CHEROKEE STRANGER

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  She poured the hot brew, filling his cup, telling herself she would survive this incredibly awkward moment, the pounding of her heart, the ringing in her ears.

  His jaw, she noticed, was clean shaven, scraped free of the dark stubble. But somehow, he still managed to look like a desperado, an Indian renegade.

  "I thought you were going home," she said, her voice as unsteady as her pulse.

  "I am home. I just moved here."

  Oh, God. Dear God.

  "That's why I was in Lewiston." He cleared his throat, attempted to explain. "I flew in that night. The motel was close to the airport. It was convenient." He lifted his cup, set it back down. "Why were you there?"

  "I—" She set the coffeepot on his table. "I had an appointment that afternoon, and I didn't feel like driving home."

  "So you got a room?"

  "Yes." He seemed like a mirage, a figment of her tortured imagination, but he was real. Heaven help her. He was real.

  "I didn't mean for this to happen, Emily."

  "It's okay. It's fine." She wiped her clammy hands on her uniform, on the pink dress she routinely wore. "You'll like this town."

  "Geez, Louise," Harvey said from behind her. "You two young folks know each other?"

  Silent, James shifted his gaze to the old-timer. Harvey moseyed on over, shuffling his way to the booth.

  Emily stood like a statue. She'd tried to forget James Dalton. She'd tried so hard, so desperately to erase him from her mind, from the memory imbedded in her soul.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Harvey sat across from James. "Are you Lily Mae's new assistant?"

  "Yes. She just hired me this morning."

  "Hot diggity. I knew it." He turned to Emily. "Didn't I tell ya?" Then back to James. "So, how'd you meet our little Emmy? What's this about Lewiston?"

  Caught off guard, James folded the paper. Emily saw him struggle to answer, to find a suitable explanation. "I noticed her. I thought she was pretty."

  And he'd wanted to sleep with me, she thought. Until he'd discovered she'd never had sex before.

  Harvey flashed his dentures. "I think she's pretty, too. That's why I loiter … I mean, eat here. But don't tell the other waitresses I said that. They think I hang around for them."

  James's mouth, that warm, firm mouth, tilted in a faint smile, and Emily recalled the lust-driven flavor of his last kiss, the very moment he'd pulled her onto the bed.

  Then let her go.

  After Harvey introduced himself to Silver Wolf s newest resident, reciting his name and how long he'd lived in this county, he said, "So you'll be working with Lily Mae. That woman's crazy, you know."

  "Must be why she hired me."

  When James glanced her way, Emily thought about her upcoming surgery. Would he find out? Would Harvey tell him?

  "I'll check on your order," she said to James, hoping to prod Harvey back to his stool.

  But the gossip guru remained where he was, blabbing about Lily Mae Prescott.

  Finally, when she brought James's breakfast, Harvey excused himself, pleased that he'd spoken his piece about Lily Mae.

  After the older man paid his bill and left the restaurant, James lifted the brim of his hat, exposing his eyes.

  Those haunted eyes.

  "They must have been lovers," he said. "What?" Emily realized she'd left the coffeepot on his table all this time. That her brain was completely addled.

  "Harvey and Lily Mae."

  His words sunk in. "Yow think he and she—"

  "A long time ago. When they were young." She blinked, stared at him, blinked again. "No one has ever assumed that before. Lily Mae drives Harvey nuts."

  "Because he can't get her out of his system." James tapped on his chest. "It happens sometimes. A woman gets inside you, and you can't let her go. You—" He paused, as if suddenly aware of what he was saying, of what he was feeling.

  Emily didn't know how to react. She knew he was thinking about the other blonde, the woman she reminded him of. "I better go. Let you eat your meal."

  She attempted to turn away, but he stopped her.

  "Wait. Emily, wait."

  Her pulse jumped. "Yes?"

  "You didn't … you haven't—" he stalled, reached for the ketchup "—found someone else?"

  Embarrassed, she shook her head. "It wasn't that important."

  His hand slid down the base of the bottle, then back up. "Wasn't it?"

