Cherokee Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather

tried the bell,” she said, her voice quiet amid the storm. “But it wasn’t working.”

      He could only stare, could only struggle to get his emotions in check. The cumbersome bundle in her arms looked suspiciously like a baby.

      Whose baby? His or someone else’s?

      He had no idea what Heather had been up to. She’d gone to California on a business trip, then vanished into thin air. He’d filed a missing person’s report, frantic something horrible had happened to her, but a police investigation had turned up deceitful evidence.

      “May I come in?” she asked.

      He wanted to say no, to send her away. But the blanket moved and a little hand popped out from the damp folds of the fluffy material.

      He couldn’t send the child away, not if it was his.

      Without speaking, he stepped back, allowing her entrance into the home they’d once shared.

      She walked into the living room, making damp marks on the hardwood floor. When she adjusted the sleeping baby, he noticed a cap of dark hair.

      “Michael?”

      His name on her lips pierced him like an arrow. And so did memories of the police report. The convention Heather had supposedly attended never existed, and she’d closed her savings account in Los Angeles, withdrawing the money she’d acquired from her deceased mother’s life insurance policy.

      The LAPD concluded that she’d disappeared purposely, and since she hadn’t been involved in a crime, they hadn’t pursued her whereabouts.

      There had been one vital clue in the mystery, though. The authorities discovered that Reed Blackwood, her half brother, had been living in L.A. and had left town on the day Heather closed her savings account.

      But Reed was no longer on probation, so the ex-con was free to go where he pleased. And so, they’d claimed, was Heather.

      Michael had considered hiring a private investigator to track her down, but his pride had gotten in the way. Why search for a woman who’d lied to him? Who’d gone to L.A. on a farce? Who’d stomped on his heart?

      “Michael?” she said his name again, drawing his attention back to her.

      “Yes?”

      “Is it all right if we stay here tonight?”

      We. Her and the child.

      “Yes,” he responded again.

      After that, silence stretched between them. The air grew thick and tense, swirling like a poltergeist. Was she going to tell him about the baby? Offer him an explanation? Or would silence prevail, trapping him in this haunting lull?

      Finally she spoke, her voice much too soft. “Will you bring in the baby’s crib? It’s a portable model. There’s a small suitcase I need, too. And a diaper bag.”

      How old was the child? he wondered as he accepted Heather’s keys and ventured outside. He’d yet to get a closer look, to determine its age.

      Had she been carrying his babe in her womb when she’d run off?

      The storm blasted his face, and he squinted into the rain. He suspected Heather’s car was a rental since she’d left her other vehicle behind when she’d split.

      He hauled in the requested items, and she thanked him quietly.

      Silence again. Then, “Will you hold him while I make up his bed?”

      Him. So the child was a boy.

      Michael stepped forward, and she transferred the baby into his arms. He wasn’t unfamiliar with babies; his uncle had a six-week-old son. Of course, this child was bigger, much heavier than his tiny cousin.

      The top of the blanket fell away, exposing golden skin, chubby cheeks and long sweeping lashes. He was a pretty baby, almost too pretty to be a boy.

      “What’s his name?” Michael asked.

      She fluffed the bedding. “Justin.”

      He glanced at the child’s face. He could see that Justin had some Indian blood in him. “How old is he, Heather?”

      “Ten months.” A little nervously, she reached for the baby and placed him in the crib, removing the blanket that swaddled him.

      Justin stirred but didn’t waken.

      A ten-month-old with Indian blood. It didn’t take a genius to do the math, to figure the ethnic equation. “Is he mine?”

      She didn’t answer. Instead she fussed with the child’s pajamas and adjusted a loose sock, fitting it back onto his foot.

      Michael moved closer, anxious, hopeful, afraid. “I asked you if he’s mine.”

      She covered the baby, and the boy rolled onto his side. When she stood, her eyes, those incredible blue eyes, met Michael’s. She still wore an overcoat, and her waist-length hair was sprinkled with rain.

      “Heather?” he persisted.

      Rather than respond, she turned away. As she headed out the door, Michael followed her, wondering what the hell was up.

      They stood on the porch, rain blowing toward them.

      “We can’t talk inside. Not until I sweep the house for bugs.”

      Bugs? Michael stared at her. He knew she meant electronic devices. “What’s going on? What kind of trouble are you in?”

      “Reed’s in trouble.”

      He shook his head. Her brother always was. “And what about the boy? Is he mine?”

      “Justin is Reed’s son.”

      Michael’s stomach dropped. The baby wasn’t his.

      Damn Heather all to hell. She’d brought her brother’s child to his house. The man he’d forbade her to see. The ex-con he’d banned from their lives.

      Of course Justin looked as if he had Indian blood, Reed was half-Cherokee, just like Michael.

      “Who’s his mother?”

      “Her name is Beverly.”

      “So where in the hell is she? And Reed for that matter? What are you doing with their kid, Heather?”

      Her breath hitched. “It’s a long story.”

      “Yeah, well, I’ve got plenty of time.”

      Heather couldn’t explain, not now. She gestured to the storm, to the blinding rain. “It’s pouring out. I’m cold and tired.”

      And afraid.

      Fearful of how to tell Michael her story without revealing the secret that would keep him from ever forgiving her.

      Already she could see pain and anger in his eyes. She’d never meant to hurt him. He was, and always would be, the man she loved. But she couldn’t turn her back on her brother, not even for Michael. So she’d gone to California.

      Then her entire world had turned inside out.

      Heather drew a shaky breath. What if Michael uncovered her secret on his own? Was that possible?

      No, she told herself. That wouldn’t happen. The only person who could spill her secret was Dr. Mills and the kindly old physician wouldn’t betray Heather’s medical files.

      Would he?

      Michael spiked a hand through his shoulder-length hair, and Heather couldn’t help but study him. He wore a black T-shirt, threadbare jeans and scuffed boots. He’d always been tough. Dashing yet dangerous.

      A renegade.

      Just like Reed. At one time, her half-Cherokee brother and her half-Cherokee lover had been boyhood friends, running wild and cheating the law.

      Two