Sheri WhiteFeather - Cherokee Baby

“Evening, ladies.” He introduced himself as Michael Elk, then turned to Julianne. “You must be the good-looking redhead my uncle mentioned.”

Stunned and flattered, she extended her hand. “Julianne McKenzie.”

After they shook hands, he sat in the empty chair next to her. She reached for a corn chip and dipped it into a bowl of guacamole. “So Bobby’s your uncle?”

“Yes, ma’am. And a damn good one. He gave up his rodeo career to raise me.” Michael poured a margarita from the pitcher on their table and handed it to her. “He stepped in when my mother died. I was thirteen years old, and full of pi—” He paused to rethink his statement. “Pickles and vinegar. I was quite a handful.”

And probably still was, she thought, catching the dark, dangerous gleam in his eye.

They talked for a few more minutes before Michael rose to mingle. “Enjoy the dance.” He smiled at Kay and Mern. “Try the sopes,” he said, pointing to a platter of small, ridged, pork-filled tortillas. “They’re my favorite.”

Taking his advice, Kay reached for one of the Mexican appetizers. “Hunky,” she commented when he was out of earshot.

“Just like his uncle,” Mern put in, nudging Julianne to glance toward the door, where Bobby had just arrived.

Instantly she became aware of her nerves, of the girlish flutter in her stomach. Taking a deep breath, she removed her jacket and placed it on the back of her chair. Suddenly she was warm. Much too warm.

Bobby looked like a mirage, a masculine shadow of denim and leather. A buckskin shirt fitted across his chest and a pair of cowboy-cut jeans hugged his hips. A Stetson, decorated with a silver hatband, shielded his eyes, creating an air of mystery.

“Did you hear that?” Kay asked.

Julianne couldn’t hear anything above the pounding of her own heart.

“It’s lady’s choice, Jul. Go ask Bobby to dance before someone else snags him.”

Lady’s choice. That gave her a perfect excuse to approach him, yet as she made her way through the other guests, she wanted to turn tail and run.

She’d barely taken a moment to breathe, to calm her schoolgirl anxiety.

He glanced up and saw her, and she realized it was too late to skitter off like a jackrabbit.

“Hi, Bobby.” She stopped in front of him, conjured a smile and tried to look more confident than she felt.

“Hello.” His gaze traveled over her body, settled on her breasts for a millisecond and shot back up to her face.

Julianne shifted her feet. He’d noticed her protruding nipples. The twin peaks she’d blasted with Binaca.

“Do you want to dance?” she asked before she lost her nerve.

When he stalled, she knew she’d made a mistake. Apparently he didn’t like forward women. Apparently the backless, braless dress had been the wrong thing to wear. Apparently—

“All right,” he said.

All right. He didn’t sound particularly enthused about holding her in his arms, but he’d agreed. To be polite, most likely.

Mortified, Julianne decided this potential affair was a pipe dream. A foolish notion going nowhere.

He led her onto the dance floor.

And suddenly everything changed.

Their eyes met and their bodies brushed, the music tempting them with a warm, slow, country ballad.

He slid his arms around her waist; she put her head on his shoulder. And the rest of the world seemed to disappear.

The twinkling lights flashed like a hundred wish-inspired stars glittering from an oak ceiling.

Julianne inhaled the scent from his cologne, the subtle mix of musk and man. He ran his fingers up and down her spine, caressing her bare back.

They could have been making love, she thought. Making love to music. She felt the flex of muscle, the hard, solid wall of his body swaying to accommodate hers.

He toyed with the ends of her hair. “Gi-ga-ge-i,” he whispered in a guttural tongue. “So red. So powerful.”

She wanted to respond but she couldn’t. Her entire body was melting. All over him.

When the song ended, they stood in the center of the dance floor, just holding each other. Until Bobby dropped his hands and stepped back.

“Wa-do,” he said. “Thank you for the dance.”

“You’re welcome.” Still a little dazed, she smiled. “Is that the Cherokee language?”

He nodded. “I don’t speak it fluently. But my grandparents did.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Wa-do,” he said again. “Thank you.”

The band started another song, but Bobby didn’t reach for her. And she didn’t reach for him. They separated, walked in opposite directions, and then turned back at the same moment to look at each other from across the room.

Giving her a connection she hadn’t expected to feel. A fleeting embrace from heart to lonely heart.

On Thursday afternoon Bobby saddled his horse. He wasn’t going to let last night’s dance affect him. He wasn’t going to obsess about the luxury of holding Julianne McKenzie, of swaying to a slow, silky song, of being immersed in the airy fragrance of her perfume.

He stole a glance at Julianne. She waited beside Caballero, with her hair blowing gently in the breeze.

Oh, hell. Who was he trying to kid? He was already obsessing about her. About the slim, sleek texture of her naked back and the erotic impression her nipples had made against her dress.

He’d gone to bed aroused and had awakened the same damned way.

He finished saddling his horse and went to Julianne. “Do you need a leg up?” he asked.

She gave Caballero a serious study. The sorrel gelding, at 15.2 hands, possessed a generous chest, a wide girth and a strongly muscled back. He made Julianne, with her petite frame and translucent skin, look like a pixie.

“I think I can make it on my own,” she said.

Good girl, Bobby thought. He knew she was more than capable of climbing into the saddle.

She put her left foot in the stirrup and heaved herself up, grabbing the horn for support. The leather creaked beneath her rear.

Bobby mounted his horse on the “wrong” side, on the right rather than the left. Julianne gave him a confused look.

“I’m favoring an old injury,” he said, telling her what he told anyone who was astute enough to notice. “And since it’s easier for me to mount on the right, I train my horses to accommodate me.” Which also included hand signals and the dispersal of his weight rather than the pressure of his legs.

Julianne merely nodded, apparently too polite to prod him for details.

Sometimes people questioned him further, and sometimes they didn’t. When they did, he chalked up his “old injury” to an “accident” and nothing more.

On occasion, the truth leaked out. His staff, along with plenty of folks in town, knew that he was a below-the-knee amputee.

But so far, no one had told Julianne. Of that much, he was certain.

He glanced back at her. “Are you ready to hit the hills?”

She sat up a little straighter. “Yes, sir.”

For nearly two hours they traveled a path Bobby reserved for inexperienced riders. The trails were wide and scenic, the trees tall and shady, the terrain smooth yet lush with foliage.

When they reached a grassy plain near the river, he stopped. Julianne had booked a half-day tour, which included a picnic. Most folks preferred to do this tour with a group, but Bobby knew why Julianne had chosen a private session.

She wanted to be alone with him, to relax, to talk. And he didn’t mind obliging her. He enjoyed her company. And in spite of that romantic dance, he was professional enough to keep his hormones in check. At least in front of her. His private fantasies, his late-night and early-morning arousals, were his own business.

Besides, she was leaving in three days, right after her party.