Sheri WhiteFeather - Warrior's Baby

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You deserved better.”

“Yes, I did.” She blinked her tears back. “But it took a long time for me to believe that. I waited for my mom to change, to take me back home and live a normal life.” Her distraught gaze avoided his as her hand nervously picked at the pinecone, chipping pieces off. “But that never happened.”

“Is your mom still alive?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve lost touch with her. Is yours?”

“No.” Colt couldn’t contain the sadness in his tone. “My mom died of cancer when I was still a boy.”

She looked up and dropped the broken pinecone sending it into the stream. “I’m sorry.”

Colt removed the bandana around his neck, dipped a corner of it into the stream and gently cleaned Melanie’s mascara stained cheeks. The stricken blue gaze belonged to the neglected daughter of an alcoholic, the chic California girl hidden somewhere deep within. For one brief moment his lonely heart tagged after both.

“Life is hard sometimes,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she whispered.

When they both fell silent, the beauty around them intensified: the morning sun teasing the jagged rocks, gold-tipped leaves rustling through the trees, the rush of cool water, his admiring gaze, her smooth skin.

Colt tucked her hair behind her ear and handed her the red cloth. She dabbed her runny nose with the dry portion. “I feel better now,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Good.” He smiled and reached for her hair again. The fire-lit strands slipped through his fingers like ribbons of silk. When she leaned toward his caressing hand, he realized how intimate their gestures were. “Are you still willing to be my surrogate?”

“Yes.” Her breathless voice sent a surge of sensual heat coursing through his veins.

Colt shuddered. He wouldn’t permit this to happen. He wouldn’t confuse his need for a child with desire for the woman willing to carry it. That’s what was happening, he told himself. He was vulnerable and so was she. Their physical compulsion to produce a baby was creating false intimacy. His urge to taste her citrus-scented skin and run his hands through her thick, autumn hair would go away once his seed was planted. Artificially, of course.

Colt transferred his hand from her hair to the water flask and took a cold, desire-dousing drink. As casually as he could muster, he uncoiled his long body and rose to his feet. “I think California is a good idea. And not because you need to be on trial. We’re both about sure as we’re going to get, so we may as well start on the legal and medical side of this. And you’ll probably need some help getting packed.”

Her smudgy eyes brightened, but he kept his expression tight and professional. “Before we leave for Los Angeles, we’ll see my attorney and get the contract drawn up so you can consult your own lawyer back home and have him look it over.”

“Her,” Melanie interjected.

“What?”

“My attorney is a woman.”

“Fine. You also need to make an appointment with Dr. Miller for a checkup, and of course, to discuss the best method of determining ovulation.” He caught her amused smirk and prayed to God he wouldn’t stutter like a flustered schoolboy. “I don’t want to waste any time, I want you ready for the procedure when we return.”

He cursed his traitorous body for what it wanted and continued in an unemotional tone. “I’ll hire a moving van and pay the storage fee for the things you don’t bring. Maybe you should consider subleasing your condo so you don’t lose it. I imagine a beachfront rental is hard to come by.”

“What altered your decision?” she asked, viewing his towering height from the ground. “I expected you to ponder over this for weeks.”

He resisted the nervous urge to pace. Regardless of the wide-open space, he felt like a caged tiger, trapped within his own distorted desire. “I’ve been thinking about this for years and meeting with potential surrogates for the past eight months—”

“You have?” She stood up and brushed off her behind.

“Yeah. And I’ve met with a lot of women. No one seemed right.” Not the fifties TV moms or the desperate ones with financial needs. He couldn’t see his unborn child in their eyes. With Melanie he could.

“What makes me right?”

Great Scott. Just like a woman to question a man to death, force him to spill his guts. “Maybe the idea that you’re single is growing on me. The fewer people involved the better. And the fact that you’re a career woman is a plus, too. I hadn’t thought so at first but with you being so into your profession, I won’t have to worry about your maternal instincts backfiring on me. My biggest concern is my surrogate deciding she wants the baby, but with you, I figure that won’t happen.”

“Oh.” She glanced down at her jeans and began dusting off her knees.

Was his explanation so cold that she couldn’t meet his gaze? Damn it. He wasn’t about to tell her he wanted his child to inherit her smile.

“I like you, Melanie. That means something, too. I feel as though we’ve known each other for a while. As you said, being friends is important. We don’t want to get on each other’s nerves for the next nine months.”

She offered a smile that went straight to his groin. Thank God pregnant women didn’t really glow. His wife had whined and complained the entire time, making the gestation pretty darn unappealing. How attractive could Melanie possibly be in that state?

Colt’s jaw twitched. This California girl was going to bear him a child, but damn if he would allow her to get under his skin. This friendship would be short-lived. Fatherhood was the only emotional attachment Colt Raintree wanted, or needed. Once his son or daughter was born, Melanie Richards would be out of his life. For good.

Four

LAX had annoyed him. Actually, it more than annoyed him. The confusion of the fast-paced airport had made him feel like a big, dumb, country boy. Colt Raintree, Montana born and bred, was out of his element.

Rather than breathing crisp mountain air, he was choking down smog and riding shotgun in a red convertible piloted by an auburn-haired beauty who made Mario Andretti seem like a slowpoke.

“How about some music?” Melanie turned the knob on the stereo and started punching buttons.

She settled on a country station, for his benefit, he assumed. Willie Nelson’s nasal twang should have been a balm, but it only reminded Colt of how far from home he was. The unfamiliar roar of traffic offended the simple cowboy tune.

Melanie glanced over her shoulder, switched lanes and questioned his pouting profile. “Colt, what’s wrong?”

He answered as honestly as he could. “I never cared much for cities.”

Melanie slid her right hand from the steering wheel and placed it on top of his, which rested on the center console. “You’ll like the beach,” she promised with a quick, reassuring squeeze. “We’re almost there.”

She was right The moment they exited the freeway and the sea breeze tousled his hair, he appreciated the freedom the rag top provided. When the Pacific Ocean came into view, a sense of well-being entered his soul. It looked as big as the Montana sky and just as blue.

Saltwater, fresh-grilled seafood, hot dogs and lemonade permeated the air. They passed a pier that looked like a street fair—a menagene of blinking lights, twirling carnival rides and trendy teenagers, their colorful T-shirts, baggy shorts and bleached blonde hair whipping in the wind.

The sidewalks were lined with people, but they were different from the airport crowd. They moved at a pace his eyes could follow, dressed in sandals, suntan lotion and little else. Maybe it was the warrior in him, but the half-naked, bronzed bodies made him want to shed his own clothes, feel the sand between his toes, dive into the surf, let the sun beat down on his back.