  "No. It was just a whim." She released the air in her lungs. Was he caressing the glass? Molding it like a woman's body?

  His voice turned rough. "I just wanted to be sure that someone else didn't…"

  Didn't what? Take her virginity? Make her feel good? She chewed her lip, tasting the gloss she'd applied earlier. "I have to get back to work."

  She grabbed the coffeepot and left him alone, staring at the ketchup bottle in his hand.

  After a short while, she returned, asking if he wanted anything else. Avoiding eye contact, he shook his head, and she put his bill on the table.

  He lingered at the booth, a lone figure in dark clothes, scattered light from a shaded window sending shadows across his face.

  Other customers filtered into the diner, and Emily went about her job, taking orders, chaffing with people she knew.

  Later, as she balanced two breakfast specials, she scanned the room to see him, to look at him one more time. But he was gone, his bill paid, his food barely eaten.

  She cleared his table and reached for the shiny gold ornament that held her tip.

  It wasn't a money clip. It was her hair barrette, the one he'd hooked to his jacket on the night they should have made love.

  The night he'd left her wanting more.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  Emily lived seven miles from town on a paved country road. Her yellow-and-white house, James noticed, looked like a cottage, something out of a gingerbread fairy tale.

  He parked his newly acquired truck and sat behind the wheel, hoping the purpose of his visit wouldn't put her off. He hadn't seen her for several days, since he'd left the diner without saying goodbye. But he'd run into Harvey Osborn this afternoon at the hardware store, and the old guy had given James an earful.

  So here he was, parked on her street, preparing to confront her.

  A woman he barely knew.

  A woman who had cancer.

  He studied the decorative lamppost in front of her house, wondering if the Creator had put Emily in his path for a reason. If meeting her was part of some sort of divine plan.

  Yeah, right.

  Did he honestly believe the Creator gave a damn about him? That he was even worthy of a plan?

  James wasn't exactly the disciple of a deity. He was an ex-con, an accessory to murder, a man who had no business associating with someone like Emily.

  He cursed beneath his breath and exited his vehicle, knowing he should head back to work instead, forget about Emily, keep his distance. But he couldn't. He simply couldn't. He needed to talk to her.

  Taking the shrub-lined walkway to her stoop, he adjusted his hat, shielding his eyes, guarding his emotions.

  Her dome-shaped door displayed a four-paned window, but he couldn't see through the smoked glass nor could he predict what awaited him on the other side.

  What was he supposed to say to her? How was be supposed to start this conversation?

  James knocked, rapping softly. Within a heartbeat, within one anxious, chest-pounding thump, Emily answered the summons, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

  Her hair, that honey-blond mane, waved in a loose natural style, springing softly around her face. And her eyes, as green as a sunlit meadow, caught his, trapping him beneath the battered brim of his hat.

  She could have been Beverly, he thought. The lady he'd loved.

  "James?"

  She blinked her sweeping lashes, and he told himself she wasn't his wife. Her resemblance to Beverly wasn't that specific.

 
What about her illness? The disease that chilled his bones?

  That, he decided, was specific enough to bring him to her door, to leave him standing here, tongue-tied, and terminally tortured.

  "James?" she said again.

  He found his voice, raw as it was. "Harvey told me where you lived."

  "I wasn't expecting company," she responded, a bit too cautiously. "I just got off work a little while ago. But I suppose Harvey mentioned that, too."

  James frowned. "Why didn't you tell me you had cancer?"

  Her breath rushed out, and he wondered if she'd gone woozy. She gripped the doorknob, her cheeks turning pale. "When was I supposed to tell you?"

  "How about the night we met?" The hot, hungry night he'd almost made love to her.

  "I couldn't."

  "Why not?"

  "It would have been awkward."

  No more awkward than this, he thought.

  She released the doorknob, but her hands didn't remain idle for long. She fidgeted with the T-shirt she wore, tugging uncomfortably at the fabric.

  "It's no big deal," she said.

