CHEROKEE

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  Adam arrived at Sarah's apartment on Sunday afternoon. He had called ahead, so she was expecting him, but he still felt a little apprehensive. He didn't want to come on too strong, didn't want Sarah to know how easily she stirred his hormones. Adam was doing his damnedest to stick by their friendship agreement.

  She opened the door and invited him in. "What did you bring?" she asked, eyeing the box he carried.

  "Just some things I wanted to show you," he responded, hoping this was the right thing to do.

  He placed the box on the floor and lifted the African violet he had tucked in the corer. First order of business, he thought, handing her the small potted plant. "This is for you."

  "Thank you. It's lovely."

  "My landlady grows them." And its exotic beauty reminded him of her, but he didn't say so.

  He met her gaze, and she clutched the plant to her breast. This sweltering summer day she wore a white T-shirt and denim shorts. She had shapely legs, a deep shade of copper, just the way he imagined the rest of her. And her feet were bare, her toenails painted a soft shade of pink. Barefoot women enticed Adam, the sexy, natural quality it seemed to give them.

  She broke eye contact first, the flower still pressed against her body. "Make yourself at home, and I'll put this on the windowsill."

  She headed for the kitchen, choosing just the right spot for the violet. He could see her from where he stood. Her hair was straight and dark, as thick as a midnight sky, swaying as she moved.

  Because the image made him want her, he shifted his attention to her apartment. It was modern, with almond-colored carpeting and high ceilings. She had furnished it with a beige sofa and a glass-topped coffee table. The paintings on the walls displayed muted watercolors—a foaming seascape at dusk, a vase of willowy flowers, a white gazebo—serene, pretty things women enjoyed.

  He noticed a small basket of seashells on the coffee table and smiled. He knew they were her way of connecting with nature, of breathing in the ocean and letting it flow through her veins. Like a wave. Warm and slow and mesmerizing.

  Suddenly his body went taut, hungry with liquid heat. His belly tightened in a blatantly sexual pull, pressing lower, dangerously low. He had to stop wanting her, craving what he had vowed to avoid.

  She returned from the kitchen, and he wished he was the sort of man who could go to another woman for relief, fall into bed with the first warm, willing body who came his way.

  But even so, he knew that wouldn't work. It was Sarah he wanted, Sarah he longed to touch.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm being a terrible hostess. I didn't even offer you a cold drink."

  "I'm fine. I don't need anything." Nothing but to get her out of his system, which he didn't see happening anytime soon. Here he was, at her home, intending to ask her to take a vacation with him—a woman he barely knew.

  They settled onto the sofa, the box he'd brought on the table in front of them.

  She peered into it curiously. "So what did you want to show me, Adam?"

  "It's more or less my research material, literature I downloaded from web sites or photocopied from books."

  "About adoption?"

  He shook his head. "It's mostly Cherokee stuff." When she frowned, he continued, keeping his voice light. "There's also some information about Tahlequah. I called the Chamber of Commerce, and this is what they sent me." He lifted a large white packet bearing a black-and-white feather logo. It contained pamphlets about lodging, restaurants and schools, a couple of maps, pictures of recreational spots.

  She didn't make a move for the packet, so he opened the flap, removed a brochure. "I'm going to Tahlequah in August, Sarah." Pausing a beat, he searched her gaze, smiled a little. "And I want you to go with me."

  A stunned expression replaced the disapproving frown. "I can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I…" She released an audible breath, her explanation drifting. "Are you planning to search for your mother?"

  "Yes. I realize she might not live in Oklahoma anymore, but she could still have family there. And I was born in Tahlequah. I want to see what's it like, absorb whatever I can." He paged through the brochure. It contained information about the Cherokee Heritage Center. "You're familiar with the area, Sarah. You could be my guide."

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "I'll pay your way. And I'm not asking you to stay with me." He kept his gaze trained on hers and saw her eyelids flutter. She had captivating eyes, long pretty lashes. It was all he could do not to lose himself in them. "We'll get separate rooms."

