Sheri WhiteFeather - Cherokee Dad

“Denny Halloway. The FBI calls the West Coast Family the Hollywood mob. Halloway, Hollywood. It’s a play on words, and he has connections in the entertainment industry.”

Michael sighed. “I don’t know anything about the Mafia. Other than what I’ve seen on TV. The Italian guys in New York. Or New Jersey or wherever.”

“The West Coast Family isn’t an Italian outfit.” And Heather knew more about the Mafia than she’d ever dreamed possible. Reed had been a “made” man. He’d sacrificed his soul for organized crime. “My brother was working on a way to send me home. To fake his, Beverly’s and Justin’s deaths. To stage an accident where I was the only survivor. But Beverly got sick and everything changed.”

“He should have sent all of you home. He shouldn’t have kept two women and a baby on the run.”

“Beverly didn’t want to return to her family. She’d always detested what her father represented, the high-powered criminal lifestyle he led. Besides, she loved Reed and wanted to be with him. He was her husband. Her Cherokee husband,” Heather clarified. “Reed performed a blanket ceremony. It wasn’t legal, but it was binding.”

Michael shook his head. “You wanted me to do that with you when you were sixteen. It was crazy.”

Her chest constricted. “I was young and romantic. I wanted you to pledge yourself to me.” To make a commitment, to swear off other girls and be with her, even though she wasn’t of age. But he’d refused. He’d been an eighteen-year-old boy still sowing his sexual oats, still parading a slew of blondes through his bed.

They sat in silence for a while, caught in the past. Then Justin rose and held on to the edge of his crib, grinning at Heather, waving his pony with one hand, nearly losing his balance.

Refusing to cry, she smiled back at him. She had a child to raise, a son to consider. She had to stay strong.

“Did Beverly die?” Michael asked.

“No, but she probably won’t live much longer. When she got worse, Reed insisted on taking her to a clinic. After a series of tests, they discovered she had small cell carcinoma of the lung, a rapidly progressing cancer. Without treatment, the median survival rate from diagnosis is only two to four months.”

She continued to look at Justin. He was such a good baby, so easy to care for, so happy. Yet his mother was dying, and his father was running for his life.

“We made a decision. Beverly had to return to her family. She needed urgent medical care.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, sympathy lacing his voice.

Heather turned to study him, to absorb his sincerity. She knew his mother had died of cancer, that he’d watched her grow pale and weak. Just as she and Reed had watched Beverly deteriorate, without realizing the magnitude of her illness. “Beverly is only twenty-two. A nonsmoker. Lung cancer never occurred to us.”

He merely nodded, a frown marring his brow. “Why didn’t she take her son home with her?”

“She didn’t want her father to have any part in raising him.”

“And what about Reed?”

“He couldn’t care for Justin, not living on the run. Reed knew that Beverly’s father would never quit searching for him, that he’d always be a target. So they both decided to relinquish their child, to give him a chance for a clean, safe life.”

And she remembered how devastated they’d been, how they’d held Justin and cried. They were losing each other and their baby. “We fabricated a lie. It was the only thing we could do. The only answer.”

“What lie?” he asked, watching her through dark, penetrating eyes.

She glanced away, afraid those eyes could look into her soul and unmask her secrets. The other pony. The leather bundle. The Cherokee prayers.

“I was to become Justin’s mother in every way,” she said, still dodging his gaze. “Beverly wouldn’t tell her family that she had a son. They didn’t know that she was pregnant, and there were no hospital records, nothing that proved she’d given birth to him. He was born in a cabin in Oklahoma, with only Reed and I in attendance.”

“And her father bought the lie? He never suspected that Justin was his grandson?”

“Why would he? Who would assume that a girl dying of cancer would have given birth to a healthy baby just ten months before?”

Michael wondered if it could be that simple, if a crime lord could be fooled that easily. “What about you? Does this mobster blame you for helping Beverly and Reed?”

She shook her head. “No. I took Beverly home, returning her to her family. They didn’t hold me accountable. But they made it clear that they’d never forgive my brother. He was part of their organization. He understood the consequences of his actions. He was warned to stay away from Beverly, and now that she’s sick, they blame him for not taking care of her. For all those months she didn’t receive medical treatment.”

Michael cursed beneath his breath. Trust Reed to get caught up in the mob, to fall for the boss’s daughter, to lure Heather into a web of deceit and danger.

“Who does the mob think Justin’s father is?” he asked, although he already knew. Heaven help him, he knew.

“You,” she said.

Yes, him. Who else could it be? He was Heather’s only lover, the only man she’d ever given herself to. And he was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, just like the baby.

He gazed at Heather, at her blond hair and fair complexion, at the sleek, simple clothes hugging her curves.

In the old days, she had been his best friend’s little sister, a sweet, skinny kid with big blue eyes, tagging along like a homeless filly.

Then she’d begun to mature. By the time she was sixteen, she’d blossomed into a lean, leggy beauty, an obsession eighteen-year-old Michael could barely control.

But as willing as she’d been, he hadn’t touched her. He’d promised Reed that he wouldn’t.

Michael could still recall the day Heather had confronted him, the sunny afternoon she’d challenged that promise.

They’d been at the edge of the lake, skimming stones across the water. She’d been wearing shorts and a halter top, her hair shimmering in glorious waves.

“Why haven’t you ever kissed me?” she’d asked.

He’d dropped the stone in his hand, plunking it in the water.

“You’re still a kid,” he told her.

“No, I’m not.” She came toward him, as fresh as the Hill Country air, as graceful as a palomino. “I’m all grown up.”

Blood rushed from his head to his feet. She was everything he wanted. And more. “You’re jailbait.”

She frowned, and he could see that he’d wounded her. He knew she had feelings for him, an attraction that had deepened over the years.

But she was dangerous. He spent too many nights thinking about her. Fantasizing. Driving himself crazy with what he longed to do to her. “You’re Reed’s sister. I promised him I’d stay away.”

“You and Reed hardly get along anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was still a promise. I can’t go back on my word.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, doing his damnedest not to touch her, to hold her, to feel her heartbeat stumble against his. “Come see me when you’re eighteen.” When her brother couldn’t interfere. “Ask me to kiss you then.”

Instead she’d asked him to marry her, right then and there, in a secret Cherokee ceremony. Then they could be together, she’d said, no matter how old she was.

For an instant, one torturous instant, Michael had been tempted. Just to be with her, just to take what she was offering.

In the end, he’d told her it was a crazy idea. But so was trying to get her out of his system.

He’d spent the next two years, the next twenty-four months dating other girls, other blondes who never quite filled the ache—the desperate, sexual consumption.