and they exited the barn and made contact with the spring air.

  The ranch presented sights and sounds from nature. The hills, formed from a limestone bedrock, rose in the distance, and a mild breeze blew, rattling leaves on trees. A floral aroma blended with hay, horses and grass.

  In a nearby arena, Bobby coached his student, a young man urging his mount into a fluid lope.

  Chester fit into the scene, too. The mutt lolled in the shade, yawning big and wide.

  Michael stopped to greet his pet. "What are you doing, Ches?"

  Heather eyed the dog. "A whole lot of nothing, from the look of him. Mr. Lazy Bones."

  "Da…da…da," Justin said, chiming into the conversation.

  "Does that mean Daddy?" Michael asked.

  "Actually—" she paused, met the anticipation in his eyes "—it means dog."

  "Oh." His voice fell.

  "But it could mean Daddy, too." She moved closer, needing to keep the family connection alive.

  "Daddy-Dog, huh?" He chuckled. "I think I'll pass that one along to Reed."

  "Michael." With a playful scold, she bumped his arm.

  His expression turned serious. "He's going to be calling soon, isn't he?"

  "Yes." She knew he'd begun to worry about her brother, to think of him with compassion. "It'll be good to hear his voice."

  They headed to the arena, stood at the fence rail.

  Justin watched the man on horseback, and Heather recalled lighter-hearted days. Mornings when she, Reed and Michael used to trail ride in the hills.

  "I'm glad you're going to teach Justin to ride someday," she said.

  "Yeah. All Native babies should be cowboys."

  "Or cowgirls," she put in.

  He nodded, and they remained outdoors, letting the day slip by comfortably. They walked in the sun, relaxed in the shade, tossed a Frisbee with Chester and picnicked on a bench near the chef's garden.

  Hours later, they returned to the farmhouse, a sleepy Justin in tow. Heather put him down for a nap and joined Michael in the living room.

  He stood beside the desk, the phone to his ear, checking voice mail messages. Then his expression darkened.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "It was Halloway." His cleared his throat, gave her a troubled look. "Beverly died this morning."

  Heather drew a choppy breath. She'd known this was coming, but it still hurt, still lanced her like an arrow.

  Uneasy, he shuffled some papers on the rolltop desk. "The funeral is on Tuesday. Halloway said we're not welcome. He doesn't want us there."

  A flood of tears rushed her eyes. Beverly was truly gone. There were no more goodbyes.

  And then another thought filtered through her mind, wrapping itself around her heart.

  Beverly was with the other pony now, watching over the child Heather had lost.

  Michael's son.

  Clinging to the comfort of heaven, she moved to stand beside him.

  In the silence that followed, in the fading light of dusk, he reached for her. She put her head on his shoulder and promised herself that she would tell him about their baby.

  Someday. When the time was right.

  * * *

  The day had come. Heather waited by the scrambler-activated phone, anxious for her brother to call. Michael sat on the sofa, turning pages in a pop-up book for Justin. The baby cuddled on his lap, watching the three-dimensional pictures come to life.

  "Wa?" the child said in an inquisitive tone.

  "That's a tiger." Michael struck a ferocious pose. "Grrr."

  "Grrr." Justin mimicked him, right down to both hands poised in the air like claws.

  Heather gazed at the boy, at his funny little snarling expression. She knew Michael was keeping Justin entertained until she heard from Reed.

  "What if he doesn't call?" she said suddenly.

  "He will."

  "But what if he doesn't?"

  Her question hung in the air. If her brother didn't call, then he was in trouble. Possibly even dead. The mob hadn't given up. A hired gu
n was still on the case, a hit man whose sole purpose was to hunt down Beverly's old lover and kill him.

  "I can't help but worry," she said.

  Michael glanced at the clock, turned another page for Justin. "He's not due to call just yet."

  No, there were still twenty minutes to spare.

  She blew out a breath and told herself to relax. Surely, Reed would continue to outfox the mob.

  Wouldn't he?

  Her brother was a genius, smarter than some money-grubbing hit man.

  She adjusted her chair at the desk and thanked God for Michael and the baby. Her family. Her support group.

  Justin pointed to another figure popping out of the book. "Wa?"

