Sheri WhiteFeather - Cherokee Baby

Yeah, right. “My cousins are waiting.” She spotted Kay and Mern, watching her from the front desk.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll leave your bag with Maria. Our receptionist,” he clarified. “She’ll arrange for someone to take this to your room. Enjoy your stay.”

He carried her suitcase to the counter, and Julianne studied his limp, the slight glitch in his walk. Served him right, she thought. Whatever injury he’d sustained, he deserved.

She waited until he left the lobby before she approached the reception desk.

Her cousins met her with eager faces. “So that’s what kept you,” Mern said.

“Who is he?” Kay asked, smiling like a Tasmanian devil.

Mern and Kay were sisters, one blond and one brunette, both adept at traveling. Kay already sipped a drink from the nearby bar, and Mern leaned against the long oak counter, where she’d probably been in the process of checking them into their rooms.

“That was Señor Bobby,” an unfamiliar, heavily accented voice said. “He built this ranch.”

Julianne turned, realizing that Maria, the Latina receptionist, had answered Kay’s question.

“Handsome,” Kay mused.

“Married,” Julianne put in quickly. “Saw the ring myself.” A simple gold band. The kind her ex used to wear.

“No, no, no.” This from Maria, who waved her plump arms. Apparently she didn’t mind insinuating herself into their conversation. “Señor Bobby isn’t married. Not anymore.” She made the sign of the cross, in a very religious, very respectful gesture. “His wife, she died. Three years ago.”

The news struck Julianne like a fist. Like a hard, shameful blow.

Bobby Elk wasn’t a cheat. He was a widower.

And she’d treated him like dirt.

Bobby cursed himself all the way to the barn. Nothing was going to lighten his mood, not the Texas Hill Country he’d come to cherish, the vast blue sky or the earthy scent of horses and hay misting the air.

He’d screwed up. And at his age, he knew better. First, he’d gotten aroused by Julianne McKenzie’s underwear, by that sexy, little lacy thing he’d pretended not to notice. And then he’d touched her pretty, Irish skin. Which had left him aching to kiss her.

What an idiot.

Still cursing his stupidity, Bobby stalked into the breeze-way barn, headed for the office and booted up his computer.

Rolling his shoulders to alleviate the stress, he confirmed his next appointment, which was still hours away.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and scanned the cluttered room. Michael had left the place a mess. Typical, he thought. His nephew had a penchant for disorganization. Unlike Bobby, who required all of his ducks in a tidy row.

He tasted the coffee, made a horrible face and spat it into the trash can at his feet.

A chuckle sounded behind him.

He turned around and glared at his nephew. At twenty-five, Michael Elk had grown into a damn fine Cherokee. He could creep into a room without being seen or heard, but he brewed the worst damn coffee in the world.

“You’re in quite a mood, Uncle.”

“I offended one of our guests.”

For a moment Michael just stared. “That’s my job.”

“That was your job when you were a smart-mouthed, bad-ass fifteen-year-old. Neither of us are supposed to offend our guests now.”

The younger man poured himself a cup of the godawful coffee and sipped casually. “What’d you do?”

“I touched her. With a little too much familiarity, I suppose.”

“Who is she?”

“A good-looking redhead. She just arrived today. She seemed receptive at first. But she got upset after she found out who I was. I guess she thought I was taking advantage of my position here.”

Michael removed his hat and tossed it on the desk. He wore his hair long and loose, as free and wild as his half-cocked grin. “What were you doing? Trying to get laid?”

Bobby shook his head. At times Michael still acted like a smart-mouthed, bad-assed fifteen-year-old. But he knew it was a defense mechanism. Michael’s troubled heart had been wounded by his missing girlfriend—a young woman who’d deliberately left town, then disappeared.

But at least the boy hadn’t lost his passion, his emotion, the fire that drove him. Bobby had a few stirring moments now and then, but for the most part, he felt dead inside.

As dead as his wife.

As disconnected as his amputated leg.

“It’s normal to want, Uncle. To see a woman you desire.”

“I’m not looking for a lover.” He missed the masculine release that came with sex, but he wasn’t about to share his stumped, disfigured body with anyone. He didn’t give a damn how active or athletic he was. Sex wasn’t the same as riding a horse or running on a dirt path or working out in the gym.

Lovemaking required a partner. Human contact. And he couldn’t give of himself. Not anymore.

“Apologize to her,” Michael said.

“I did.” And now the only thing left to do was to avoid Julianne McKenzie. “I’m going home for a while. I’ll see you later.”

“Uncle?”

“Yes?”

“You’re a good man.”

Bobby’s chest constricted. The only love still left inside him was for Michael, for the youth he’d struggled to raise. “I’m not the champion you think I am.”

“Yes, you are.”

They stared at each other for a silent moment and then Bobby walked out of the barn and into the sun, unable to convince Michael that he wasn’t the warrior he used to be.

As he took the path that led back to the lodge, where his truck was parked, he glanced up at the sky, looking for a picture in the clouds. A wolf or a deer. A protector of some kind.

When he saw nothing but white puffs floating in a sea of blue, he cut across the grassy terrain and spotted her in the distance.

For a second he thought she was a figment of his imagination. But the nervous jab in his stomach told him otherwise.

She was real. And headed straight toward him.

So much for avoiding Julianne McKenzie.

Her hair billowed around her shoulders like a fire-tinged halo. And suddenly he was reminded of who he was.

Robert Garrett Elk, from the A-ni-wo-di, the Red Paint Clan. No wonder the color of her hair fascinated him. The ancient members of his clan were noted for using red paint to attract lovers.

Her hair had put a spell on him.

“Bobby.” She said his name in a soft voice.

He stopped, knowing he didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t just slip past her.

“Your receptionist told me I’d probably find you out here.”

He glanced back at the building behind him. “I’m usually at the barn.”

Julianne shifted her stance. She still wore the jeans and the simple T-shirt she’d sported earlier. But her hair, that scarlet, spellbinding hair, blew gloriously in the wind. “I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t.” He jammed his hands into his pockets, thinking how small she was, just a sprite of a woman.

“But I was rude to you,” she said.

“That’s all right. I had it coming.”

“That isn’t true.” She paused, took a breath. “It was a misunderstanding. I saw your ring and I assumed you were still married.”

“Oh.” Taken aback, he kept his hands in his pockets. He couldn’t explain why he wore the wedding band Sharon had given him. He couldn’t admit the truth, not to anyone but himself. “That was a logical deduction, Ms. McKenzie.”

“Julianne,” she corrected. “I’m so sorry about your wife.”

Everything inside him went still. Dead still. He would never forget the pain and guilt that tainted Sharon’s memory. “Thank you.”

“I’m divorced,” she offered.

“Is that good or bad?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”