Cherokee Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather
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her head. He sounded so cold, so hard.
“Because another day won’t matter. What’s done is done. You made your choice when you lied to me. When you didn’t call. Didn’t come back.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, willing herself not to cry, not to break down in front of him.
Would he understand once she told him why she didn’t call? Why she didn’t come back before now?
Tough and terse, Michael shrugged away her apology, and she banked the tears flooding her eyes.
They went back inside and Heather removed her coat, fearful of what tomorrow would bring. Would Michael agree to help her and Justin? Or was her fate doomed?
As close as she and Michael had been, he’d never actually told her that he loved her, not even when he’d asked her to live with him.
But, then, no one except Heather’s wayward brother had ever said those words. Reed’s “Thanks for caring,” and “I love you, kiddo,” had been her lifeline, the hope that she was truly worthy of being loved.
Heather hadn’t been able to count on her parents, not her stern, critical father or her nervous, flighty mother.
She’d promised Reed that she would give his son more than what they’d had. More kindness. More affection. More love.
And Reed understood that well. Her father, who’d been her brother’s disapproving stepfather, had punished Reed at every turn, raising his fists until Reed grew tall enough to fight back.
She knelt to smooth the baby’s thick brown hair, then looked up at Michael.
He shifted his feet. He seemed so dark, so menacing. Yet she recalled how gentle he could be, how tender, how boyish and playful.
He used to tickle her, attack her ribs until she nearly died laughing. Then he’d kiss her until she sighed his name and melted onto the bed, his naked body covering hers.
“You can sleep in the guest room,” he offered, although his tone lacked hospitality.
“Thank you, but the couch is fine. Justin’s bed is already made up out here, and I’d like to be near him.”
Without speaking, he went to the linen closet, returned with a burgundy quilt and a mismatched pillow, stacking them hastily on the sofa.
His house was cluttered, but he’d never kept things tidy. Heather had picked up after him, but it was her nature to keep order, to organize everything but her love-starved heart.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.
He glanced at the baby, then brought his gaze back to her. “There’s milk in the fridge if you need it.”
“Thank you.” She watched him snap off the TV and walk down the hall.
Copper-skinned, raven-haired Michael Elk. The man she loved. The man she wished she hadn’t betrayed.
Michael dragged himself into the shower. He’d tossed and turned most of the night. Eventually he’d succumbed to exhaustion, only to discover he’d over-slept.
After the water pummeled his body and he reached for a towel, he told himself to relax, to confront the day with as much patience as he could muster.
As he brushed his teeth, he noticed another toothbrush on the counter.
Heather’s.
The past had come back to taunt him, the bittersweet memories of living with her, of sharing the same space. Michael’s old farmhouse had three bedrooms and one cozy bath.
He rinsed his mouth and stole a second glance at her toothbrush, struggling with the unwelcome intimacy it stirred.
Finally he threw on some jeans and a work shirt, then headed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.
But she’d beat him to it. An aromatic brew was already perking. He poured himself a cup and stood quietly for a moment, trying to stabilize his heart. Then he entered the living room and stumbled straight into a network of electronic equipment.
The countersurveillance system on the coffee table appeared to be running in an automatic mode as Heather utilized another detector Reed had probably built.
Her brother was a young, cocky genius, as skilled as someone with a Ph.D. in electrical engineering, and he must have taught her what she needed to know.
The device seemed fairly simple to operate, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t effective. Reed Blackwood didn’t build spy shop gadgets. He dealt in the real thing.
The baby made a noise, drawing Michael’s attention to the crib. Justin was asleep, but a telltale bottle of milk lay at his side. Apparently he’d drunk some nourishment and drifted off again.
Just then Heather turned to look at Michael, to meet his gaze.
Her long, white-blond hair fell in dazzling disarray, and she wore a simple, sky-blue blouse and slim-fitting jeans. She moistened her lips, and at that sexually charged instant, she reminded him of Eve—the temptress Adam couldn’t resist.
Well, I’m not Adam, he thought. He wasn’t about to bite the proverbial apple.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Yeah.” He flicked his head like a hot-blooded stallion, and then made a sardonic toast with his coffee. “’Morning.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, she adjusted the detector. She’d been in the process of sweeping an old rolltop desk and every item on it.
“When do you have to be to work?” she asked.
“When I feel like it.” She knew damn well that he kept his own hours. He and his uncle ran a prestigious guest ranch in the hills, but Michael didn’t punch a time clock.
And neither did she, for that matter. She used to be the events coordinator at the ranch, a position she’d more or less dumped on his lap.
As he drank coffee that failed to warm his belly, she continued the sweep.
She carted her equipment into his bedroom, and he realized it was the only room she hadn’t scanned. Apparently she’d been up since the crack of dawn, making her inspection.
Michael remained in the living room. The idea that his house needed debugging made him queasy. He didn’t want to envision strangers eavesdropping on his life, invading his privacy—the times he cursed to himself, mumbled at the TV, punched walls out of sheer frustration.
All because of Heather.
He watched the baby sleep and finished his coffee. It wasn’t strong enough, but the caffeine helped nonetheless.
By the time Heather returned, he’d brewed a second pot. He considered a cigarette, and then reconsidered. He supposed lighting up near the kid wouldn’t be right.
“I didn’t find anything.” She sat on the sofa and placed her coffee on the end table. “But I can’t be sure about your phones. I don’t have the skills to detect a sophisticated wiretap or bug.”
“Your brother didn’t teach you?” he asked, unable to curb the bite in his tone.
She sighed. “A wiretap can be installed several miles from the target location. And a radio transmitter can be hidden eighteen feet in the air.”
“So what do we do?”
“Don’t discuss sensitive issues on the phone.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “That’s it?”
“No. I have the number of an old friend of Reed’s. Someone he trusts. He’s a communications expert. He’ll check the lines. I’m not sure when, though.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Michael was tired of the cloak and dagger, the spy game Reed had put her up to. He wanted answers.
Now.