CHEROKEE STRANGER
Page 9
"There isn't much to tell. My mom was white and my real dad was Cherokee, but he didn't stick around long enough to matter. So my mom divorced him and married this trashy white guy who used to beat me."
"Oh, James."
Sympathy laced her voice, but he shrugged it off. "When I got big enough, I hit him back." He looked at his hands and recalled the violence. "I hated him. The first time he called me a heathen, I wanted to kill him."
"Is that when you pierced your body?"
He nodded. "I didn't know anything about being Indian, but I'd heard that some of the tribes used to fast and dance and pierce their flesh, offering sacrifice and prayer to the Creator. I wanted to be part of that somehow, so I jammed a needle through my nipple and made a permanent hole in my skin, I was only fourteen, and I needed to do something spiritual. Something my stepfather couldn't take away from me."
"Who taught you about your heritage?"
"My best friend's uncle, I was running around with another Cherokee boy, and he was just as rebellious as I was. At first, neither one of us gave a damn about our heritage. But we finally decided to learn, especially after my piercing experience. His uncle respected me for that. He understood it." James smiled at the memory. "He also showed me how to care for the wound, to keep it from getting infected."
Emily traced the outline of the nipple ring through his T-shirt, and they gazed at each other, caught in one of those warm, tender moments.
"Did it hurt?" she asked.
"Like crazy. And it took about three months to heal."
"You were a wild child, weren't you, James?"
He almost laughed. He'd robbed the principal's house on the night he'd graduated from high school. "My mom said I was a bad seed."
"That's an awful thing for a mother to say."
"Even if it's true?"
"You're not a bad seed." She smoothed the front of his hair. "You're my champion."
The compliment made him proud. And sad. And confused. He wasn't a troubled kid anymore. He was a hardened criminal.
Bloody hell, he thought, before he cupped Emily's face and kissed her. Touching her was the only thing that kept him sane, that helped him forget.
She made a kittenish sound and let him take her tongue. She tasted of tea and honey and sips of warm milk, of everything pure and good. When he leaned back to look at her, she gave him an intoxicated smile, like a hummingbird who'd drunk too much nectar.
He owed her the truth, or as much of it as he could manage. "She was my wife, Emily."
She snapped out of her daze. "What?"
"The woman who died from cancer was my wife."
Silence fell. He waited for her to speak, waited through the clock-ticking lull.
"You were married?" she finally said.
"Yes, but not legally. We had a private ceremony. We said vows to each other."
"What was her name?"
He couldn't say it, but he couldn't make up a name, either. James Dalton wasn't supposed to have a wife. He'd broken a WITSEC rule by revealing pertinent information about Reed. "Does it matter? She's gone now."
Emily didn't press the issue, but he suspected she wouldn't. She was too respectful to dishonor the dead.
"We were only together for a few years," he said. "Then she started getting sick, with symptoms that could have been caused by any number of things. We didn't even consider lung cancer." He could feel Emily watching him, latching on to his grief. "She was in her twenties, a nonsmoker. Lung cancer is rare in people under forty."
"How did it happen?" Emily asked. "Why did she get sick?"
"I don't know. It's hard to say. It could have been secondhand smoke. Or she could have been exposed to high levels of radon." He finished his beer, hoping to wash away the pain. "Smoking is the leading cause of lung cancer, but radon causes between fifteen and twenty thousand lung cancer deaths each year."
"I've heard of it," she said. "It's a gas you can't see or smell. Kind of like carbon monoxide."
He nodded, recalling how Emily had lost her parents. "Except people don't die overnight from radon. Lung cancer takes years to develop." He frowned at the bottle in his hand. "The thing that turns my stomach is that I used to smoke. My wife had small cell carcinoma, and there I was, exposing her to secondhand smoke."
"You didn't know she had cancer, James."
"It doesn't matter. I'm still partially responsible. Me, her father, her brothers." The mobsters trying to kill him, he thought. The bastards running the L.A. mob. "We all smoked. Everyone she associated with was putting her at risk."
"How long ago did she die?" Emily asked.
"It's been a year." A long, lonely year, he thought. "I'm so sorry you lost her. And now I understand why my condition worries you." She smiled a little. "Why you're so determined to take care of me."
"I couldn't bear to lose you, too." He set down the empty bottle. There was a time when he would have smashed it, splintering his skin with shards of glass. Emily had changed that side of him. But that didn't absolve him of his sins. He was still an accessory to murder. And he always would be.
*
Emily sat next to Diane on the sofa, the midday sun peeking through the blinds. The coffee table held the lunch they'd prepared – ham and cheese sandwiches, potato chips and iced tea.
"You're a genius, Di." Rather than wait for Emily's doctor to supply the news, Diane had suggested calling the pathology department at the hospital to see if her biopsy results were in.
Diane reached for her drink. "I figured it was worth a try. Why wait around for the middleman when you can go right to the source?"
"The middleman?" Emily laughed. "My doctor is more than a middleman."
The other woman laughed, too. "You know what I mean."
Yes, Emily knew. The news she'd received today was better than winning the lottery. She was truly cancer-free. Her disease hadn't metastasized. "I can't wait to tell James."
