Cherokee Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “Talk,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

      Her competent hands turned shaky. “The reason I left?”

      He steeled his gaze. “And stayed away so long.”

      “Of course, yes. You deserve to know the truth.”

      Michael frowned. Had she whispered the word truth? Or was it his imagination? She had spoken quietly as it was.

      “Anytime you’re ready,” he prodded.

      She turned toward the window. The unexpected storm had passed, Michael noticed, but rain still drizzled. The sound mingled softly with the baby’s gentle breathing.

      “Reed called me from California,” she said. “He’d been secretly dating a girl named Beverly, a college student from a wealthy family, and he wanted to marry her.”

      Michael raised his eyebrows at that, but he kept his mouth shut, letting her continue.

      “Beverly’s father threatened Reed. He warned him to stay away from his daughter. So Reed and Beverly were planning to skip town, to elope and disappear for good.” Heather shifted, facing him again. “I assumed her father was a politician or a powerful law enforcement official, someone who could find a way to frame Reed for a crime he didn’t commit. To send him back to prison.”

      Yeah, right. As if Reed needed an excuse to get locked up again, to thumb his nose at society. Michael used to run around with Heather’s brother, creating small-town havoc like the cigarette-stealing, whiskey-rousing, gambling-behind-the-barn delinquents they’d been. Only Reed had eventually taken his crimes to adult levels. He’d celebrated his high school graduation by robbing the principal’s house. He’d done it as a lark, as a kiss-my-ass rush, but he’d carved out his future just the same.

      Reed’s next crime had involved a little more danger. And the one after that had landed him a short but memorable prison term.

      The baby awakened with a fierce cry, interrupting Michael’s thoughts.

      Heather dashed up and rushed to the boy’s aid. Lifting him in her arms, she cradled him, soothing him with maternal whispers.

      Justin quieted immediately. He put his head on her shoulder and made a contented sound.

      Michael did his damnedest to ignore the tenderness between woman and child. He was already emotional over Heather, and getting sappy over Reed’s kid would only make matters worse.

      “I need to change him and give him his lunch,” she said.

      Michael waved his hand, feigning indifference. “Go ahead.”

      She dressed Justin in a blue T-shirt, a fresh diaper, snap-up jeans and a bib. He wiggled and squirmed and made excited noises.

      She kept him on her lap as she fed him, but Michael could see that it wasn’t an easy task. He knew there was a high chair in her trunk, but he suspected she didn’t want to burden him to bring it in.

      Justin said “um” after every bite. Did that mean yum? Michael couldn’t imagine that the kid actually thought mushy veggies and jarred meat were yummy.

      As Heather wiped his messy face, he scrunched his nose in disapproval, then squealed after he was clean. Next he drank from a bottle, tipping it himself.

      When Justin looked curiously at Michael, Heather followed the boy’s gaze. Michael shifted in his chair, wishing the scrutinizing would end.

      Finally, it did.

      She placed Justin back in the portable crib, which apparently doubled as a playpen. A handful of toys followed him into the little cage.

      It wasn’t a very fancy cage, Michael noticed. Although clean, it СКАЧАТЬ