Cherokee Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather

her rental car, preparing the guest room for Justin and herself.

      She’d cleaned everything. She’d even dusted the third bedroom, the one filled with junk Michael had been storing for years.

      And like Suzy-homemaker, she’d organized the kitchen cupboards, too.

      Then she’d gotten the brilliant idea to fix dinner, believing quite foolishly that Michael would come home in time to eat.

      The table was set and the food had gone cold. It wasn’t a fancy meal, considering the simple contents in Michael’s fridge, but she made a pretty good meat loaf. And he liked mashed potatoes, with pools of melting butter instead of gravy.

      She sat at the table and fidgeted with a bowl of wilting green beans. She’d lost her appetite hours ago. Deciding to clean up, she headed to the kitchen for aluminum foil and plastic containers.

      What was she doing? Trying to resume where they left off? If he hadn’t loved her then, what made her think he would fall in love with her now? That the next two months would change her life?

      She needed Michael to help her set the stage, to establish Justin’s paternity, but beyond that, she had no right to expect anything more.

      Want it, crave it, but not expect it.

      She wrapped the meat loaf and scooped the potatoes into a plastic bowl, closing the vacuum-sealed lid. Then the front door rattled, and her heartbeat tripled.

      Michael was home.

      Should she greet him? Or continue clearing the table? Cursing her quaking hands, she chose the table. How could a man she’d known for over half her life make her so nervous?

      Because she’d loved him for over half her life, and he’d always given her butterflies.

      She heard him moving around in the living room. Removing his hat, most likely, brushing the moisture from his clothes.

      She pictured him, as he was, tall and dark, amid the homespun furnishings. Michael had inherited the old farmhouse from his mother, a hardworking waitress who’d acquired it from her ancestors—German immigrants who’d settled in the Texas Hill Country.

      The house bore hardwood floors, paned windows and hand-stenciled trim that dressed up door frames and plain walls. A live oak in the front yard stood guard throughout the year, and bluebonnets blanketed the ground every spring.

      As Heather made a face at the green beans, wondering if she should toss them out, Michael entered the dining room.

      “You made dinner?”

      She looked up. His hair was long and loose and slightly damp. “Yes.” She wished she’d thought to remove the two place settings, the scented candle still burning. The romantic ambience, she thought. “Are you hungry? It’s cold, but I can reheat it.”

      “I grabbed a bite in town.”

      “Oh.” She fidgeted with a fan-shaped napkin, suddenly embarrassed that she’d folded it that way. “So you went out?”

      “Yeah. Did you think I was working all this time?”

      She shrugged as if his whereabouts didn’t matter. Then she couldn’t stop herself from asking. “Where’d you go?”

      He shifted his stance. “To have a few beers.”

      “At the Corral?”

      “Yes.”

      So he’d gone to the local honky-tonk. “What’d you do there?”

      “I just told you. I had a few beers.”

      He didn’t play pool? Or dance? Or flirt with the country barflies? The bimbos with their big hairdos and tight jeans? “So that’s all you did?”

      He peered in the foil-wrapped package, checking out the meat loaf. “Yep. That’s all.”

      “I cleaned the house,” she said, changing the subject, hating herself for feeling like a suspicious lover.

      “You didn’t have to. I don’t expect you to pick up after me. I never did.”

      “I needed to baby-proof the place.”

      “Oh.” He broke off a corner of the meat loaf, ate it, then caught himself. “I guess I worked up another appetite.”

      Doing what? she wondered. “I’ll fix you a plate.”

      “This is fine.” He took a few slices and devoured them cold. Next he uncapped the mashed potatoes and ate a large portion directly from the bowl.

      Hardly the intimate meal she’d planned. “Did you tell anyone about me and Justin?”

      He tasted the soggy green beans. “No.”

      “Not even Bobby?”

      “My uncle was busy today.”

      “Too busy to talk to you?”

      Now it was Michael’s turn to shrug. “I didn’t feel like going into all of it.”

      An ache, as solid as the hills, slammed into her heart. He hadn’t felt like talking about her, the woman he’d lived with, the woman who still loved him. “Seems to me that a man whose girlfriend just returned to him with his baby would’ve explained the situation to his family instead of going out for a few beers.”

      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.”