"So how's it going, anyway?"
"With James?"
"He's living with you. It doesn't get much cozier than that."
"He's only staying until I recover."
"And?"
"And he told me that what's happening between us scares him."
Diane moved to the edge of her seat. "So what exactly is happening?"
Dare she admit it? Say the words keeping her up at night? She gazed at her friend. She'd never kept secrets from Diane, and she wasn't about to start now. "I think I'm in love with him." What else could the desperation in her heart be? The unwavering ache? The thrill of holding him, of needing him?
"Is he in love with you?"
"I don't know." Emily twisted the napkin on her lap. "James isn't easy to read." And she didn't want to hope too deeply, to set herself up for destruction.
"I'll bet he is. Why else would he be scared?"
"Because of my cancer." She'd already told Diane about James's wife. "He's been through so much."
"True, but he doesn't have to be afraid anymore. Once he finds out your cancer is gone, he can stop worrying." Diane sent her an optimistic smile. "You two can make a life together. You can have lots of babies." She patted her protruding belly. "Like me."
Emily glanced at her friend's tummy, tempted to imagine herself in the other woman's place. How would it feel to marry James? To cradle his child in her womb? "Don't talk like that, Di. Don't get me started."
"Why not? You just admitted that you loved the guy."
"I know. But James is so complicated." So tortured, she thought. So haunted. "He's like this dark angel just waiting to fall."
Diane made a moonstruck face. "God, that's sexy. A rogue angel. What more could a girl want?"
"Don't tease me." Emily flicked a crust of bread at her friend. She knew Diane was using humor to diffuse her nerves, to make falling in love seem less stressful.
"Come on, Em. You've dreamed about this all your life. Prince Charming finally has a face." The brunette flashed a dastardly grin. "And quite a bod, too."
"You've got some glorious nights to look forward to. Sex is even better when you're in love."
"Really?" Her desperate heart made an excited leap. She couldn't imagine being more fulfilled, but the romantic notion intrigued her. "Do you think love makes it better for men, too?"
Diane tilted her head, pondering the question. "Probably not. They're horn dogs either way."
They looked at each other and laughed, but by the time Diane departed, Emily had worked herself into an emotional tizzy. Thanks to Diane's well-intentioned meddling, Emily was driving herself nuts with images of happily ever after, with hope-filled wishes and candy-coated dreams.
James came home from work at six-fifteen, wearing a faded shirt, Wrangler jeans, dusty boots and a breathtaking smile.
"Hey," he said by way of a greeting.
"Hey yourself." She followed him into the bedroom, where he kept his clothes. He always showered and changed as soon as he got home. She was becoming accustomed to his habits, even if he was sleeping on the couch.
"Where's Corey?" he asked.
She watched him gather a white T-shirt and a pair of freshly laundered jeans. "Steven's mom took the boys to her husband's softball game."
"They're a great family, aren't they?"
"Yes." But we could be a great family, too, she thought.
"Do you want to get takeout tonight?" he asked as he removed his boots.
"Sure." She couldn't help but smile. James usually discussed dinner while he rifled through his underwear drawer. She'd given him a portion of her dresser, and he was surprisingly tidy, keeping his belongings in order.
"I'll be back in a flash." He pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead and headed to the bathroom, leaving her with a big, tender ache.
She sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the sound of the shower running. She knew he would emerge with his jeans fastened low on his hips and his hair falling in towel-dried disarray.
Emily reached for Dee-Dee and stroked the bear's matted head. Should she confide in James? Admit that she loved him?
Yes, she thought. She should. But not now. Not this soon. The best she could do was tell him about her biopsy results.
Five minutes later James returned, looking the way she'd imagined – clean and damp and undeniably male.
She rose to meet him, to tip her head and gaze up at him. "I have some news."
He cupped her cheek. "What is it, baby?"
"My test results came in." She gave him a strong, steady smile. "It's over. The cancer is gone."
His voice quavered. "No lymph node detection?"
"No."
"Oh, God." He pulled her tight against him, so close she could feel his heart pounding against hers.
When he stepped back to look at her, his eyes, those tortured eyes, actually sparkled. "We have to celebrate, Emily. As soon as your leg heals, we'll go out. We'll drink and eat and dance."
"And have sex," she added. "The best sex imaginable."
"That's my girl." He laughed, and she practically flung herself into his embrace.
He spun her around, and she inhaled his soap-and-shampoo scent. He smelled like the forest on a breezy day, like wood smoke and musk, like tall, sturdy trees, like sprigs of mint.
She closed her eyes, and he kissed her, filling her with warmth and wonder. And when he lifted her into his arms and made her sigh, she prayed that he loved her, too.
* * *
Chapter 9
«^»
Someone touched him – a warm, soft hand skimming his forehead, smoothing his hair away from his face. James shifted on the couch. Was he dreaming?
The living room was dark, except for a slice of moonlight slipping in through lace curtains, making a haunting pattern on the wall.
Hadn't he been watching TV? Reclining on the sofa, with his head on Emily's lap?
