CHEROKEE STRANGER

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "Yep. I'm gonna spend the night at Steven's house so she can rest. I'm gonna be there for four whole days."

  "Is Steven your friend?"

  "Uh-huh. He's got bunk beds in his room and everything." He paused to take a quick breath, then prattled on, "My name's Corey. When Emmy gets mad, she calls me Corbin. What's your name?"

  "I'm James." The big man smiled, the tilt of his lips amused yet wistful.

  Emily wondered what he was thinking. He seemed drawn to her brother, gently affected by the chatty youth.

  "Wanna play video games with me?" Corey asked.

  "I wish I could. But I have to go to work now." James pointed to his pickup, a sturdy Ford packed with lumber. "There are some repairs that need to be done at the barn."

  "Are you a cowboy?" Corey wanted to know, as he checked out the western hat and battered boots.

  James smiled again. "Yes, I guess I am. Do you like horses?"

  "Yeah. I like 'em a lot. Can you come back to our house for dinner tonight?" Her brother spun around. "Can he, Emmy?"

  Before she could respond, James rose. Suddenly his eyes, those dark, tortured eyes, caught hers. Did he want to share a meal with her and Corey?

  Did it matter? Refusing to invite him to dinner would seem rude, something a properly bred, small-town girl would never do.

  "It won't be anything fancy," she found herself saying, her eyes still locked on to his. "But you're welcome to join us."

  "Thank you. That'd be nice." He accepted, then glanced at Corey, who gave an excited little jump.

  Emily reached for her brother's backpack, praying she'd done the right thing, that making friends with James Dalton wouldn't complicate her already complicated life.

  *

  James walked to the closet and opened the door. His new home was a nicely furnished, single-wide coach that provided plenty of comfort. Enough for a man who'd spent the past year in a prison cell.

  Anxious about tonight, he scanned his clothes. Aside from a few recently purchased T-shirts, his personal belongings were in piss-poor shape.

  He grabbed one of the T-shirts and cursed his unsteady nerves. This wasn't a date. He wasn't required to get gussied up, to slap on some fancy-ass cologne and tame his shower-dampened hair. Nor was he required to show up with a long-stemmed rose or a bottle of a rare-vintage wine.

  No, this wasn't a date. He was simply having dinner with a woman and a child.

  A woman and child who reminded him of what he'd lost.

  James placed the T-shirt over his head and tucked it into a pair of fraying jeans. He fumbled with his zipper, his fingers refusing to cooperate. He shouldn't have accepted Emily's invitation. But he couldn't cancel. Not now. Dinner had been Corey's idea and he couldn't bear to disappoint the boy.

  He headed for the bathroom and dragged a comb through his hair. Most kids were wary of him, distrustful of his hard, dark, don't-screw-with-me looks. But not Emily's brother. Corey had grinned at him, flashing a warm, genuine smile.

  So go. Get going. Be on time for dinner.

  He grabbed his keys, then decided that showing up empty-handed would make him feel like an ill-mannered oaf.

  On his way to Emily's house, he stopped by the supermarket in town and bought a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of flowers and a toy car.

  He arrived on her cozy stoop, reminding himself that this wasn't a date. But when she answered the door wearing a pretty spring blouse and a hint of perfume, he wanted to kiss her, cover her mouth with his and taste all that feminine beauty.

  "Hi," she said.

  "Hi." He handed her the flowers.

  "Thank you." She sniffed a protruding daisy and invited him inside. "Corey fell asleep. He wore himself out waiting for you. But I'll wake him before dinner."

  "Oh. Okay." James fidgeted with the toy car. Emily's house was bright and cheerful, with wood floors, colorful area rugs and wicker furniture. It still reminded him of a gingerbread cottage, of a fairy-tale dwelling.

  He spotted her brother sacked out on the couch, and without the slightest hesitation, he ventured toward the boy.

  Corey didn't look anything like James's son. They weren't even near the same age. Yet he couldn't help but think about his lost child.

  Justin was only ten months old the last time James had seen him. By now the boy would be walking, talking, calling another man Daddy.

