"No." He sat beside her, sinking into the corduroy cushions. "She's a widow and has other children. Two grown sons and a school-age daughter."
Sarah's heart stuck in her throat. Adam had brothers. And a little sister. She tried to picture them, wondered if they were as beautiful, as perfect as the man she loved. "They don't know about him, do they?"
"No, they don't." He stared straight ahead. "I'm sorry, honey, but Adam's mother doesn't want to see him."
"Why?" Anger caught her hard and fast. She didn't have any sympathy for Cynthia Youngwolf, not if the woman was going to hurt Adam. There had been a time when Sarah thought he had been wrong to search for his family, but she felt differently now. "This isn't fair. All he wants is a chance to meet her. He deserves that much."
"Honey, you don't understand."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then make me understand. Tell me why she doesn't want to see her son."
"I will," he said. "But how in God's name we're supposed to tell Adam, I don't know."
* * *
When Adam walked into the motel room, he shot Sarah and William a big smile, pleased that her father had decided to join them. "So we're on for dinner?" He couldn't wait to tell them about the properties he had seen.
"We need to talk." Sarah, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up at him. She seemed sad, he realized suddenly. He glanced at William, who stood near his daughter. His expression was equally somber.
"What's going on?"
"I found your mother." William stepped forward. "And I'm going to start from the beginning, because I don't know how else to do this."
Adam sat in a chair by the desk. In that instant, he knew: Cynthia Youngwolf had refused to meet him. All of Sarah's old warnings came scrambling back, tenfold.
I hate to say this, but there's a good chance that your biological mother won't want to see you. She might feel as though you're interfering in her life.
Preparing himself for the worst, he maintained his composure. He would listen to whatever William had to say, and when it ended, he would give his mother the time she needed. Eventually, it would work out.
When William's breath hitched, he wanted to tell the other man that everything would be okay. He understood how difficult this had to be for his mother. She wasn't expecting to hear from him. It had to be a shock.
"You weren't born in a hospital," William told him. "A midwife delivered you. Her name is Margaret, and she's the one who told me about your mother. Margaret is an old woman now, but she never forgot Cindy Youngwolf."
"Cindy? Is that the name my mom uses?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"Whose house was I born at?"
"Cindy's aunt's. You see, your mother wasn't from Tahlequah. She lived in Oklahoma City at the time, but she had an aunt here. So when her family found out she was pregnant, they sent her to stay with a relative."
"How old was Cindy?" he asked, trying to picture his mother.
"Eighteen. She was a quiet girl who kept to herself, but she told Margaret about what had happened to her."
He sat forward in his chair. "What do you mean?"
"I wish I didn't have to tell you this."
Sarah glanced away, and Adam's stomach fell. Why wouldn't she look at him? And why was her father so reluctant to talk? What the hell was going on? "Just say it."
William bit down on his bottom lip. "Cindy claimed that she was raped. That a white boy had forced her to…" The older man glanced up at the ceiling. "But in those days, if a girl flirted with a boy, she was held accountable, too. The police discouraged her from filing charges. She was a minority, and he came from a well-to-do family. That's the way things were back then."
"No." Adam shook his head. "The midwife has my mother mixed up with someone else." This sordid, sickening story didn't belong to him. "My mother and my father were—" in love, he wanted to say. His eyes stung, but he fought the urge to cry. "They…" When his voice broke, he looked at Sarah and saw that her hands were trembling. "Oh, God. Who are they, William? Who the hell are my parents?"
"Cindy Youngwolf is your mother. And your father was a twenty-year-old college boy."
"I don't want to be related to him. I don't…"
"I'm sorry."
Adam battled a wave of nausea. His mother, his eighteen-year-old mother, was sexually assaulted. By his father. His conception was a vile act, the most degrading of human crimes. "How could he do that to her? How could he…" The nausea worsened, so he stood and made his way to the sink. He wanted to vomit, but he knew it wouldn't help. He couldn't purge his father's sin.
Turning, he faced William again, feeling shamed and dirty. "Who is he?"
"A college boy," the other man said again, his voice filled with sorrow.
"What's his name? What's the bastard's bloody name?"
"I don't know. If it's any consolation, he's dead. Margaret said that he's been dead a long time."
"Good." It didn't help, not really, but he unclenched his fists. If his father wasn't dead, he would have called him out, taken vengeance for Cindy. And for the disgusting circumstances of his birth.
