Cheyenne Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather
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to. He must have showered in the bathroom the kids used.
Annie couldn’t sleep. The king-size bed seemed suddenly too small. Dakota’s brawn took up too much space, and her nervous stomach had decided to do cartwheels. As a crush-crazed adolescent, she used to marvel at his virility. Dakota was six years her senior, so when she had been an underdeveloped girl swooning over him, he’d stood tall and mature, teasing her about being a squirt. But at the time, his taunting hadn’t deterred her crush. She used to think about him constantly, wishing he wasn’t a bull rider. After the way her dad had lost his life, she couldn’t help but worry about Dakota.
Did he miss the rodeo? she wondered. The thrill, the danger, the recognition. Annie twisted the satin hem on the blanket. The late nights. Easy women. His injury had forced him into retirement. He hadn’t made that choice consciously.
“Annie?”
She startled at the sound of his voice. “What?”
“Now you’re the one hogging the covers.”
She released her grip. She had twisted the blanket so hard, she’d tugged it away from him. “Oh, sorry.”
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I’m having trouble falling asleep,” she admitted.
“Yeah, me, too. Being married is gonna take some getting used to, I suppose.”
Not on her part. She didn’t intend to get used to living with him. Not when she knew he’d find a reason to leave after the adoption.
“Do you like your new career?” she asked, changing the subject. She preferred to avoid the topic of marriage, especially while they shared a bed.
He shrugged. “Designing jewelry doesn’t really feel like a career yet. I haven’t sold many pieces.”
“But you will. Your work is beautiful.” The weight of her exquisitely crafted wedding band rested easily on her finger. He had talent, an instinctual gift.
“Thanks. I never expected it to be anything more than a hobby. But when I couldn’t use my legs, I learned how to rely on my hands.”
“They’re great hands,” she commented quickly, recalling how big and masculine they were, how safe they’d made her feel on the plane.
“You think so, huh?” A devilish sort of humor slipped into his tone. “I can do a lot more with them than just make jewelry. Hey, maybe I can give you a demonstration. You know, my hands, your body.”
Annie smiled in spite of herself. “Is that all you think about?”
“It’s tough not to when I’m married to someone who looks like you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Nice try. But all these compliments you’ve been tossing my way aren’t affecting me in the least.”
Liar, a small voice in her head challenged.
Annie told it to shut up and raised the covers. He didn’t need to know his words had stimulated her traitorous body. Her nipples felt like pebbles, hard and just a little bit achy.
Dakota plumped his pillow. “I’ll probably be doing some traveling now and again. I thought I’d check out some of the finer Western stores on this coast. You know, to see if they might be interested in carrying my jewelry.”
“You could get a sales rep,” she suggested. “I’m sure there’s plenty of salesmen who’d be glad to promote a product from a well-known cowboy.”
“Yeah, I’d thought of that.” Once again he raked his hand through his hair or she assumed he did by the movement of his arm. The moonlight had faded, darkening the room. “But I like being on the road, and I figured I’d go to a few powwows while I’m out there. You know, meet some other artists.”
Start a new life for himself on the road. It made sense. The gypsy cowboy. The gypsy artist. Just as she suspected, he was already finding excuses to be away from home. No doubt about it. This marriage wasn’t about to last.
Annie sighed. Thank goodness she wasn’t a crush-crazed kid anymore. Not falling for Dakota Graywolf would make his leaving a whole lot easier.
Dakota resisted the urge to cover his ears. Jamie had been bawling nonstop for the past twenty-five minutes, howling like a distressed coyote.
“Does he always do this after Annie-Mom leaves for work?” he asked Miles.
“Nope,” the boy replied. “He never cries at the baby-sitter’s house.”
Dakota winced. The two-year-old, still dressed in his cartoon pajamas, stomped across the couch, screaming as he peered out the living room window. “Jamie just needs to get used to me,” he said, repeating the same thing he’d told Annie earlier when she’d balked about leaving the youngest child with him.
“How long is that gonna take?” Miles complained. “He’s gettin’ on my nerves.”
Dakota shrugged. He’d had the kids less than thirty minutes, and already the living room resembled the aftermath of a small explosion. Miles and Tyler’s miniature car collection dominated the sand-colored carpet, along with every available pillow in the house. Since the boys were building a mountain range, he’d allowed them to haul in a few medium-size rocks. And although leaves and twigs hadn’t been part of the deal, several makeshift trees grew from the pillow tops.
Dakota eyed the shrieking two-year-old. “Should I try another bottle?”
Tyler looked up from the construction-paper road he was creating. Up until now, the soft-spoken eight-year-old had remained quiet about his disgruntled little brother. “He likes candy.”
“Really?” At this point, Dakota thought, Jamie could have anything he wanted. A pound of chocolate, a Cuban cigar, a new Porsche. “Do you have any candy in the house?”
Tyler and Miles exchanged a look. A we’re-not-supposed-to-get-into-the-candy, Annie-Mom-will-get-mad look.
“C’mon you guys, this is an emergency.”
Miles tore into the kitchen, and Dakota followed. “It’s up there.” The five-year-old pointed to a cabinet above the refrigerator.
Dakota reached up, thinking Annie must have used a chair to stash the goods. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder and this was a stretch even for him. He grabbed the yellow jar and peered into it. “Damn. I mean dang, there’s all kinds of stuff in here. A Halloween variety.”
“Uh-huh.” Miles shifted his feet, his tongue darting in anticipation.
Dakota hid a smile and lowered the jar. “You want some?”
“Yeah.” The boy grabbed a handful then called his brother. “Hey, Tye, come get some candy.”
Tyler appeared instantaneously, telling Dakota he must have been lurking around the corner. Choosier than his brother, Tyler carefully picked through the jar. “Annie-Mom doesn’t let us have too much at once,” he said, sounding like eight going on thirty. Then again, he probably was. Dakota knew the boy had a near-genius IQ.
“Yeah,” Miles chimed in. “Annie-Mom says candy makes us hyper.”
“Makes you hyper,” Tyler corrected. “Not me.”
Dakota glanced down at the bouncing porcupine. How much more hyper could the kid get? “All right, what’s Jamie’s favorite?”
“Lollipops,” came the joint reply.
Dakota ventured back into the living room, dodging cars, roads, trees and mountains. Approaching Jamie as cautiously as he would a man-shy colt, he held out a green lollipop.
The child gasped and hiccuped, his tear-lined eyes spying the candy. “Mine,” he said, snatching the sucker and running to the corner of the sofa like a squirrel hoarding a five-pound nut. Dakota sank onto the opposite end of the couch and