CHEROKEE DAD Page 13

  "I don't know." Keeping busy, she began to load the dishwasher, clearing the dishes he'd left in the sink. "Somewhere. Anywhere."

  Her response sounded distant, far removed from the family he'd thought they'd become.

  "Julianne thinks I should stay in Texas. In this area." She scrubbed a plate, removing remnants from Michael's breakfast, pancakes he'd barely eaten. "But I can't. I don't belong here anymore. I need to start over."

  He didn't want her to leave, but short of giving in to the addiction, of losing his heart and what was left of his soul, he didn't know how to ask her to stay.

  She closed the dishwasher and dried her hands. Somewhere along the way, she'd gotten a manicure. Her fingernails looked stronger, not nearly as brittle as the day she'd arrived.

  "As soon as Justin is well enough to travel, I'll pick a place to go."

  He envisioned her spinning a globe, choosing a new location at random. "You'll need money. Enough to keep you going until you find a job." He longed to take her in his arms, to hold her until the rest of the world disappeared. But that would only feed the obsession, make the ache inside him worse. "I'll help you get settled. In the meantime, you can stay here. In the guest room," he added.

  "Thank you." When her voice turned raw, she cleared her throat.

  He turned toward Justin. The boy had food all over his face, clumps of banana and peas on his bib and down the front of his pants.

  What was he going to do without his son?

  Be a long-distance dad, he told himself. Pay child support, send gifts, make phone calls, visit during holidays.

  "Hey, buddy." He wiped the child's face and hands, receiving a frown for his effort.

  "I'll give him a bath," Heather said.

  Possessive, Michael reached for Justin. "I can do it."

  Suddenly they stared at each other, tense and uncomfortable, like divorce-bound parents. How could this seem like the dissolution of a marriage? They'd never taken vows to begin with.

  "Maybe we should do it together," he said, unable to cope with letting go this soon.

  "Okay." Her voice was soft, sad. As lonely as the feeling sweeping over him.

  They entered the bathroom, and she filled the tub, adding Justin's favorite bubble bath, two toy boats and a rubber octopus.

  Mindful of Justin's illness, they kept him warm, sponging water over his body and washing him with a gentle cloth. The bathroom was cramped, the quarters near the tub tight. Justin seemed to enjoy having both parents at his beck and call. He gave the octopus a ride on the bigger boat and smiled at Mom and Dad.

  It was strange to cherish one child while you mourned the other, Michael thought.

  "I'm going to miss Justin's first birthday," he found himself saying. Surely Heather would be gone by then.

  "I wish I could stay. But I can't. I just can't."

  The rest of her words went unspoken. If Michael loved her, she would stay. But how could he? It hurt too much to give that deeply, to let someone steal your life's blood. He'd watched his mother die of cancer, but her spirit had died long before the disease had ravaged her. She'd perished from love, from the emotion that was supposed to heal.

  Before the water cooled, Heather rinsed Justin and wrapped him in a towel. Fluffy and warm, he clung to her, handing Michael the octopus.

  "Thanks, buddy." He had the urge to keep it, to tuck it away somewhere, to hold it against his heart when the child was gone.

  Should he keep something of Heather's, too? Her favorite perfume? A jeweled hair barrette? The pearl choker he'd given her on her twentieth birthday?

  No, not the pearls. He couldn't take back a gift.

  He followed Heather into the nursery and watched her diaper and dress the baby.

  When she looked up, their eyes met.

  His friend.

  His former lover.

  The lady, heaven help him, he simply couldn't keep.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  Michael sat at his desk in the office he shared with his uncle at the barn, unable to concentrate. Bobby kept sliding him sideways glances, making him moodier than he already was.

  "You okay, Mike?"

  He shrugged and riffled through his desk drawer, taking inventory: a box of pens, two candy bars, a self-inking rubber stamp, a scatter of paper clips, a pocket calendar, scissors, a stack of Elk Ridge Ranch catalogs. Digging a little deeper, he found a crumpled, half-empty pack of cigarettes.