When Sarah started toward him, he backed himself against the sink. She was crying, blinking furiously to stop the flow. Who did she see? he wondered. Who was he to her now?
"Don't touch me." He held up his hand to ward her off. She was too pure to come into contact with him, too soft and beautiful. His blood was tainted. He could feel it running through his veins like a sewer of filth.
He hadn't been prepared for this, for something so dirty. And by searching for Cindy, by showing up nearly thirty years later, he had brought the memory back to her, the ache and the horror of being violated.
"Do you think my mother tried to wash him off her skin?" he asked, his mind clouding with heart-wrenching images. "Do you think she rubbed her body until it was raw?" Because no one answered, he continued to talk. "That's what I've heard women do after they're raped. They try to make themselves clean again."
"You have to stop thinking about that," William said. "Your mother went on with her life. She got married, and she had other children. She's widowed now, but her daughter is only twelve. And her sons are close by."
A lump clogged Adam's throat. Cindy had given birth to other babies, children she wanted. He tried to be glad for her, but all he felt was pain. He was the one she had given away, the baby who had grown in her stomach like a cancer.
He was the rape.
"I want you to go home," he told William. "And I want you to take Sarah with you."
"No." She was still crying, her hands still trembling. "I love you, Adam. Let me stay with you."
He closed his eyes. He needed to send Sarah as far away as he could. She pitied him now, but before long, her skin would start to crawl. She would look at him and see the cancer. He was no longer the man she loved. He couldn't give her sweet, clean babies. His genes were soiled.
How could she stand to look at him? Even think about touching him?
"Please." Opening his eyes, he implored the other man. "I need some time alone."
William took charge, insisting his daughter pack an overnight bag. She gathered a few toiletries and whispered a shaky goodbye.
Adam turned away and waited for them to leave, and when they were gone, he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Without thinking, he raised his fist to the glass and shattered it. Blood dripped down his wrist, but he didn't care. It was his father's face that he had just destroyed, and he never wanted to see it again.
* * *
At dawn, Sarah stared at the flickering image on the television set. She had covered herself with a blanket, but felt no warmth from it. All she could think about was Adam.
A shadow crossed the room, and she turned to see her father.
His hair was wet from a recent shower, the salt and pepper strands combed away from his face. "You haven't slept, have you?"
She shook her head. "What are you doing up so early?"
"Getting
ready for work." He sat beside her and handed her a cup. "I don't have any tea, but I thought you might need this."
"Thanks." Accepting the offering, she brought it to her lips. It was coffee, diluted with cream and sugar. She let the liquid seep into her bones, chasing away the chill.
"It's morning now," he said. "It would probably be okay to go see him."
"That's what I was thinking." She turned to look out the widow, where the sun peeked through the blinds, sending slats of light across the hardwood floor. It could have been a rainbow, but she knew better. "Is he going to be all right?"
"Of course, he is. He has you, doesn't he? You'll help him get through this."
"Just the way I have you." She smiled at her father, remembering how she had cried in his arms the night before. "Are my eyes still puffy?"
"Yeah, but it doesn't make you any less pretty."
"I love you, Dad."
"I love you, too." He squeezed her knee. "Now go on, get yourself together. There's a man who needs you more than I do."
She stood and sipped her coffee. And at that moment, in the light of dawn, with cartoons playing on TV and the taste of caffeine on her tongue, she knew William Cloud was sober.
He winked at her, and she saw her daddy—the strong, proud warrior who used to tuck her in at night. Before she broke down and started crying again, she headed for the shower, reviving herself for Adam.
An hour later, Sarah unlocked the motel-room door. The bed was still made, the curtains drawn tight, keeping out the light. She stepped farther into the darkness, willing her eyes to adjust. Placing her purse on the desk, she turned, her heart catching on a gasp.
"Oh, dear God."
He was asleep on the floor, his bloodied hand staining his shirt. The mirror above the sink was smashed. Shards of glass littered the counter, glinting dangerously.
She knelt on the carpet and touched his shoulder. He flinched and came awake, jerking when he saw her.
"Shhh. It's okay. I'm just going to clean up your hand."
He didn't protest, so she wet several washcloths in the tub and sat on the floor in front of him. There were slivers of glass under his skin and gashes deep enough to worry her.
