Sheri WhiteFeather - Warrior's Baby

After that life-altering experience, she’d discovered someone other than Colt had suspected she was smitten. Someone who must have felt compelled to mention it.

Shorty Miller, the ornery old ranch hand who saddled the rental horses hadn’t said beans to her until he’d learned about her mishap. When Melanie had returned to the stables the weekend following her injury, Shorty, a balding, beanpole of a man, sent a gruff compliment her way. “You stick with it, girlie,” he’d said, adjusting her stirrup. “You’ve got a natural seat. Someday you’ll be ridin’ just fine, real prettylike.”

Melanie had smiled proudly from atop the mount Shorty had chosen for her and scanned the grounds for Colt. “The boy ain’t here,” the old man had grumbled, his thick mustache twitching. “Took a group into the hills not more than twenty minutes ago.”

Melanie had blushed from the top of her straw hat to the tips of her boots. “What boy?”

“Don’t play me for a fool. The one you got yer eye on, girlie,” had come the gravelly reply.

Week after week, Shorty had quietly pointed out Colt’s whereabouts. “The boy’s in the barn.” “He just rode out.” “He’s team penning in the arena.”

In the end, it had been Shorty who had informed her of Colt’s impending nuptials. “The boy’s gone and done it this time,” the old man had said. “Got a girl in trouble, that one did. He’ll be marrying her right quick.”

Colt’s husky voice jarred her back to the present. “Melanie, are you all right?”

They were standing in Meagan’s room. Got a girl in trouble, that one did Somehow, she didn’t think Colt had ever thought of his daughter as trouble. “I’m fine.”

She found herself surrounded in feminine delight. A pink canopy bed overflowed with stuffed animals and a large bay window was covered in eyelet and rose-tinted lace. White shelves displayed a porcelain doll collection, each dressed in hand-tailored finery. The wood toy box in the corner was ornately carved.

“I used to read to her every night,” Colt said. “People think you should stop grieving after a few years. They don’t understand that the loss of a child never goes away. It’s always there, like a dull ache.”

Melanie watched him. He picked up a stuffed lion from the bed and stroked its mane. “And they thought it was weird that I kept her room the way it was. But it wasn’t as if I was trying to create a shrine. I thought that if I dismantled this room then I’d have nothing left of her.”

He gazed around. “But you know, since I’ve decided to bring another child into my life, I’m actually ready to pack up my daughter’s things. I thought this room would make a great nursery for the new baby. I’m sure Meagan would approve.”

Melanie walked over to the dresser. A framed portrait displayed a younger, smiling Colt cuddling a dark-haired little girl. Her eyes were wide and brown, her skin a rich, glowing copper. “She was beautiful.”

Colt replaced the fluffy lion. “Thank you.”

Our child will be beautiful, too, Melanie thought, running her fingers along the edge of the frame. “I believe when babies are born, there’s a guardian angel assigned to look after them. Meagan’s probably been waiting for you to have another baby. I’m sure she’s earned her wings by now.”

Within a heartbeat, Colt was standing behind her, the faint, spicy scent of his cologne wafting to her nostrils. “You say nice things,” he offered quietly. “I like you.”

She turned and faced him. They were inches apart but she had to tilt her chin to view his expression. He towered over her by nearly a foot. Her Western boots didn’t help much; he was also wearing a pair. “I like you, too.”

He stepped back slowly, widening the space until they were standing a respectable distance apart. For an instant, adoration flickered in his fathomless gaze. It flashed by like a shooting star. She made a wish.

“Would you be interested in helping me redecorate this room?” he asked. “After all, you’re the artist.”

Had her wish just been granted? Was that his way of saying he wanted her for his surrogate? “I love furniture shopping. Antique stores are my favorite.”

His dark eyes lit up. “Mine, too. I don’t know about an old crib, though. Some of those early designs weren’t too safe.”

A surge of adrenaline rushed through her. “We can improvise. Mix new and old. I think you should keep the toy box, though. It would fit right in with what I have in mind.”

Colt laughed. “You already have something in mind? You work fast, pretty lady.”

Pretty lady. She liked that. “I’m good at what I do.”

“Oh, yeah?” He crossed his arms over his massive chest and grinned. “Maybe you’d care to share some of those ideas floating around in your head.”

“Okay.” She pointed to the wall opposite the window. “The crib goes there. And here—” she turned and gestured “—would be the perfect spot for a rocking horse.”

He studied her enthusiasm through amused eyes. “That’s it?”

“No.” She thrust a playful fist forward; it barely grazed a rock-hard shoulder. “We need to find a marvelous old cradle to keep the stuffed animals in. Something from the 1800s maybe. The nursery should reflect the Western motif of the house. Of course, we’re going to have to add something colorful and animated, a paper border or some stenciled figures. Babies love bright colors.”

Colt gazed intently at her. The half smile on his lips turned into a straight, serious line. “Melanie, we need to talk.” He glanced over at his daughter’s picture. “Let’s go to the living room.”

Moments later the door to Meagan’s room was closed and Colt and Melanie were seated side by side on the cowhide sofa, the same one they had briefly shared thirteen years prior. The room was as she remembered it. Two brown leather recliners faced a stone hearth. An oak gun rack, timber wolf pelts and a bison head instilled the spirit of the west.

Colt’s handsome features looked harsh, even in the dim light. The tiny lines around his eyes were almost white against his bronze skin, his lips still set in a tight frown. The shape of his lips fascinated her. The upper was perfectly formed and the fullness of the lower created a natural, sensuous pout. The last time they had sat on the sofa together, she had studied that rakish pout. It had looked friendlier then.

Her stomach quivered. Had he decided she wasn’t the right surrogate? Had her excitement over the nursery given her away? “What’s the matter?” she asked, fearing the answer.

He pulled a hand through his unbound hair. “Maybe I jumped the gun about decorating the baby’s room so soon. The kid hasn’t even been conceived yet. And there are still a lot of issues that haven’t been discussed—legal documents, financial and medical arrangements.” He winced, as though his next words were forming a bitter taste in his mouth. “I hate to bring this up, but truthfully, it still bothers me that you’re not what I expected.”

Her professional side took over, the one that marketed concepts, drawings and ideas. It was too late to become the surrogate he had envisioned, but it wasn’t too late to promote the qualities she had. “How we imagine things is rarely how they really are. You want a woman who’s willing to give up a child, but you think she should be the stereotype of a fifties TV mom. That’s unrealistic, Colt.”

Below the pout, a muscle ticked. “I know.”

“What is it about me that concerns you?”

He kicked a booted foot onto the knotty-pine coffee table. “You’re successful, talented and beautiful.”

She sputtered a laugh. “Such terrible qualities. Your son or daughter might inherit them.”