  Tempted to light one up, he frowned. No doubt they were stale by now.

  Bobby spoke again, cutting into the silence, cutting into Michael's heart. "You're missing Heather already."

  "She isn't gone yet." He loosened a cigarette from the pack, broke it in half and watched the tobacco litter his drawer.

  "You're still missing her."

  "She's been part of my life since I was a kid." And six days had passed since she'd decided to leave. Justin was nearly well enough to travel, so it was only a matter of time before she packed up the boy and left.

  She was considering relocating to Oregon or Washington, maybe Northern California. She'd promised to keep in touch, of course. But that didn't ease the emptiness.

  Was this how his mom had felt when she'd lost his dad? When he'd walked away, leaving her pregnant with his child?

  Michael turned to face his uncle. "Why didn't my mom ever get over my dad?"

  Reacting to the change of topic, Bobby shifted in his chair. "Your mother didn't talk to me about your father. We didn't discuss him, not to any degree. She was concerned about you, Mike. About what was going to happen to you."

  Which made sense, he supposed. His mom had been terminally ill when she'd contacted Bobby, when she'd asked him to take care of his brother's son.

  "So she never told you that my dad was the love of her life?"

  "No." Bobby shook his head. "She barely mentioned Cameron. But he'd been dead for quite a while by then."

  Michael nodded. Cameron Elk, the father he'd never met, had been killed in a bar fight many years before. "Did you know she kept scrapbooks about him? Rodeo clippings and such?"

  Surprised, Bobby lifted his brows. "No, I didn't. Do you still have them? Or did you get rid of them after she died?"

  "I still have them." Yellowed pages, he thought. Faded photographs of a prominent cowboy. "I knew they were important to my mom."

  "She was a nice lady."

  "Yes, she was." Michael pictured her, with her blond hair and blue eyes, her soft-spoken nature. She'd met his dad at the local diner where she'd worked, and whenever he'd been on his way to a rodeo in the area, he would spend the night at her house. But after he'd discovered that she'd conceived his child, he never came back.

  Bobby frowned. "I'm sorry about what my brother did. Cameron had no right to abandon you."

  "It wasn't so bad. I got lucky. I got you." He gazed at the man who'd kept him from being completely orphaned, who'd relocated to Texas to raise him. "The tough part for me is thinking about my mom. All those years she waited for my dad to come back, that she believed in him. Being in love kept her from being truly happy."

  Bobby's frown grew more intense, more troubled. "Being in love isn't what kept her from being happy. Being alone is what hurt." He came around to the side of his desk and sat on the edge of it. "How would you feel if you never saw Heather again?"

  Restless, Michael snapped another cigarette in half. "I didn't see her for eighteen months."

  "I know. But deep down, you hoped she would come back. A part of you didn't let go."

  "I'm letting go now."

  "But why?" Bobby asked. "Heather isn't treating you the way Cameron treated your mom. She loves you, Michael."

  "It isn't that simple." He closed his drawer, shutting out the scattered tobacco. "There are things you don't understand. Things I can't explain. Besides, I'll see her again. We have a son together. We'll be in touch for the rest of our lives."

  Or would they? What if Heather wasn't ha
ppy in Oregon or Washington or wherever she went? What if she considered a monumental change?

  What if she called the FBI and asked them to bring her and the baby into the Witness Protection Program with Reed?

  Michael would lose her and Justin forever. His woman and his child would no longer exist. Their identities would change, and his family would be lost.

  Panicked, he shoved away from his desk, then stood on wobbly legs, suddenly desperate to see Heather.

  "I'm going home for a while," Michael said.

  Without waiting for a response, he exited the barn, climbed into his truck and drove to the farmhouse.

  He found Heather at the dining-room table, typing her résumé on a laptop, a computer they had always shared. Her half-eaten lunch sat nearby, the crust on a chicken-salad sandwich picked away and discarded on the side of the dish.

  He assumed Justin was down for his nap, sleeping on this quiet afternoon.

  As Michael shifted his feet, she looked over her shoulder, then turned back to her work, avoiding his gaze.