  "I wasn't worried about…"

  Her copper skin flushed, and he realized how shy Sarah was, how innocently sensual. That, God forbid, made him want her again.

  He looked away, gained his composure. This trip wasn't a whim. He hadn't conjured it as a ruse to be near her. He honestly believed it could present a new beginning for both of them. He could search for his mother, and Sarah could get reacquainted with her roots. She needed to see her dad one more time—ask for an apology, insist he get help.

  Rather than push the issue, he gave her a measure of space, time to adjust to the idea of going back to the place she had left behind. "You don't have to make a decision right now. Just promise you'll think about it."

  "I won't change my mind, Adam."

  He shrugged, sent her a friendly smile. "You might. And if you don't, then I'll make the trip alone."

  "You should let it go," she said. "Pretend you never stumbled upon those adoption papers."

  "I can't do that." He would search until his dying day, search until he met the people who had created him, looked in their eyes and saw a piece of himself. Did he have his mother's cheekbones? His father's hands? "I know you don't understand. But my adoptive parents are gone, and now I'm alone. I need answers."

  "What if you don't like what you find?"

  "Then I'll deal with it. Life is full of challenges. And mankind has flaws. None of us are perfect."

  "You are," she said, stunning him nearly speechless.

  "Where did you get that idea?"

  "You're tall and handsome and smart. It's hard to find fault."

  "You need to look deeper, Sarah. I'm no different than anyone else."

  "But you are," she countered. "You're not only handsome, but you have a good heart."

  Adam felt a rush of guilt. A good heart, maybe, but not an honest one. He still hadn't told her about his unholy past.

  "Sarah, I—"

  What was he going to say? He used to pimp beer? Steal whiskey? Belt back a shot or two before school?

  Suddenly he couldn't bear to admit the truth. Because deep down, he knew it would destroy the clean, tender emotion stirring between them.

  "I'm just an average guy," he managed, telling himself it wasn't a complete lie. For the past eleven years, he'd lived a pretty normal life.

  "Not to me. I've never known anyone like you."

  Immediately they both fell silent, the kind of quiet that marked an awkward moment. She chewed her bottom lip, and he studied the archway that led to her spotless kitchen. Slats of gold streamed through the blinds, shooting filtered sunlight into the room.

  He wanted to touch her, slide his hands down her arms, feel the pulse at her wrist. But instead he lifted the Tahlequah packet and removed the entire contents. The papers made a ruffling noise, and Sarah turned toward the sound.

  * * *

  The brochure on top caught Sarah's eye, and she noticed a heading that read "Self-guided tour of historic Tahlequah." Adam wanted her to serve as his guide, return to Oklahoma for two weeks.

  Home. He wanted her to go home.

  A burst of panic constricted her throat. She couldn't go back. Wouldn't go back, especially with him. He confused her emotions, reminding her of starry Oklahoma nights and the Cherokee warriors her mother used to talk about.

  Caught up in the image of a warrior, she studied him. His hair was combed away from his face, secured at his nape in a thick pon
ytail. She had never seen him with his hair down and couldn't help but wonder how it would look flowing over his shoulders.

  Adam shifted the papers on his lap, reached for a map and unfolded it. "Where did you live?" he asked.

  Sarah forced herself to look at the map, to quell the anxiety in the pit of her stomach. She leaned into him. She could smell the faint aroma of the soap he used. She had seen a bar of it in his bathroom, knew it contained extracts of pine and European mosses.

  "In this area," she said, picturing the friendly middle-class neighborhood: Sunday-afternoon barbecues filling the summer air, children's bicycles parked hastily on freshly mowed lawns, teenage boys tinkering with hand-me-down cars. "They used to come to our door and ask for his opinion."

  Adam glanced up from the map. "What? Who?"

  Sarah blinked, realizing she had spoken her thoughts out loud. "Some of the teenage boys in our neighborhood. My dad would help them customize their cars, make them louder or faster or whatever it was they were trying to accomplish." She shivered at the memory. Happy times, before her mother had died, before her father had crawled into his vodka-steeped hole.

