Cherokee Dad

He raised his brows, two wicked slashes of black over exotic-shaped eyes. “Justin isn’t my son.”

“He’s supposed to be, Michael.”

“But he isn’t.”

She wanted to cry, to sink to the floor and weep. The way she’d cried over the other pony. “You can’t act this way, not if we’re going to tell people that Justin is our baby.”

“Then give me a day or so to get used to it. To cope with the idea.”

“Fine.” She carried the dishes into the kitchen, going back and forth, putting away the leftovers.

“Where is the kid?”

“Asleep. It’s after ten. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“You’re not my girlfriend anymore, Heather. I don’t have to stay home at night.”

Her chest hurt again, with pain and fury, heartbreak and devastation. “Yes, you do. We’re supposed to be reconciling.”

His eyes blazed. “Does that mean I get to sleep with you? Get my hot-and-nasty fill before I kick you out?”

Heather froze. Was that the way he thought of her, of the nights they’d spent in each other’s arms?

She wanted to throw a plate at him, but she’d already cleared the table. “Not on your life, buster. And when the time comes, I’ll be leaving on my own.”

“Of course you will. You already left once. How hard can it be to walk out a second time?”

She banked her fury. She was the one who’d taken off, who’d lied about why she’d gone to California. “I never meant to stay away.”

“But you did. And now you’re back with Reed’s son.”

“Our son, Michael. You have to start thinking of him as our son.”

The edge in his voice softened, but his stance remained defensive. “Was Reed okay about you bringing Justin to me? About me pretending to be his father?”

“Yes. He thinks you’ll make a good dad. That you’ll treat Justin right.” But Reed also thought that Michael loved her, that he’d loved her for years. Of course she doubted that Michael would believe that Reed had interceded for him, giving their relationship his blessing. “He doesn’t hate you the way you hate him.”

“Yes, he does. He’s just telling you what you want to hear. He’s always done that.”

Telling her what she wanted to hear—like Michael loving her. “He’s my brother. It’s his job to protect me.”

“The way he protected you from getting caught up in the mob?”

Weary, Heather closed her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Reed.” To think about him running for the rest of his life, mourning his wife and son.

When she opened her eyes, Michael was staring, watching her eyelids flutter. Self-conscious, she took a deep breath. He used to watch her sleep, and then wake her with a stirring kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a rough time.”

“Yes.” And losing him was making everything that much harder.

He reached out as if to smooth a strand of her hair away from her face, but drew back and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I should get to bed.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Me, too.”

A few seconds later, their gazes locked, making the moment even more awkward.

She broke eye contact first, blowing out the candle, sending the flame dancing before it disappeared.

Then she and Michael separated, and like the wounded ex-lovers they’d become, they drifted into different bedrooms.

And closed their doors without making a sound.

Three

Michael heard the shower running and the baby crying.

Great. He buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. Another anxiety-ridden morning.

Should he let Justin cry? Ignore the baby’s angry wails and let Heather deal with him after she finished her shower?

Yeah, he thought. That was exactly what he should do. Yet as he reached for his boots, the kid’s bawling made him guilty.

What if the little guy was sick? Or afraid? Or—

Oh, hell.

Michael shoved on his boots. Heather could be in the shower forever. Washing that hair of hers was a major task. He knew. He’d shampooed it for her plenty of times. And like the idiot he was, he still had fantasies about her hair—the way it streamed down her back, slid through his fingers when he kissed her.

Which, he warned himself, was something he shouldn’t be thinking about.

Justin let out another wail, and Michael gave up and went into the kid’s room.

The baby stood in his portable crib, screaming like a pint-sized banshee. When he spotted Michael, he gulped, and then cried some more.

“What’s the matter?” Michael asked.

The boy gulped again. Tears streamed down his face, and his hair, tousled from sleep, stuck out at odd angles. He had thick, dark hair. A lot like Reed’s. Or mine, Michael thought.

Justin made a distressed face. “Pa…pa…pa.”

Papa? Daddy? Was he crying for Reed?