  When they were kids, he used to tug on her hair to get her attention. But they weren't kids anymore, he thought. And a playful tug would only make him ache.

  What was he doing here? Torturing himself?

  She reached for her soda, and he watched her hand curl around the can. As she took a sip, he moved closer, hovering like a vulture.

  Should he admit that he could barely eat? Barely sleep? Barely survive without her? God help him, but he longed to touch her again, to inhale her scent, to absorb the texture of her skin, the beat of her pulse.

  "I'm worried about something," he said, coming around the table so she could see him.

  She set her soda down. "What?"

  "That you'll disappear. That you'll enter the Witness Protection Program with Reed, and I'll never see you or Justin again." It was a plausible scenario, he thought. Much too plausible. The mob wouldn't suspect that Justin was Reed's son, not if Heather was with the boy. "You'd be gone for good."

  "I would never do that." She pushed her chair back a little. "As much as I miss my brother, I'd miss you more. I couldn't imagine not ever seeing you again, not keeping in touch by phone or—"

  "Don't leave me, Heather." He blurted the words, his heartbeat blasting his chest. "Please, don't leave."

  Stunned, she gazed at him. He sat next to her, doing his damnedest to regain his composure, to handle this without falling apart.

  "Why?" she asked, putting him on the spot. "Why should I stay?"

  "Because I'm—" Anxious, apprehensive, he paused. Once he said the words, once he acknowledged his feelings out loud, there was no turning back.

  "You're what?" she pressed.

  "In love with you." Not obsessed or addicted. In love, he thought.

  Her eyes widened and her voice turned wary. "Since when?"

  He thought back to their youth, to the day she'd asked him to marry her, to wrap a Cherokee blanket around their shoulders and take a private vow. "Since you were sixteen, and I was too old to have you."

  "You called me jailbait."

  "I wanted you. More than you can imagine. For a moment, I even considered your offer."

  "My offer?" Her voice quavered. "The secret ceremony?"

  He nodded, reached for her hand. "Does it still stand?"

  Her hand trembled in his. "You want to marry me?"

  "Yes, but not in secret. I want a public wedding, with friends and family, and—"

  Her eyes watered, fogged with disbelief. "Oh, Michael. Are you sure?"

  "Yes." He understood his feelings now, the way he'd confused love with loneliness. "I don't want to live without you. I was afraid to admit how much I needed you. But I'm not afraid anymore." But he was still nervous, he thought. Dizzy from the truth, from the admission of love.

  She left her chair and came to him, slipping her arms around his shoulders, calming him. He rose, and in the light of day, they gazed at each other. He didn't repeat his question, asking if she still wanted to be his wife. He could see the answer in her eyes.

  Heather reached for the buttons on his shirt and undid them, one by one. She needed to strip away the pain from the past, to press her cheek against his heart and make a new memory.

  Michael Elk loved her. And he always had.

  "I gave up on dreams." On wishing wells, shooting stars and fairy tales, she thought. On hope for the future.

  He kept her close. "So did I. But I won't, not ever again."

  "Me, neither." His chest rose and fell, strong and steady against her cheek. "How did you know, Michael? What made you realize that you love me?"

  He kissed the top of her head, encouraging her to look up at him. "It was something my uncle said. He asked me how I would feel if I never saw you again. And then suddenly I was panicking about losing you for good."

  "I'm here to stay," she told him. "I'll never go away again."

  "I'm sorry I hurt you," he whispered. "That I denied how I felt about you."

  "I'm sorry, too." She'd never meant to end up on the run, to leave him steeped in fear.

  "You've apologized enough, Heather. It's time to move on."

  Guilt clenched her heart. "But our baby didn't survive. If I'd been in a hospital, if I'd—"

  "Shh." He smoothed a hand down her hair, comforting her. "It wasn't your fault."

  Sadness swirled in her mind. "I should have given him a name."

  "No." He shook his head. "You did the right thing. You followed the old Cherokee way." He paused, took a deep breath. "Will you take me to the place he's buried?"