  "Your dad must have been a good mechanic."

  She shrugged. "He was, I suppose." But was was the operative word. Like everything else, he had let his career fall by the wayside. After his wife had died, nothing mattered to William Cloud.

  "I really want to go here," Adam said.

  She glanced at the map again, saw that he referred to the Cherokee Heritage Center.

  "Have you been there?" he asked.

  She nodded, knowing she couldn't avoid Adam's questions. He had such raw need on his face, a thirst to hear about anything that would put him in touch with his ancestry. She sincerely hoped his quest wouldn't end up hurting him, but she had her doubts. Not just because of the Indian aspect, but because most adopted people who searched for their biological families ended up with ill-fated reunions, strangers with nothing in common but the blood that ran through their veins.

  "My mom used to take me to the Heritage Center," she said finally. "It was one of her favorite places. The prayer chapel affected her the most. It's dedicated to the Cherokees who lost their lives on the Trail of Tears." And now the chapel reminded Sarah of her mother, a woman who died believing in dreams.

  "You must miss her terribly," he said, as though reading her mind.

  "I do, but I've learned to go on."

  "Do you miss your dad at all?"

  She lifted one shoulder, lowered it in a partial shrug. "I miss the way he once was, I suppose. But now I realize that wasn't really him. He tried to be what my mother wanted him to be. She was the traditional Cherokee, the one who spoke the language and followed the old ways."

  Adam sat quietly for a moment, then said, "I appreciate your talking to me about this. I know it's not easy for you. But it's been tough on me, too. I feel like I'm on the outside looking in. I don't even know if I'm supposed to say Native American or Indian." He picked up the brochures, slipped them back into the oversize envelope. "I don't want to do or say the wrong thing."

  He was trying so hard to find his place in the world, she thought. This perfect, beautiful man. "Use whatever term you're comfortable with."

  "I notice you say Indian."

  "That's what I'm used to."

  "It's a little confusing," he said.

  She had to smile. "Don't worry about trying to be so politically correct, and you'll get along just fine. You could never offend anyone, Adam."

  He smiled back at her, and her stomach fluttered. That gorgeous, white smile. No, he could never offend, only charm.

  "I guess you're what's considered an urban Indian," she said, explaining when he gave her a curious look. "Someone who wasn't raised on a reservation or in a traditional environment."

  "Yeah, but I'm sure the other urbanites know more about their culture than I do."

  "Not necessarily. There are plenty of elders who didn't pass on the old ways. They grew up with the stigma of being Indian, and some of them thought it would be easier to spare future generations the same fate. So as the years went by, holding onto the culture became less important."

  "But times have changed. I read that they're even teaching some of the native languages in colleges now."

  "Things haven't changed that much." At least not for Sarah. The stigma was still there, deep in her bones.

  He reached for her hand, touched it. "I wish I could make it better for you."

  Sarah shivered, but she wasn't cold. A heat, an incredible warmth, flowed through her. His touch, his hand on hers—that simple gesture made her want him.

  He could make it better, she thought, if he would kiss her again. Unable to stop herself, she leaned into him.

  He moved closer, too. Only he moved slowly, cautiously, questioning her gaze, asking for permission with his eyes.

  "Yes," she whispered, an instant before his lips brushed hers.

  He was gentle, reverent. He slid his hands to her waist, held lightly. She didn't want to close her eyes, didn't want to lose sight of him, but a dreamy sensation washed over her and she yielded to it, her eyelids fluttering.

  No longer could she see him, but she could feel him—every movement, every tingle, every erotic tremble he incited. The skin over his cheekbones was taut, his jaw freshly shaven. She lifted her hand and skimmed his hair, the smooth, silky texture that led to that carefully secured ponytail.

  As she cupped the back of his neck, he sucked her bottom lip, sucked until she moaned and fisted his shirt, pulling him even closer.

  They knocked over the box he'd brought, spilling envelopes and papers onto the carpet. Neither paid attention to it. Instead they went a little crazy, their mouths meeting over and over, tongues diving and dancing.

