Cheyenne Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      Annie dived into a dream…a fantasy…a hotel room for lovers. If they shared a honeymoon suite tonight, they could soak in a heart-shaped tub, he could shampoo her hair, she could lather his….

      “Oh, my goodness, they’re going to eat each other alive.”

      Bea’s shocked words broke the spell. Annie’s heart jumped to her throat before she gave Dakota a quick, forceful shove. He staggered, frowned, then looked as embarrassed as she felt.

      The minister, Bea and Mary all stood together, each with vivid expressions. Bea’s mouth was agape, the minister wore a tight lip even though a smile danced in his eyes, and Mary, her dear friend, grinned like a hyena.

      “That’s it, then?” Dakota asked gruffly. “We’re married?”

      The Reverend Matthews nodded and extended his hand. “Yes. Congratulations.”

      The men shook hands and the minister bumped his wife’s shoulder. “Oh, yes, congratulations,” she squeaked.

      Mary embraced Annie. “Now the kids will be legally yours.” She chuckled. “You know, come to think of it, my brother is legally yours, too.”

      Annie sent the other woman a weak smile. Legally maybe, but not emotionally. Her honeymoon fantasy was just that. A fantasy. One she would never act upon. Once the adoption was final, this marriage would undoubtedly end. Dakota Graywolf was much too wild to remain married, and she was much too smart to expect otherwise.

      She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. No matter how luscious Dakota had tasted or how good he had felt, she knew better than to get addicted to the wrong kind of man. The intensity of their attraction meant nothing in the scheme of things. Absolutely nothing.

      Three

      Dakota gazed around Annie’s kitchen. Daisies popped out at him from everywhere. The wallpaper, towels and pot holders all displayed the white-and-yellow flower motif. Even the sunny-colored dining table sported a centerpiece sprouting silk replicas of the sissy blooms. The kitchen, he decided, along with the rest of the colorful house, had not been decorated with a man in mind.

      The fifty-some-year-old ranch-style structure itself wasn’t the problem. It offered plenty of windows, quality carpeting, fresh paint and well-crafted cabinetry. The master bathroom had been an addition, but it flaunted an antique claw-footed tub big enough for two. And the front porch presented a California-country view and an old-fashioned swing perfect for cuddling.

      He looked over at Annie, who at the moment prepared dinner while bouncing Jamie, their two-year-old on her hip. Dakota shook his head. He actually had a wife and kids. Him. The confirmed bachelor.

      Dakota scooped the tomato wedges he’d sliced into a wooden-style salad bowl and studied Jamie. The boy had a cherub’s face, full and round with animated features. A mop of black hair, similar to his own, dusted the child’s ears and fell upon his forehead in neatly sheared bangs. Jamie had attached himself to Annie like a clinging monkey, his big brown eyes watching Dakota’s every move. The boy had been three months old when his parents died. Annie was the only mother he would ever remember.

      When Dakota smiled and winked, the boy fisted Annie’s T-shirt with chubby brown fingers and buried his face against her shoulder, tiny lips quivering in what looked like fright. Great. His son thought he was a two-headed monster in cowboy boots.

      Annie stirred the simmering spaghetti sauce. “How’s the salad coming?”

      He glanced down at the bowl filled with a lush variety of fresh vegetables and fragrant herbs. She had an impressive little garden out back and plenty of room for a barn. Temecula, the small Southern California town in which Annie lived, offered sights, sounds and smells Dakota considered cowboy friendly. Its Old West history included the Pechanga Indians, the first of the Butterfield Overland Stages and turn-of-the-century cattle drives.

      “Fine. About ready for the dressing.”

      She adjusted the wary child, opened a cabinet and removed a package mix. When she stood beside him arranging the ingredients, he reached for the vinegar bottle and their hands collided.

      As a jolt of electricity shot up Dakota’s arm, Annie staggered a little as though she too had been shocked. She snatched her hand back and they stared at each other.

      Intently.

      She moistened her lips, catching a strand of white-blond hair in the corner of her mouth. He swallowed. She brushed the silky lock away. He reached out to stroke her cheek. She shivered and closed her eyes.

      He leaned in to kiss her, only to meet with resistance from the two-year-old still clutching her top.

      “No!” Jamie pounded Dakota’s shoulder. “Mommy mine.”

      With a guilty flush, Annie soothed and corrected the child all at once. “Oh, honey. Be nice to Kody. He wants to be your daddy.”

      Jamie scrunched his cherubic face in blatant disapproval, and Dakota’s heart fell to the floor. Annie shook her head and carried the scowling child into the living room to watch TV with his brothers. When she returned to set the table, neither said a word.

      A short time later they shared their first dinner as a family. Jamie, living proof of the stage Dakota had heard referred to as the “terrible twos,” sat beside his mother, demanding her undivided attention.

      The middle child, Miles, wiggled in his seat, humming as he twirled a glob of spaghetti around his fork. Miles’s hair, cropped short and spiky on top, reminded Dakota of porcupine quills. Much to his relief, Miles accepted him without the slightest resistance. The talkative five-year-old seemed pleased to have a man in the house. Unlike Jamie, the older boys remembered him and understood his place in Jill’s life. They’d spoken on numerous occasions about what Dakota had deemed the Dog Soldier Ceremony, the ritual that had made Jill his blood sister.

      “Know what, Uncle Kody?” Miles asked, adding even more pasta to his already-packed fork.

      “What?”

      “Tye’s getting a pair of glasses tomorrow. Funny-looking black ones. I’m glad I don’t have to wear ’em. Don’t want nobody callin’ me four-eyes.”

      The boy in question, eight-year-old Tyler, stuck out his bottom lip in a gesture that hadn’t decided whether to be a frown or a pout. He wore his wavy hair long and slicked back in kind of a fifties style. “I’m not a four-eyes.”

      Miles, the chatty porcupine, laughed. “You will be.”

      “Shut up!”

      “No, you, shut up.”

      Annie quieted them both with a stern look. Dakota made a mental note. If the kids act up, just glare at them.

      She dabbed her lips with a paper napkin, a daisy-printed napkin. “Miles, you know what I’ve told you about calling people names. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with wearing glasses.”

      Dakota watched Tyler tear apart a slice of garlic bread. Apparently he thought there was something wrong with having to wear glasses. His expression looked pained—a quiet child worried about looking different from his peers. Not many eight-year-olds wore glasses, Dakota supposed.

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