  "Kids look so sweet when they're asleep," he said, recalling the nights he used to rock Justin, hum lullabies while taking refuge in cars, motels and campgrounds. His son had been born during the year and a half he, his wife and sister had been on the run from the mob.

  He turned to glance at Emily and saw that she watched him. Closely. Much too closely.

  Feigning a casual air, he set the racy red car on the coffee table. "Not that I know anything about kids."

  Emily still held the supermarket bouquet, the arrangement of yellow, pink and lavender blooms. "Corey certainly likes you."

  He resisted the notion to smooth the child's hair, to brush his bangs from his eyes. "I like him, too."

  When their conversation fell short, he jammed his hands into his pockets, and she hugged the flowers to her chest.

  "Do you need any help with dinner?" he asked. She blinked, let out an audible breath. "Can you cook?"

  He managed a halfhearted smile. "A little bit. Enough to get by."

  "Then follow me."

  Her cluttered yet functional kitchen offered wind chimes in the window, eclectic canisters on the counter and an appetite-stirring aroma.

  "What's in the oven?" he asked.

  "A roast." She unwrapped the bouquet and arranged it in a rainbow-colored vase.

  He glanced at the glass-topped table, which had already been set with green-and-yellow plates, and noticed a portrait of an aging gypsy on the wall.

  James approached the bejeweled woman, then stopped to study her. Her reddish-brown hair glistened with streaks of silver and the shawl around her shoulders shimmered like a belly dancer's veil. A deck of tarot cards lay just below her gnarled, liverspotted hands. But it was her eyes that held the most power. The eyes of a crow, he thought.

  Emily moved to stand beside him. "That's Madam Myra. She came through town, traveling with a rundown carnival."

  "She's fascinating," James said.

  "I thought so, too. That's why I asked her to sit for me."

  Stunned, he turned to look at her. "You painted this?"

  "It's just a hobby."

  "No." He shook his head. "It's more than that. It's part of who you are."

  She met his gaze, and for a long, soundless moment, they stared at each other. The way they'd done before, on the first night they'd met. Suddenly James couldn't see anything but Emily, couldn't feel anything but her presence, the magic that consumed him.

  "Madam Myra gave me a reading," she said. "But I didn't think it was real."

  "Why? What did she tell you?"

  "That I was—" She paused, took a breath. "Going to meet a tall, dark stranger. But that's such a cliché. It's—"

  Once again, they stared at each other, the gypsy's reading hovering in the air, swirling around James like a familiar verse from an ancient Cherokee spell.

  A spell of attraction, he thought. Of enchantment, of following a path that was meant to be.

  Maybe the Creator had sent James to Silver Wolf. To Emily. To a woman struggling with cancer, a disease that had killed his wife.

  She continued to gaze at him, leaving him with a hunger in his heart and an incantation playing like a poem in his head.

  "I want to take you to the hospital," he said. "I want to be there when you have your surgery."

  "What? No." She broke eye contact and stepped back.

  "Then I want to see you the next day. You have to promise to call, to let me come by as soon as you get home."

  "Why, James? Why does it matter?" Because of the spell, he thought. The magic. The crow-eyed gypsy. "Because I need to know that you'll be okay. And you
need—"

  "What?" she asked. "What do I need?"

  "Me," he told her, his voice turning raw. "You need me."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  Emily's heartbeat blasted her chest "No," she said, fighting his comment. "I needed you last week, James." She'd needed him at the motel. But she didn't need him now, not like this, not on the heels of discussing her cancer.

  He moved closer, and she feared he would touch her. She couldn't think straight when he put his hands on her, when he caressed her face, combed his fingers through her hair.

  "Last week wasn't the right time, Emily. You weren't ready for a lover."

  "I don't want to talk about this."

  He moved closer still, nearly pinning her against the counter. "Why? Because it scares you? Because you know I'm right?"

  Right about what? Needing him? Or not being ready for a lover? "You're confusing me." If she needed him, then she needed him as a lover, not as a nursemaid.