  "Yes." She understood that he needed to say goodbye to the child he'd never known, to the infant she'd cradled in her womb.

  When they both fell silent, he led her to their bedroom and kissed her, starting the day over, refreshing his confession of love.

  She took what he offered, lost in the beauty of magic, of silver-wrapped wishes and floral-scented dreams. Roaming his body, she paused to unbuckle his belt and unfasten his jeans. He backed her toward the bed, and they eased their way onto the sheets, undressing each other, hands and mouths questing.

  Sensation slid over sensation, and pleasure, sweet wicked pleasure, welcomed need. Their lips met, softly, slowly, setting a languid rhythm.

  She closed her eyes, then opened them, watching him caress the swell of her breasts, his tongue darting to taste, to tease, to make the moment last.

  As the sun lit the shadows on his face, and his hair draped her in a dark, almost dangerous curtain, she knew this was Michael – the boy who'd charmed her with his smile, the rough, hard-edged man who'd molded and shaped her life.

  Their eyes met, and he rose above her, determined to give her more, to take her higher, to make the girl she had once been, the woman she'd become, fall in love all over again.

  * * *

  Michael, Heather and Justin arrived in Oklahoma on a dry, hot afternoon. The road to the cabin was a long, rough trek, a path flanked by rock formations and foliage.

  This wasn't the familiar terrain of Michael's homeland, but it was still beautiful. The ground was speckled with grass, trees and little yellow flowers that grew like weeds.

  When the cabin came into view, he gazed at the primitive wooden structure. The tiny log dwelling appeared to be unoccupied, a lone building that rarely received tenants. But it was, he supposed, too far from civilization to provide the comfort most folks were looking for.

  He glanced at Heather. She sat beside him in the rented SUV, as golden as the flowers that dotted the land.

  She smiled at him, and his heart turned as warm as wax, melting like a candle. He knew this was difficult for her, coming back to the place where she'd birthed and buried a child. But she was here for him, the father of that lost child.

  He parked near the cabin, and Justin awakened in the back seat, stretching and moaning.

  "Are you ready?" Michael asked Heather.

  She nodded, and they exited the vehicle. He unbuckled Justin from
his car seat and lifted the boy into his arms. Justin clung to him, still battling sleep. He smoothed the child's thick dark hair and moved closer to Heather.

  "It's this way," she said, guiding them past the rustic building and into a wooded area that stretched for miles.

  They weaved in and out of peeling bark and greenery, then suddenly Michael saw the tree that marked the baby's grave. It rose from the ground like an angel, its summer blooms as white and fluffy as feathers.

  As they approached, Justin made an awed sound. Michael's eyes went misty.

  With Heather at his side, they knelt beneath the tree. Michael sat Justin in front of him and let the boy cup a handful of the fallen blooms.

  "There was another baby," Heather told Justin. "And we're here to say goodbye to him."

  "He had a pony just like yours," Michael added.

  "Pa?" The child looked up. He was nearing his first birthday, his little legs growing sturdier. Soon he would be walking, then running through the grass at home.

  "The other baby was our son," Michael went on. "But you're our son, too." The child of their heart, he thought. The sweet, beautiful boy they would love and cherish for the rest of their lives.

  Justin handed Michael one of the white petals and he took it willingly, holding it like a snowflake in the palm of his hand.

  This would be the first and only time they would mention the other baby to Justin. Heather's brother had asked them to keep Justin's true parentage a secret and that meant keeping the existence of the infant who'd died a secret as well.

  Heather smoothed her hand over the ground. "Beverly is with him," she said. "We're watching over her baby, and she's watching over ours."

  Michael nodded. His eyes were watering again, but he didn't want to cry. He didn't want this moment to be sad.

  Making peace with his emotions, he kissed Heather's cheek. She put her head on his shoulder, and for a while they remained silent.

  Finally, he recited a Cherokee prayer his uncle had taught him long ago. While he spoke the words, Justin settled onto his lap, listening to the language of their ancestors.

  Afterward, Michael said goodbye to the other baby and reached for Heather's hand.