  "That's a giraffe." Michael stalled, searching for a noise to describe the animal. Then he stretched his neck, using a visual aid instead. "They're tall. See? They touch the top of the trees."

  Justin craned his neck, too.

  "That's right." Pride sounded in his voice. "We've got a smart kid here."

  Smart. "Like my brother."

  "Yes, like your brother." Thoughtful, Michael smoothed the baby's hair. "Why did Halloway forbid Reed from dating Beverly?"

  "Because there are rules to follow. Rules the mob enforces. Engaging in an affair with the wife, daughter or sister of another member is prohibited. Punishable by death."

  "But Reed wasn't playing around. He wanted to marry Beverly. Is there a rule against that?"

  "Not if permission is granted, but some mobsters don't want their daughters marrying men from their organization. They don't even want their sons involved."

  "Yeah, but Halloway isn't like that. Aren't his sons prominent members of the West Coast Family?"

  She nodded. "Halloway promotes them. His oldest is his underboss."

  "Then why not promote the man who was in love with his daughter? Who wanted to marry her? Why beat the crap out of Reed and warn him to stay away from Beverly?"

  "Most men are protective of their daughters, even men like Halloway."

  "I think there's more to it than that."

  "Reed and Beverly never mentioned anything."

  "Maybe it was something they didn't want you to know." Michael turned the next page, and Justin studied a python, its coiled body arched to strike. "I'll bet the FBI knows. I'll bet they know exactly what went on."

  She reached for the card Sims had given them. She kept it handy, prepared to give Reed the information.

  "Wa?" Justin asked, still engaged in the book.

  "Snake," Michael told him. "Like Denny Halloway."

  Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty.

  Heather watched the clock, focusing on every second that Reed was late. Maybe he wasn't as smart as she'd given him credit for. Maybe he'd gotten tripped up.

  Michael put the baby on the floor. Justin had grown tired of jungle creatures and wanted to lie on a pillow with Chester.

  "Da…da…da," he said, patting the pooch. Chester gave the boy a big, sloppy kiss but Heather couldn't find the strength to smile.

  Beverly had been buried yesterday, and Reed—

  The telephone rang, screeching like a siren.

  She grabbed the receiver, felt her heart pound. "Hello?"

  "I'm sorry I'm late," a familiar voice said. She sighed and nodded to Michael, who watched her, waiting for confirmation that the person on the other end of the line was her brother.

  She scooted in her chair, holding the phone close to her ear. "I've been so worried."

  "I thought I was being followed. It turned out to be nothing."

  Heather's throat tightened. Should she tell him about Beverly? Tell him she was dead?

  "How's it going with you and Michael?" he asked.

  "We're getting closer every day." Closer, she prayed, to a commitment. "He's a good father. As good as you said he would be."

  A pause, then an emotional, "How's Justin?"

  She glanced at the baby. He chewed on a teething ring while Chester gnawed on a bone. "He's perfect. Healthy and happy. He loves the ranch."

  "I miss him."

  "I know." She also knew this conversation would be short, even if it was encrypted. Reed didn't take chances, not anymore. "The FBI was here."

  "Why? What did they want?"

  "They said they might be able to help." She picked up Sims' card. "They left their names and number. Write it down, okay?"

  "Are you sure they're FBI?"

  "Yes. Michael checked them out." She read the information on the card, knew he was scratching it out in his Einstein script.

  "Are you going to call them?" she asked.

  "I don't know. I have to think about it."

  "I want you to be safe." She pictured him, with his broad shoulders and hard, angular face. He looked as tough as he was. "I love you."

  "I love you, too."

  Such easy words, she thought. Easy between siblings. She glanced at Michael. Difficult between lovers.

  His voice broke. "Give Justin a kiss from me. Hold him, show him how much I care."

  Her eyes filled with tears. She couldn't do it. She couldn't tell her brother that Beverly was dead.

  "I'll try to call again. But I can't be sure when," he said.

  "I'll be prepared." She would keep the scrambler ready, keep this line open for his calls.

  "Thank Michael for me. Tell him…" A gruff pause, a cleared throat. "Just say thanks."

  "I will."

  "Bye, Blondie Bear." He used the nickname he'd given her when they were children. "And don't forget that kiss, that hug for Justin."

  "I won't. I promise I won't."

