Sheri WhiteFeather - Expecting Thunder's Baby

And despite her better judgment, she wanted to have a knockdown, drag-out affair with her former spouse, then boot him straight out of her bed.

Only knowing Thunder, he wouldn’t give a damn. He wouldn’t care if she cleansed her soul with sex, as long as he was getting his rocks off, too.

No, she thought. She wouldn’t sleep with him.

The office door opened and voices emerged. Carrie turned around and saw her parents with Thunder. The familiarity made her ache.

Daisy and Paul had loved Thunder like a son.

Carrie’s mom had her arm looped through his. She was a medium-boned, slightly plump, pretty brunette who wore stylish clothes and chattered incessantly. Carrie’s dad stood tall and trim and quiet. His dark, thinning hair was laced with gray, and the desert sun had bronzed his skin. Although he was one-quarter Cherokee, he didn’t have a CDIB card, a Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood, to prove it.

Thunder glanced up and caught Carrie’s gaze. Daisy released his arm and gave it a maternal pat. He didn’t seem to mind, but his mother was the sort of woman who fussed and fawned over grown men, too.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked Carrie.

“Of course she does,” Daisy said. “She’s due for a break.”

Carrie wanted to give her mother a swift kick in the rear. Her dad, too. He remained much too silent.

“We can go outside.” Carrie headed to the glass door that led to the front of the building, and Thunder opened it for her. She knew her parents were watching.

Once she and Thunder were standing on the walkway that led to the motel rooms, he squinted at her. Although the spring weather was comfortable, the sun was bright.

“How about a soda?” he asked.

“That sounds good.” Her throat was suddenly parched. Being this close to him was giving her that knee-jerk reaction she’d stupidly told Kevin about.

They strolled to the nearest vending machine, and he fed it the appropriate amount of coins, choosing a grape drink for her and a lemon-lime for himself.

Carrie glared at him.

“What?” he said.

“You didn’t even ask me what I wanted.”

“I know what you like.”

“Maybe my tastes have changed.”

“Then take this one.” He thrust his can at her.

She accepted the lemon-lime and stiffed him with the grape, knowing that it was his least favorite, that it reminded him of cough syrup.

He popped the top and took a swig. He didn’t make a face. He drank it as though it quenched his thirst just the same.

She followed suit, waiting for him to speak. He finished his soda first, crushing the can and chucking it in the recycle bin.

“I invited your parents to dinner,” he said.

She glared at him all over again. “What for?”

“Because my mom asked me to. She wants my family to entertain yours.”

Good grief. “When? And where?”

“Tomorrow at the old homestead.”

The ancient property where he’d grown up, she thought. A place with mesquite trees, an adobe patio and a weathered barn.

“My family misses yours,” he said, his expression deep and dark, his frown lines more pronounced. “They wanted to stay in touch, but it got awkward after the divorce…”

His words trailed, but his meaning was clear. For him, it was still awkward. For Carrie, too. They’d got married on the homestead.

“Our folks were compatible in-laws,” she said.

“Yeah.” He tugged his hand through his hair, making the strands spike. “I’m supposed to invite you, as well. My parents miss you, too.”

Her heart squeezed. She’d loved the Truenos as much as they’d loved her. “Will you be there?”

He nodded. “Mom would pitch a fit if I bailed out.”

“What about Dylan?”

“He’ll be around. He just got back in town.”

“I’d like to see everyone.”

“Then I’ll tell my meddling mom that you’re coming.” He smiled a little. “I don’t know how my dad deals with having such a pushy wife.”

She smiled, too. “The same way my dad does.”

“Poor bastards.”

“Thunder.” She scolded him, and they both laughed.

Then she caught him giving her one of his blatant looks, stabbing her with hot, hard energy. She lifted her soda and took a sip, wetting her mouth.

But it didn’t help.

Carrie’s ex-husband was seducing her all over again.

On Monday Carrie took her own car to the Trueno’s house. She pulled into the graveled driveway and parked behind her parents’ sedan. Scanning the other vehicles, she noticed a big black Hummer vehicle with California plates. Thunder’s L.A. lifestyle was showing.

Nervous, she climbed out of her car and smoothed her clothes. She’d chosen jeans and a white eyelet blouse, with a turquoise tank top underneath. Her belt and boots were tooled leather.

The property looked nearly the same, close enough to pincushion her memories, to leave sharp little points in her brain. The house had been built before Cactus Wren had become an official county. The Truenos’ neighbors were still few and far between. Carrie looked at the trees that shaded her path. They were twenty to thirty feet tall, with smooth, dark brown barks that separated into long, shaggy strips. On her wedding day, they’d been decorated with silver ribbon.

She shook away the image and proceeded to a wraparound porch. While she knocked on the door, her heart pounded just as hard. Margaret Trueno, Thunder’s mother, answered the door.

The older woman squealed, invited her inside, then latched onto her for a hug. Margaret had gained about twenty pounds, and her shoulder-length hair was salted with gray, marking the years they’d been apart. She smelled sweet and earthy, like the herbs she’d always grown on her windowsill.

They stepped back to gaze at each other. “You’re as stunning as ever,” Margaret said.

Carrie smiled. “So are you.” Thunder’s mom had enhanced her beauty with a colorful cotton dress and the handcrafted jewelry she used to sell at powwows.

“I’m in my sixties.”

“We’re all getting older.”

Margaret nodded, and Carrie remembered how much she’d wanted to be a grandmother.

“Is that our girl?” a man asked.

Thunder’s father. Carrie saw Nolan Trueno coming around the corner. He was as solid as an oak and handsome in the way that made outdoorsy men look ruggedly distinguished.

He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. He and his wife had been raised on tribal lands, but they’d left the reservation so Nolan could attend a state university, where he’d earned a degree in biology. Later, he and Margaret had bought the homestead, keeping recreational horses and raising two sons.

“I’ve been waiting for you to get here,” he said. “I didn’t want to light the barbecue until you arrived. Your dad and the boys are out back.”

“And my mom?”

“In the kitchen,” Margaret supplied. “She’s been helping me with the salads and side dishes.”

In no time, Carrie was escorted onto the patio. Thunder snared her like a rabbit. He stood up to greet her, and she felt the impact of his presence. Behind him, in a rock-garden setting, was the rustic gazebo where they’d exchanged vows. Carrie shifted her gaze away from it.

Thunder reintroduced her to Dylan, and she searched for evidence of the boy he used to be. But all she saw was a dark-eyed man with a square jaw and killer cheekbones. He wore his hair long, and his clothes were a tad dusty, as though he’d spent the earlier part of the day in the barn. Dylan was as tall as his older brother but not quite as broad. His muscles were leaner, rangier, cut a bit more sharply. She suspected that he was still boxing, still blowing off steam in the ring.

“You’re looking good,” he told her, taking both of her hands in his and openly flirting.