Warrior's Baby. Sheri WhiteFeather
She eyed the gentle mare. The feminine name fit. “Sounds like a dessert I used to order at this trendy coffee bar on Melrose. I want to ride her.”
Colt chuckled again. “Just like a woman to pick a horse for its pretty name.”
Her chin tilted. “I do the same thing at the track. Sometimes I even win.”
He looked amused by her admission. “Can you ride, California girl? I don’t want Cinnamon taking advantage of you.”
The chin protruded even further. “Of course I can ride. I was born in Montana, remember?” Besides riding on his ranch for nearly two years, she had also taken expensive lessons in California. Western pleasure and a little dressage. She wasn’t the best dressage rider, but she looked good in the tall, black boots. “I can saddle a horse, too.”
“Good.” Colt reached for the halter and lead line hanging from a nail. “Put this on Cinnamon and hitch her up outside. I’ll get a bridle and look for a saddle that will fit you.” His gaze sparked appreciatively as it slid down her petite curves. “You sure are a little one.”
“How does that saying go?” she asked, doing her best to seem innocent of his masculine stare. She didn’t think he was aware of the hungry look in his eyes. “Something about small things...”
“Good things,” he corrected, spinning on his heel, his husky voice fading as he departed. “Come...in...small...pack—”
“Like babies,” Melanie whispered to Cinnamon as she buckled the nylon halter and led the mare into the summer sun. A bright blue sky, horses frolicking in lush green pastures, and a mountain backdrop greeted her. In the distance she could see some of Colt’s ranch hands milling around. Behind the main house several rustic log cabins stood, one possibly waiting for her occupancy.
After securing the mare to a long, wooden hitching post, Melanie went back for the grooming supplies Colt had placed on the barn’s dirt floor. Holding the curry in one hand and dandy in the other, Melanie brushed Cinnamon, then began picking out the sorrel’s feet.
“Hey, Melanie.”
She placed the mare’s foot back on the ground and turned to the sound of Colt’s voice. Someone else stood beside him. A tall, lanky man with a bushy, gray mustache. She recognized him immediately.
“This is Shorty,” Colt said to her. “He’s about the only family I’ve got left.”
“The boy and me ain’t related,” the older man offered gruffly. “But I’ve been working this here ranch since before he was even born.”
She didn’t extend her hand. Both men carried saddles. “Nice to meet you. I’m Melanie.”
Shorty balanced the saddle on his bony hip and tipped his dusty, tan hat. “Ma’am.”
Colt slid the saddle in his arms over the hitching post rail and Shorty did likewise. She assumed the smaller one was hers. “Should I tack Cinnamon up?” she asked, hoping to avert Shorty’s scrutinizing gaze by turning away. The old man’s head was cocked in a birdlike pose.
“Sure, if you’d like,” Colt answered. “Everything’s there. The pad’s underneath. I’ll go get Rocky. He’s still a little green on the trail. He could use the time out.”
As Colt’s long, denim-clad legs carried him back to the barn, Shorty stepped forward. “You look a tad familiar,” he said.
“I grew up in the area. I live in California now.”
He snorted. “You and the boy old friends?”
The boy. “No, we’ve just recently become acquainted.” A truthful lie at best, since they had never really gotten to know each other in the past, at least not in the way she would have liked. There had been no romantic ties, at least not on Colt’s end. But he would have been blind not to have suspected her amorous feelings. No, the last thing she needed was Shorty blowing her cover. If Colt found out who she was, he might think twice about using her as his surrogate.
Shorty smoothed his peppered mustache. He didn’t look as old as he should. Maybe he hadn’t been as ancient as she remembered. At seventeen anyone over forty seemed like a fossil.
He wagged a long, slightly crooked finger. “I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere.”
Melanie reached for the bridle slung over the saddle horn, trying to appear too busy to chat. “Mountain Bluff is a small town.”
“It will come to me,” Shorty mumbled as he strode away. “I never forget a face.”
“You’ve been awful quiet.” Colt reined his gelding to a stop and glanced over at Melanie. “Is something bothering you?”
Cinnamon halted without being asked. “No, I’ve just been taking in the scenery.” And worrying sick over Shorty’s last words. Should she tell Colt who she was? Would it matter to him?
Of course it would, she told herself, once again.
“Do you want to stretch your legs a bit?” he asked.
“Okay.”
How accurate could Shorty’s memory be? she wondered as they dismounted. The man had worked on a recreational ranch for over thirty years. Most likely he had met hundreds of people. He couldn’t possibly remember them all and especially not a girl whose features had been altered.
Melanie watched Colt hobble the horses, and decided it was time to relax and enjoy the land. They had been riding for hours and in truth she hadn’t taken in the scenery at all. In doing so now, a wave of homesickness washed over her.
Patches of wildflowers colored the terrain, their tiny, bright heads swaying in a gentle breeze. Trees stood tall and green, gnarled roots clawing the rich soil, tiny animals nesting within.
Mountains peaked to an enormous summer sky filled with clouds so downy and white, she imagined tiny blonde cherubs peering over the floating cushions, bows taut, amorous arrows poised for flight This, she thought, was definitely the place to fall in love. Just a breath away, a small stream moistened the floral-scented air, bubbling and polishing stones as it moved, the clear water cool and inviting. Serenity. Pure and simple.
“I forgot how beautiful Montana is,” Melanie said, kneeling beside the stream.
“This is my favorite spot.” Colt moved toward her with long-legged grace, the ends of his shoulder-length hair fluttering like sleek, black wings. He placed a water flask on the ground between them and followed it down. “I feel content here.”
“I can see why.” She picked up a pinecone and studied it. “I used to collect these all year, then paint them at Christmas-time. I still make all my own ornaments.” Suddenly the need to move back to Montana grew fierce. “After all these years, waking up at the beach on Christmas morning still feels strange. That’s when I miss snow the most.”
He drew his legs up and leaned his elbows against his knees. A Stetson as dark as his eyes rested on his head, a blue denim shirt covered the broad expanse of his chest. Melanie glanced down at her own shirt; it was denim too, only it yielded a designer’s label. Colt’s probably came from the Western Emporium in town. He was a wealthy man but a simple one. She had heard his grandfather had made some sound investments, leaving Colt with quite a nest egg.
He looked over at her. “Do you ever visit your foster family during the holidays?”
Melanie cupped the pinecone and met his curious gaze. “No. They moved away years ago. Besides, I only lived there for a couple years, during high school. I’d been shuffled around a lot. Mostly city homes. I didn’t really grow up in Mountain Bluff, but I fell in love with it.” Because you were here. “And I was lucky enough to live next door to Gloria. Her family treated me like one of their own. I tell people this is my hometown because Gloria’s still here.” And so are you.
“I guess