"I fell asleep," he said, realizing she was still there, holding him.
"Just for a little while." Her voice was as soft as her touch.
He tilted his head back to look at her, but she was a silhouette in the dark. She must have turned off the television with the remote, making the room quiet and still. "You should go to bed."
"I want to stay here."
He wanted her to stay, too. "Then we should switch places. This has to be uncomfortable for you."
"I'm fine. I like holding you."
His Emily, he thought. His sweet, perfect Emily. A week had passed since she'd told him about her biopsy results, and he thanked the Creator every day for keeping her safe.
"I'm going to tell Corey that you and I are a couple," she said. "That we're boyfriend and girlfriend."
Her description of their relationship made him smile. She made them sound like teenagers from the fifties, sock-hop dancers going steady. But they weren't, of course. They were consenting adults – lovers from a modern, fast-paced, overly violent world.
"I miss being with you, Emily."
She leaned over to kiss him. And when she did, her hair fell forward, draping him like a satin quilt. Her mouth was warm and willing, her tongue moist and inviting. The kiss tasted of passion, of pleasure, of summer nights and sultry dreams.
She moved back to catch her breath. "It won't be long before we can make love again."
"I wasn't talking about sex." He tried not to think about sex too much, to arouse his system before she was ready. To lust that deeply, to crave what he couldn't have. "I was talking about sleeping in your room. Just being with you."
"I miss that, too." Her tone turned wistful. "After I tell Corey about us, you can stay with me. I want my brother to understand what's going on. It wouldn't be proper for him to walk into my room one morning and find you in my bed. I need to talk to him first." James suspected she would recite a fairy-tale version of the birds and the bees. Romantic, innocent stuff a six-year-old could comprehend. "You're raising him right. Corey is going to grow into a respectable young man someday."
"That's all I can hope for."
In the silence that followed, he gazed at the ghostly shadows on the wall. Was the moon slipping behind the trees, drifting in a starless sky? He closed his eyes and wished he had more to offer Emily. That he was worthy of her and Corey.
She combed her fingers through his hair. He remained on the couch, his head on her lap. He'd rarely spent this kind of time with Beverly. Falling asleep in front of the TV would have been a luxury in those days. A luxury a man on the run couldn't afford.
"I'm still scared," he said.
"Of what's happening between us?"
"Yes." He opened his eyes and studied the shadows again. They were shifting, he noticed. Changing form. He thought he saw a crow but the birdlike shape disappeared before he could latch on to it.
"So am I," she said. "But it's a good kind of scared."
Her admission thrust a ball of panic straight to his stomach. Good? How could her attachment to a criminal be good?
He sat up and turned on a low-burning lamp, flooding the room with a golden hue. Her image came into view, like a mist-veiled mirage. Her nightgown was gray and smoky, her skin was translucent, her arms were pale and delicately boned.
"I've been waiting for you to bring this up." She reached for a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest. "All week, I've been hoping and praying that you'd say something."
"Why?"
"Because I love you."
His chest constricted, trapping him between turmoil and tenderness. All along, he'd wanted to steal her heart. The thief in him had wanted to take her most valuable possession.
"This is my fault," he said.
"It's not anyone's fault, James. It just happened." She hugged the pillow a little tighter. "Diane thinks you love me, too. But I'm never sure about anything, not with you."
He wanted to comfo
rt her, to calm her fears. But he stood instead, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I'm never sure about myself, either."
"You've been through some difficult times. You lost your wife. It can't be easy to have feelings for someone again."
But I do, he thought. He had feelings he couldn't control. "If I tell you that I love you, too, it won't make a difference. I'll still be scared."
Her gaze locked on to his. Her eyes shone like faceted jewels, maintaining the brilliance, the luster of a lost treasure.
"Do you?" she asked.
He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. He couldn't lie to her. He'd told enough lies already. And lying to himself wouldn't solve anything, either. He'd been in love before. He knew the signs, the symptoms that never went away.
"Yes," he said.
"You love me?"
"Yes." Did she want him to sign an oath? A declaration in blood?
Her hopeful eyes were still locked on to his. "You honest-to-goodness love me?"
"Yes, damn it. I love you. But I feel like a bull that's about to be branded, so don't make any sudden moves."
She laughed and leaped to her feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table.
"Watch your leg," he cautioned. She'd been bouncing around too much lately, putting pressure on a wound that had yet to heal. "If you pop a stitch—"
She ignored his warning and threw her arms around his neck. He gave up and held her, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the spring-meadow scent of her hair.
"This doesn't change anything," he said.
"It changes everything." She put her head on his shoulder. "It gives us a place to start. A new beginning."
Did it? He wrapped her in a protective hug and prayed she was right. But deep down, he knew she wasn't.
What kind of "new beginning" would they have if his security were breached? If the mob caught up with him? If James Dalton disappeared one day and never came back?
*
James pulled into the parking lot of a hamburger joint located between Silver Wolf and Lewiston. He spotted Zack Ryder's black sedan and blew an anxious, stomach-clenching breath. For the past two days, James could barely eat, barely sleep. There was no one to talk to, no one to confide in, except Ryder.