Cheyenne Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather
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squirt.”
She cringed at the nickname he wouldn’t allow her to outgrow, then tried to summon a smile. Dakota used to tease her unmercifully when they were kids, knowing full well she’d had a painful crush on him. And by the time they were both adults, he’d taken that crush and used it against her, smiling that rakish smile, undressing her with those ebony eyes. Of course, it was all a game, part of his flirtatious nature. Women, she surmised, were a form of entertainment to Dakota Graywolf.
Annie lifted her chin. He wasn’t exactly white-picket-fence material, but she didn’t have a choice. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
“Sure. Come on in.”
He stepped away from the door, and she walked into his seedy motel room, struggling to keep her nerves in check.
The unmade bed and Dakota’s rangy form were both slightly tousled. Thick black hair teased his nape and fell rebelliously across his forehead. A pair of cowboy-cut jeans hugged his hips, the top snap undone, exposing the elastic waistband of his briefs. His bronze-toned chest, slightly scarred and generously muscled, made her all too aware of their gender difference.
Annie glanced back at the bed again and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d shared it with someone the previous night. If anyone was capable of finding a lover in the middle of nowhere, it was Dakota Graywolf. He collected beautiful women the way fleece garments collected lint.
Should she care? No, but the nature of her visit explained why she did.
“Have a seat.” Dakota offered her a cold soda and pointed to the Formica table positioned by the window.
She settled into one of the wobbly chairs and watched him move toward the other one. Although he limped a little, she marveled at his determination. Two years before, Dakota had suffered a rodeo injury that could have left him paralyzed, had he not had the will to walk again. Too many tragedies had occurred that year. Dakota had been trampled by a bull in the same month that Jill and her husband had died.
Annie studied him, wishing her stomach would settle. He looked well. Better than well, but she decided to keep the compliment to herself. She knew he didn’t like to talk about the accident or discuss the details of his recovery. And since he had been in Montana rehabilitating from his injuries, and she lived in California, they hadn’t seen each other in over two years.
What a reunion, she thought, twisting her hands on her lap.
Would he accept her proposal? Surely he, of all people, would understand. Jill had been like a sister to him. He wouldn’t turn his back on her children. He was their “Uncle Kody,” the famous cowboy, the World Champion Bull Rider who called regularly and sent bushels of toys.
He reached for the cigarette pack on the table, slipped one out, then flicked open a sterling lighter. The cigarette bobbed as a half smile curved one corner of his lips. “So here we are, squirt.”
“Yes, here we are.” In a seedy motel room. Together. His jeans unsnapped and her skin as warm as the desert air.
Annie opened the soda, eager to taste the cool liquid. Once again, her gaze strayed to the bed. She should have asked him to meet her at a coffee shop, someplace bright and busy. Impersonal. Suddenly she didn’t feel as though she’d known this man for eighteen years or that they’d kept in touch by phone for the past two. Dakota seemed like a stranger, not the self-imposed uncle of the children she intended to adopt. He was, at the moment, a half-naked man in a dimly lit motel room.
He followed her glance, to the rumpled sheets. “Hey I know this place is a dive, but I just drove halfway across the country. When you’re on the road, any bed will do.”
True, but he hadn’t slept in just any bed, she thought. He’d slept in the one only a few feet away, the imprint of his head still on the pillow.
Annie cursed that unmade bed and the man who had slept in it. Dakota never seemed to mind the heat that sizzled between them, but she did. She’d gotten tangled up with his type before, a man she thought she could tame. Maybe her ex-fiancé wasn’t a reckless cowboy, but he’d been a womanizer just the same.
And then there was her father, the handsome rake who’d charmed her mother as often as he’d cheated on her. Annie’s dad had been a bull rider, just like Dakota. Only he hadn’t survived his career.
Annie hated the rodeo and everything it represented. Guilt gnawed at her whenever she thought about her father. Even as a child, she’d understood why her mother had divorced Clay Winters. Her dad had overindulged in the fringe benefits of being a professional cowboy, getting drunk in honky-tonk bars and sleeping with easy women. It had hurt to love a man who had disrespected his family so blatantly. But it also hurt to think about that bull puncturing his lung, stealing his youth and vitality.
“What’s going on?” Dakota asked, drawing her attention back to him. “Why did you drive clear out here instead of waiting for me to come to your house? I was on my way to see the boys.”
The boys. Her babies. She had to talk to Dakota without the children present. She didn’t want them to know she’d been railroaded into making this decision. She tried to keep a sense of normalcy in their lives, and this situation was anything but normal.
“When’s the last time you saw Harold?” she asked. “Did you visit with him before you left Montana?”
“Yeah, I saw him. He sends his love.”
“He didn’t say anything else? You know, about me adopting the kids?”
“Of course he mentioned the kids, but he didn’t say anything about the adoption.” Dakota drew on the cigarette, then blew a stream of smoke to the ceiling. “But then that’s between you and him.”
Not anymore, Annie thought. Dakota had just been tossed into the mix. “Harold won’t give me legal custody unless I get married,” she began, watching Dakota’s startled expression. “He wants the boys to be raised in a traditional setting, with a mother and a father.”
He leaned into the table. “You’re joking, right? An arranged marriage? That sounds like something from the Dark Ages.”
Annie swallowed another sip of the drink. “There’s more to it than that. Harold expects me to marry a Cheyenne, someone who can teach the boys about their heritage.” She wrapped her fingers around the can, held it tight. “And that’s when I thought of you. You’re already like an uncle to the kids, and in your culture, an uncle is practically a second father.”
Rather than respond, Dakota studied her through those dark, indiscernible eyes. She felt his gaze on her face, her hands, her nervous fingers as they gripped the soda. Once again she became aware of the tousled bed, the dimness of the room, the breadth of his shoulders. Now she wanted to throttle him for answering the door half-naked. A gentleman would have slipped on a shirt and fastened his jeans.
“Damn it, Dakota, say something.”
A column of dusky gray ashes gathered on the end of his cigarette. He squinted through the haze of smoke, then flicked the ashes, nearly missing his mark. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
Annie lifted her chin, feigning a sense of bravado she didn’t quite feel. This was, by far, the most humiliating experience of her life. “I’m asking for the sake of the kids.”
He stared at her again, another long, thoughtful stare. Annie exhaled a shaky breath. Was he going to refuse? Say, Sorry, you’ve got the wrong guy. I like my freedom. A wife will cramp my style. Marrying you is going above and beyond the call of duty.
All she was asking for was a marriage of convenience. She would never expect a man like Dakota to be a real husband. Besides, that wasn’t what she wanted, either. What she wanted, Annie decided, was to turn and walk away. Yet she couldn’t. She had three little boys depending on her. And those children were far more important than her pride.
Dakota stamped out his cigarette, then dragged a hand through his hair. The unsettling look in Annie’s whisky-colored eyes told him plenty.