“I can’t help you, buddy. I have no idea where your papa is.”

The boy glanced at the floor. “Pa.”

Michael looked down, then saw the stuffed animal at his feet. “Is this what all the commotion is about?” He reached for the toy, a yellow horse with threads of gold in its mane. “Here.” He handed it over, and the kid snatched it like candy.

Justin hiccupped and hugged the horse, and Michael ruffled the boy’s messy hair. “Let’s see if I can find something to dry your eyes.”

He looked around the room and noticed a bunch of baby junk on the dresser. Diapers, pop-up wipes, lotion. He studied the wipes. Would it be all right to clean the kid’s face with disposable cloths designed to wipe his bottom? Like the packets of wet-napkins barbecue joints handed out? Or the fancy ones the chef at the ranch provided?

Unsure of what else to do, Michael untucked his shirt and used the end of it, dabbing the child’s face. He wasn’t sure if butt wipes had the same ingredients as face wipes, and he wasn’t about to make a stupid mistake and irritate the boy’s eyes.

“There. That’s better.”

Justin rewarded him with a goofy grin.

“I guess you think so, too.”

“Pa.” The kid held out his horse.

Michael took the toy, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with it. Then he spotted the key on the side. “Does it talk?” He wound the key and a lullaby played. “Oh, I see. It’s a musical horse. Can’t say I’m familiar with the tune, though.”

He handed the stuffed animal back to Justin, and the boy shot him another one of those goofy grins. Well, what do you know? He had dimples, kind of like Shirley Temple. Or Baby Face Nelson. After all, this was Reed’s kid.

Justin blew bubbles, and Michael wondered what Heather intended to tell the boy when he was older. The truth, of course. She couldn’t let Justin grow up not knowing his true parentage.

Could she?

“I’m only going to be your dad for a few months. So don’t get used to this.”

The kid handed over the horse again.

“All right, fine. We’ll play the song one more time.”

Just as Michael turned the key, the door opened.

Damn. There stood Heather in a bathrobe, her damp hair teasing the terry cloth.

“Justin was throwing a fit,” he said. “He dropped his horse.”

She tilted her head. He wasn’t close enough to inhale her fragrance, but he knew she favored fruit-scented soaps and shampoos.

“Pony.”

The robe gapped, just a bit. She wasn’t wearing a bra. That much he could tell. But whether she’d donned a pair of panties was anybody’s guess. “What?”

“It’s a pony.”

“Pa,” Justin parroted.

Michael glanced at the toy in his hand. Pa meant pony?

“Oh. Okay.” Feeling foolish, he gave Justin his furry companion. The dang thing plunked out a song while Heather’s robe played a distracting game of peekaboo.

Why would she be wearing panties? She’d just climbed out of the shower.

“I’ll show you how to change a diaper,” she said.

He took a step back. Making the transition from her half-naked body to diapering a baby didn’t register, not in his befuddled mind. “What for?”

“Because you’re supposed to be learning to be a dad.”

There she went, trying to get him into the Daddy mode, to embellish his short-lived role. “You can show me, but I’m not going to do it, especially if he’s stinky.”

“He’s wet.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because he’s wet every morning.”

She placed Justin on the bed and unsnapped his pajamas. Once he was exposed, she covered him, much too quickly, then reached for the wipes.

Michael rolled his eyes. Was she worried about the baby’s modesty? “I’ve seen one of those before, Heather. In fact, I think I have one.” He glanced at his fly. “Yep, sure enough, I do.”

She rolled her eyes right back at him. “Little boys tend to spray.”

“Really?” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Has he ever got you?”

“No, but he got Reed.”

“Oh, yeah?” He poked the baby’s belly. “So you peed on your dad, huh? I’ll bet that put Mr. Hardened Criminal in his place.”

Justin laughed, and Michael grinned. “My sentiments exactly.”

Heather shook her head. “That’s not funny.”

“Then why are you cracking a smile?”

“I’m not.” But she was, and they both knew it. She’d always had a silly sense of humor, even where her hard-ass brother was concerned.

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