  A second later, the line went dead, leaving nothingness in her ear.

  Michael picked up the baby and came toward her. "Is he all right?"

  "He sounded lonely. Distant. Like he was trying to keep himself from feeling too much." She placed the phone on its cradle and reached for Justin, holding him close, pressing her lips to his cheek. A kiss from Reed, from the daddy he'd lost. "I couldn't bring myself to tell him about Beverly."

  "I don't blame you." He jammed his hands into his pockets, frowned a little.

  They remained silent for a moment, both thinking about Beverly, recalling her on her deathbed.

  "Why do you think she fell for Reed?" Michael asked. "If she detested her father's business, then what made Reed, one of her dad's soldiers, so appealing?"

  Heather sighed. "People can't help who they fall in love with."

  His frown deepened, and she quelled the pain of not being loved, of hoping and dreaming. He didn't understand what Reed and Beverly had, the consuming need to be together, to get married, to raise a family, to share every aspect of their lives.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to imply that Reed wasn't worthy of Beverly."

  "Reed used to say the same thing. That he wasn't good enough for her."

  He smoothed a strand of her hair, comforting her, trying to dissolve the melancholy, to let it drift away. "Are you hungry? I can fix dinner."

  He must have known that she hadn't eaten, except for a few sparse bites at breakfast. "What are you going to make?"

  "Whatever you're in the mood for."

  "You decide." Anything was fine, anything that would revive her weary system.

  She followed him into the kitchen, sat on a nearby stool and watched the culinary preparation. After he marinated chicken breasts, he popped them in the oven, along with diced carrots and rosemary-seasoned potatoes.

  While the food filled the old farmhouse with a tasty aroma, he removed a box of instant pudding and dumped the contents into a bowl.

  Milk was added, and the electric mixer sounded, whipping the vanilla concoction into a thick swirl.

  Justin crooned "Um … um … um," and they both laughed.

  Michael reached for a spoon. "Somebody wants dessert."

  As he scooped some pudding into a plastic bowl for the baby, she said, "Reed told me to thank you."

  "Really?" He looked up and smiled. "I
think it's working. Us being parents."

  "Me, too." She brought Justin to his new daddy.

  And when the three of them embraced, she let the feeling, the simple of joy of having a family, sweep her away.

  * * *

  The Corral, the local honky-tonk, boasted scarred oak walls, live country music and pool tables near the backdoor. Sawdust littered the floor, and rustic table-tops provided fat white candles and bowls of peanuts.

  Michael and Heather occupied a cozy spot near a window. This was a date, a night on the town he'd arranged. He wasn't sure if Heather considered a few hours at the Corral romantic, but he did. The band that utilized the stage was known for slow, crooning ballads. Michael intended to dance, to show the local patrons that his lady was back, that he wasn't sitting at a bar stool by himself, staring into space and nursing a mind-numbing beer.

  "I'm a little nervous," Heather said.

  "Why? What's wrong?"

  "This is the first time I've left Justin alone."

  "He's not alone. He's with Bobby and Julianne." They'd sent Chester along, too. And of course baby Brendan was there, as well. "He's in good hands."

  She sighed. "I know, but…"

  "Here." He handed her his cell phone. "Call them. Find out how he's doing." He didn't want her worrying. He hoped for a relaxing evening, a night away from the turmoil in their lives. He knew she was still mourning Beverly, still fretting about her brother's safety.

  She dialed the number and waited for someone to answer. Michael sipped his soda. He'd decided not to drink tonight, not to blur his brain with alcohol. He'd done enough of that to last a lifetime.

  "Hi, Julianne? It's Heather. I was wondering how Justin is doing." She sat a little straighter, listened to the voice on the other end of the line. "Really? I'm so glad. Yes, please, put him on." Covering the mouthpiece, she looked up at Michael. "Justin is coming to the phone."

  He shot her an amused grin. The kid was going to babble a bunch of nonsense, the way he did on his toy phone.

  "Hi, sweetie," she said, her tone softening. "Are you having fun?"

  Michael watched her expression, the maternal glow in her eyes. She simply sat, a smile on her face, listening to Justin prattle.

  After a short while, she said, "I love you. Kiss Chester goodnight for me, and Daddy and I will see you later." She spoke to Julianne again, then ended the call.