  He looked so big, so tall, so strong. And now, God help her, she wanted him to touch her, to put those rough, calloused hands all over her.

  "Just call me, okay? Call me after you get home from your surgery."

  No, she thought. No. She wouldn't involve him in her recovery. That would destroy the sexuality between them, the spark that drew him to her.

  The spark that jumbled her emotions.

  "I have to check on the roast," she said, changing the subject, searching for a way out.

  He stepped back, and she noticed the discomfort in his eyes. If only she could make him understand why she didn't want him fussing over her surgery.

  "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

  Emily merely stared. "About what?"

  "The meal. How can I help?"

  She let out the breath she'd been holding and motioned to the refrigerator, where her brother's artwork was displayed. "You can make the salad. The lettuce is in the crisper and the tomatoes are in a bowl on the other side of the counter."

  "What about a colander? To clean the lettuce?"

  She opened a cabinet and handed it to him, and in the process, they both froze. His fingers brushed hers, a light, barely-there touch that shouldn't have mattered. Yet it did.

  Who was he? she wondered. Who was this stranger who sent shockwaves through her system?

  For a moment, neither moved. Then he turned to the sink, and she opened the oven and poked at the roast.

  Corey stumbled into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed from his nap and carrying the toy James had brought him. Emily was grateful for his presence. He lightened James's mood right away, making the troubled cowboy smile.

  "Hey, partner," he said to the boy.

  "Hi. Is this from you?"

  "Yes. It's a Ferrari. One of my favorite cars."

  "Mine, too," Corey said, although Emily was certain he'd never heard of the Italian sports car.

  James shifted to look at her, and she suspected he knew Corey was bluffing. But he didn't seem to mind. If anything, he seemed flattered by the boy's attention, by the innocence of the six-year-old's idol worship.

  Corey moved to stand beside James, running his new toy up and down the counter, making engine noises. Emily prepared cream peas to go along with the rest of the meal, the roast and potatoes and carrots she'd seasoned with familiar spices. She couldn't recall the last time she'd had a man in her kitchen. Corey probably couldn't remember, either.

  Soon the boy stopped revving his Ferrari and looked up at James, who tore lettuce leaves into a bowl. "Emmy thinks you're part Indian."

  James glanced her way, then turned back to Corey. "Emmy's right."

  "Are you from the Nose Pierce tribe?"

  James cracked a smile. "You mean Nez Perce?" He dried his hands, giving Corey his undivided attention. "No. I'm Cherokee."

  Emily wanted to interject, but she remained quiet, observing James and her brother, listening to their conversation. She'd assumed James was from the Nez Perce Nation, too.

  "What's Cherokee?" the child asked.

  "It's a different kind of Indian."

  "Oh."

  Corey seemed disappointed, but Emily knew he'd learned about the Nez Perce in school, even if their French-given name eluded him. When she'd taken him on a shopping outing in Lewiston, he'd oohed and awed over the life-size bronze of a Nez Perce man on horseback in front of the county courthouse.

  "Did the Cherokee wear those big feather things on their heads?" Corey asked.

  James shook his head. "No. But sometimes the men wore cloth turbans, and Cherokee boys were tattooed at an early age, with pictures of stars and animals and things like that."

  "Really?" The child spun around. "Can I get a tattoo? Please, Emmy. Can I?"

  Good Lord. She glanced at James, hoping he'd intercede, but he merely shrugged, letting her tackle this on her own. "I suppose you have a tattoo," she said to him.

  "Yep. But you'll have to guess where it is."

  Corey shuffled his feet, clearly enthralled with the idea of James's mysterious tattoo. "Yeah, Emmy. Guess."

  Oh, what the heck. "I'll bet it's on his butt," she said, making her brother laugh.

  James laughed, too. Then raised an eyebrow at her, challenging her to guess again. But she didn't dare. Envisioning his body, the parts she'd yet to see, was a dangerous game.

  Corey refused to drop the subject. "Where is your tattoo, James?"

  He leaned over and lifted his right pant leg, exposing his boot and part of his calf. "It's here."

  The child squinted at the design. "What is it?"