  The room spun like a carousel, but she didn't care if she was confused and dizzy. All that mattered was him. This man. This incredible, perfect man.

  "Adam," she said his name out loud, breathed it through another spiraling kiss.

  With both hands still grasping his shirt, her mind wandered into sexual delirium. What would it be like to unbutton all that rough denim? Place her hand on his chest? Let his heart beat thud against her palm?

  Would his skin feel as golden, as warm as it seemed radiating through his clothes? Her mind continued to spin, and he lifted her onto his lap, so that she straddled him.

  As the buttons on his fly grazed her zipper, moisture, hot and honeyed, settled between her legs. From the friction she thought. They were rubbing against each other, denim pressing denim—his jeans, her shorts. He skimmed her bare leg and Sarah's nipples went hard and achy. She wanted him to touch her there, too. Caress her with those fire-tipped fingers.

  Suddenly a noise jarred her—a loud, persistent ringing.

  Sarah thought it was a warning bell screaming in her head, but when Adam pulled back, she realized he had heard it, too.

  Struggling to gain her composure, she blinked through blurred vision. She was still dizzy, still drugged with feminine arousal. Adam seemed dazed, too. His eyelids looked heavy, and his breathing sounded raspy, as though he couldn't quite steady it.

  "Was that the phone?" he asked.

  She glanced around her apartment, hardly recognizing it. Why wouldn't her eyes focus, her heart quit pounding? "I don't know." Where was the phone? she wondered.

  The sound buzzed again, and recognition shot through her. "It's the doorbell. Someone's at the door."

  Instantly the room came into view. The afternoon sun blared through the blinds, and Sarah squinted at the box they had knocked onto the floor.

  Remembering the brochures from Tahlequah, she stood. Adam wanted to take her to Oklahoma, bring her back into the world she had left behind.

  What in God's name had she been thinking, encouraging him to kiss her? Run his hands over her body?

  Adam rose from the sofa, a portion of his shirt untucked and slightly rumpled from where she had tugged on it. Sarah pulled air into her
lungs, knowing he was aroused beneath the button-fly jeans.

  He was so incredibly gorgeous. A tall, dangerous temptation.

  "I have to get the door," she said.

  "Then I'll clean up."

  He knelt to right the cardboard box, his voice lower and huskier than she would have liked.

  Crossing the room, she avoided his gaze. She wouldn't allow herself to look at him again, get drawn into those hypnotic eyes or that warm, wet mouth. His sex-tinged voice was torture enough. She could still taste him, and her nipples remained hard, her flesh tingling.

  She paused at the door, took a calming breath. Maybe a zealous youth selling magazine subscriptions waited on the other side, someone friendly and safe she could invite into the apartment, use as a shield between herself and Adam.

  Placing her hand on the knob, she opened the door.

  "Oh, thank goodness you're home."

  Vicki Lester sighed from apparent relief. She was Sarah's neighbor, an easy-going woman who looked uncharacteristically frazzled. Her curly red hair was pinned haphazardly to her head, ringlets springing against her freckled face.

  Sarah stepped back, inviting Vicki inside. "Are you all right?"

  "No. Yes. I mean, I'm fine, but my baby-sitter just called in sick."

  "Where are the girls?"

  "At a friend's house, but I have to pick them up soon." Vicki turned, apparently catching sight of the man in Sarah's apartment. "Adam," she said, her voice less jittery. "I didn't realize you were here."

  Adam and Vicki knew each other, of course. She was the one who had told him about Sarah in the first place. And she had questioned Sarah about him later, asking her what she'd thought of him.

  Adam stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his shirt had been neatly tucked into his pants, even if the pre-washed denims still rode low and sexy on his hips. Keeping her gaze above his belt buckle, she averted them from the button fly. She didn't want to be reminded that she had been straddling his lap, rubbing herself against him like one of his cats.

  She didn't want Vicki to figure it out, either. The other woman, she suspected, had wanted them to get together from the beginning. She doubted it had been a deliberate matchmaker attempt, but a hopeful one just the same.