Cherokee Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather

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