  "A crow."

  "How come you got that?" Corey wanted to know.

  "Because crows are shape-shifters. And if you look into a crow's eye, you'll find the gateway to the supernatural. Like the gypsy in that picture. The one your sister painted."

  Although the explanation seemed to confuse her brother, it sent a chill along Emily's spine.

  She glanced at Madam Myra, then at James's leg. His tattoo was in the same spot where the melanoma had taken root on her body.

  Emily turned away to finish the meal, but for the rest of the evening, she couldn't think straight. She barely spoke to James, barely made eye contact.

  She let Corey take over, and luckily the boy chattered enough for both of them.

  And when James left, when he said goodbye, she told herself that her connection to him was coincidence, that he wasn't the stranger Madam Myra had predicted. That the gypsy's reading was nonsense.

  But she knew better. Whatever was happening between her and James was real. A reality she couldn't begin to understand.

  *

  The following morning, James entered the office at Tandy Stables and found Lily Mae Prescott at her desk, paging through a ledger.

  His boss was a tiny-boned woman with sun-baked skin, gray-streaked hair and a tough-as-tar voice. She was also the most disorganized person he'd ever met.

  She peered up at him through the silver specs that routinely fell to the end of her nose. "Are you taking a break?"

  "If you don't mind." He'd started his shift earlier than usual, helping the ranch hands complete the much-needed repairs at the barn.

  "Of course I don't mind. You work your ass off around here."

  He couldn't help but smile. She'd commented on his ass before, insisting she'd hired him because she liked the way his butt looked in a pair of jeans. He suspected she'd hired him because she was desperate to fill the job. Her rental stables catered to the tourist trade and her busiest season was about to begin. Plain and simple, she needed an assistant, someone to manage the way she mismanaged the place.

  "Mind if I use the computer?" he asked.

  She waved her arm. "Go right ahead. You know I hate that fandangle contraption."

  Yeah, she hated it all right. She couldn't seem to get the hang of keeping computer records, leaving a drudge of old-fashioned paperwork for him to sort through.

  He took a seat at the other desk, and
she made an unladylike snort and adjusted her glasses. "I only bought that machine because Harvey Osborn told me to get with the times. Learn to use a computer, he said. Get a Web site. Advertise on the Internet."

  James wanted to grin, but he knew she'd get ticked if she knew he was amused. She mentioned Harvey at least once a day.

  She made another disgusted sound. "I should have never listened to that old coot."

  This time James did grin. When she sent him a sour look, he shrugged and got online.

  Then he spent the next ten minutes scanning a melanoma site, reading about the disease, trying to understand what was happening to Emily.

  Lily Mae rose to pour herself a cup of coffee and took the liberty of peering over his shoulder. "What are you doing, James?"

  "Research."

  "Is that what it's called when a man obsesses over a woman?"

  He frowned at the monitor. "I'm not obsessing."

  "Bull. You can't get that little waitress off your mind."

  Frustrated, he turned in his chair. He'd been up half the night, thinking about Emily, recalling his past, the loss of his wife, the horror of the disease that had claimed her. "I want to help Emily, but she won't let me."

  "Maybe you're offering the wrong kind of help. Maybe she's tired of worrying about her surgery. Maybe she needs a night on the town."

  Suddenly James felt like a big, stupid male. A guy who didn't have enough sense to know what a woman needed. "I should ask her on a date?"

  "Afraid she'll turn you down?"

  At this point, he honestly didn't know. Emily had acted odd last night. But their whole relationship was odd. "Maybe. But I suppose my ego could take it."

  Yet as the day wore on, his ego took a beating. He felt like a dorky teenager stressing about asking the girl he liked to the prom. Finally, he got the guts to call Emily at the diner and ask if she could stop by the stables after she got off work, explaining that there was something he wanted to discuss with her. She sounded wary, but agreed to see him.

  She arrived at 4:20, wearing her uniform and a cautious expression. He'd suggested meeting at his living quarters, which was located a short distance from the barn.

  He invited her inside, and she stood with her arms crossed, watching him through those emerald eyes.