  No big deal? He had the notion to shake her. To hold her, to drag her next to his body and never let go.

  James's wife had died of lung cancer. Beverly had been as young and beautiful as Emily. As delicate. As stubborn. He knew the disease didn't discriminate. Those who weren't supposed to be at risk sometimes ended up on a grassy slope, marked by an elegant headstone, by a slab of marble etched with a lonesome epitaph.

  A grave James couldn't visit. A resting place that gave him no peace.

  "I want answers, Emily. I want to know about your condition."

  "I thought Harvey told you."

  "He didn't have all the details."

  "What did he say?"

  "That you have skin cancer. And you're having surgery."

  She lifted her chin, gave him a tough-girl look. "That's plenty of information. More than you need to know."

  "Like hell."

  Her expression didn't falter. "I'm under no obligation to explain myself to you."

  He moved closer, crowding her. "Five days ago you were willing to let me pop your cherry. And not because you were tired of waiting." Battling his temper, he cursed his own comment. But what did he care about being proper? About protecting the honor of a woman he barely knew? "You were freaked out about the cancer. Admit it. That's why you picked up a stranger in a bar."

  "So what's your excuse?" she shot back.

  My dead wife, he wanted to say. The mother of his lost child. "Men don't need excuses. Men—" He froze, realizing how harsh he sounded, how ungentlemanly he was behaving.

  God help him, he knew better. In spite of his crude upbringing, of the crimes he'd committed, he knew how to treat a lady, how to respect her.

  "Men what?" she asked, shoving at his shoulder, trying in vain to push him away, to keep the monster he was at bay.

  "Nothing," he said, taking a step back, giving her the space she needed, hating himself for the discomfort he saw in her eyes.

  She released a shaky sigh, and he resisted the urge to spill his lowlife guts, to admit why her cancer made him crazy.

  "I'm sorry, Emily."

  "Are you?"

  "Yes." He held up his hands, like an outlaw trying to stop the bullet he deserved. "I'm just worried about you."

  She chewed on her bottom lip, a nervous habit he'd seen her do before. Was she contemplating his sincerity?

  "I'll tell you what you want to know," she finally said.

  Silent, he waited for her to make the next move. Which she did, by gesturing to the shallow ridge on her front stoop, offering him a place to sit.

  What did he expect after the way he'd acted? For her to invite him into her home? Into her fairy-tale cottage with its lace curtains and artfully painted trim – a place someone like him would never belong.

  Emily sat beside James in the shady spot she'd chosen, unsure of where to begin. Her shoulder brushed his, and the contact made her foolishly weak. She would never forget the way he'd kissed her that, night, the erotic, open-mouthed pressure of his lips, the wetness from his tongue.

  And now he wanted to hear about her cancer.

  She turned to look at him. Their faces were close. Too close. She shouldn't have suggested such tight quarters, such a confined place to have this conversation.

  His eyes were nearly hidden by the brim of his hat. She couldn't see into the window of his soul, couldn't uncover his secrets. Even though he'd managed to uncover all of hers.

  "Do you know anything about skin cancer?" she asked.

  He shook his head. "A little. But not enough to understand what's happening to you."

  "I have melanoma." The most dangerous form of skin cancer, she thought. "It begins in a type of cell called a melanocyte. Melanocyctes produce melanin."

  "The pigment in our skin," he said.

  "Yes." She gazed at him, at his deep, rich coloring. "People with fair skin and red or blond hair are at risk because their skin cells have less melanin."

  "Like you."

  She nodded. In spite of her fair skin, of her tendency to burn, she'd spent years trying to perfect a tan, to look good in a bathing suit. She thrived on summer days, on splashing in a nearby river, on strolling along sun-dappled trails.

  Until now.

  "How did you find out you had melanoma?" he asked.

  "I went to my HMO doctor on another matter. I twisted my ankle and decided to have it x-rayed." Avoiding his gaze, she glanced at the yard. A freshly fallen leaf stirred in the breeze, fluttering to the ground. The May weather was mild, but Emily's emotions ran rampant. She dreaded the onset of summer, of challenging the sun, of being overly cautious every time she stepped outside. "My ankle was fine, but the doctor noticed a suspicious-looking mole on my leg."

  "Suspicious-looking?"

  "The shape was irregular and the color was uneven. I never paid much attention to it. To me, it was just a mole. It had been there for years." Emily steadied her voice, determined to make this sound more clinical. Less personal. She wanted to overcome her anxiety, to feel like herself again. "My doctor referred me to a skin care clinic in Lewiston. They removed the mole and got a pathology report."

  He waited for her to continue, but she paused to pull air into her lungs. She didn't like discussing this with a stranger, a man she'd almost slept with.

  He shifted his weight, making her much too aware of his body next to hers. Anxious to get this conversation over with, she went on. "There are different types of melanoma and the disease is diagnosed in stages, which is determined by the thickness of the cancer and how deeply it's invaded the skin. Mine is considered stage one."

  "When is your surgery scheduled?"

  Rather than gesture to the afflicted area, to the part of her that would soon be scarred, she kept her hands still. "Next Friday."

  James studied her, much too intensely. "What about recovery time?"

  "It depends on the extent of your surgery and what kind of work you do. I'm taking a month off." She wondered why he seemed determined to grill her, to acquire every last detail. "My boss offered me a few weeks sick pay, and I was going to take a vacation this summer anyway." To spend some lazy days at the river, she thought. To bask in the sun. Something she could no longer do. "That will be more than enough time."

  "Is your family going to kook after you?"

  "My parents passed away."

  "I'm sorry," he said, his shadowed eyes meeting hers.

  "Thank you." Facing this without her mom and dad made her feel vulnerable, especially with James watching her so closely.

  He cleared his throat and prompted her with another question. "Who's taking you to the hospital?"

  "A girlfriend. She's going to keep an eye on me afterward, too."

  "I can help," he said. "I can stop by when your friend isn't available."

  "Are you sure?" He reached out to skim her cheek, to trace the contours of her face.

&
nbsp; "Yes." Emily refused to admit how nervous she was, how being diagnosed with cancer had changed her. "I won't be bedridden."

  He ran his fingers along her jaw. "If you need me, all you have to do is call."

  She took a deep breath. Her skin tingled from his touch, sending little shivers along her spine.

  "I'll give you my number," he said.

  "That isn't necessary."

  "Just in case." He reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a business card from Tandy Stables.

  She glanced at it, noticed his name and number were written in the corner. Without thinking, she pressed the card against her chest, then realized his name and number were dangerously close to her heart.

  They both fell silent, and a moment later, a familiar yellow bus made its way down the road, stopping where it always did. A six-year-old boy ambled out, his backpack weighing down narrow shoulders.

  "My brother's home." And she'd lost track of time, forgetting about Corey, who arrived every day at this hour, twenty minutes after his after-school care program ended.

  The rambunctious first-grader headed toward the house, while a female bus driver waited for him to reach the stone walkway, the red lights on her vehicle flashing.

  James adjusted his hat, lifting the brim a notch. "That little tyke is your brother?"

  "Yes." The fair-haired child with the gap-toothed grin belonged to her. "I'm his legal guardian." And she'd finally explained her condition to him, letting him know she couldn't play in the sun the way she used to.

  She stepped forward to greet Corey, but he was more interested in the tall, dark stranger by her side.

  The boy gaped at James. "Who are you?"

  The man she'd almost slept with crouched down, putting himself at Corey's level. "I'm a friend of your sister's."

  The six-year-old turned his gape on Emily. "You got a boyfriend, Emmy?"

  Her tongue twisted in her mouth, her saliva going dry. "No … I … he…"

  "I'm not her boyfriend," James supplied.

  Corey dumped his backpack on the ground, changing the subject, switching to another uncomfortable topic. "Did you know Emmy's gonna have surgee?" he asked, the mispronounced word whistling through his teeth.

  "Yes, she told me. Are you going to help her get better?"