"You might need stitches."
He pulled back. "It doesn't matter."
It did to her, but she didn't press the issue. Tending him the best she could, she removed the glass with a pair of tweezers and cut the corner of a sheet for a makeshift bandage.
He didn't look like himself. His eyes were empty, so vacant she feared he had lost his soul. Beautiful Adam, she thought, blinking back tears. Her dragon slayer was dying inside, slipping into a dungeon of darkness and pain.
"It will get easier," she told him, bandaging his hand. She considered drawing him into her arms, but sensed he wouldn't welcome her sympathy. His shoulders were broad and rigid, a man keeping himself at bay. "You won't feel this way forever."
He met her gaze without really looking at her. "I don't care."
But he did, she thought. He cared too much. He wanted his mother to forgive him for something he had nothing to do with. "You were a baby. It wasn't your fault."
"She's ashamed of me. I'll always be something vile in her mind."
"She doesn't even know you. If she did, she would be proud of the man you've become."
He drew his knees up, putting a shield between them. "She should have had an abortion. She should have ended it a long time ago."
"No." Sarah shook her head, wanting to shake him. "Don't you say that. Don't you dare." Because it meant that he didn't think he was worthy of life. And he was. If anyone deserved to be happy, to be loved, it was Adam.
"I'm so stupid." He wrapped his arms around his legs, putting pressure on his hand. Blood seeped through the bandage, staining a portion of the white cloth a crimson hue. "I fantasized about my parents. About how in love they must have been."
"Your other parents were in love. The ones who raised you, Adam. They were your real parents."
He looked up, fear in his eyes. "Oh, God. They knew, didn't they? They must have known."
"It doesn't matter—"
"The hell it doesn't." The fear turned to fury, flashes of fire and anger. "All those years, all that time, they knew. When I became a problem, they must have worried that they'd made a mistake, that they'd adopted the wrong child."
"Stop it! They loved you. Don't degrade their memory like this."
"So what am I supposed to do? Pretend that my father didn't rape my mother? Pretend that Cindy isn't refusing to see me? Am I just supposed to go on with my life, feeling normal?"
Sarah couldn't swallow her shame. Adam's world had just shattered. Everything he cared about had been stolen from him, and she didn't have the words to comfort him. Suddenly loving him wasn't enough. "I'm sorry. I wish I could take the pain away."
"You can't. No one can."
Cindy Youngwolf could, she thought. The older woman could meet her son. She could look into his eyes and help him feel human again. But how was that going to happen? Adam's mother didn't want to have anything to do with him.
He came to his feet, and she could see how dizzy he was. He leaned against the wall for support, then steadied himself, rigid once again.
"I need to clean up this mess," he said. "And I have to tell someone at the front desk that I'll have the mirror fixed."
So proper, she thought, so decent. He might be battling a deep state of depression, but he was still concerned about doing the right thing.
"I'll help." She reached for the trash can and began filling it with broken glass. His blood had dried on the counter, and the sight of it made her eyes water. "What are you going to do about your hand?"
Focusing on their task, he shrugged.
"You should see a doctor." She wet a cloth and wiped the counter. "Will you do that, Adam? Will you see a doctor?"
"I guess." He turned to look at her. "Thank you, sweet Sarah, but you should go. You shouldn't be here."
Sweet Sarah. The nickname shot through her like an arrow, piercing the part of her that ached for him. "Come to my father's house with me. It's quiet there." And maybe, just maybe, being in the country would help him heal. "It was so pretty this morning. The sun rises over the hills, and the air smells like horses and hay and flowers. And my dad's neighbor has kids. A boy and a girl. They're part Indian. Like you."
"I'm not part anything anymore." He touched her cheek with his injured hand, brushing her skin with the bandage. "But you … you're so beautiful. Your blood is so pure."
"My blood is no different than yours."
"It's pure," he said again. "Pure Cherokee. I'm what society used to call a half-breed. I don't belong to either side."
She understood what he meant, and because she did, she didn't know how to respond. His mother wouldn't acknowledge him, and his father wasn't worth being related to. It was so unfair. He deserved better. So much more.
He dropped his hand. "Go home. Go back to your dad's, and I'll see a doctor. I'm not going to hurt myself again."
But he wanted to, she thought with despair. He wanted to.
* * *
Adam returned from the doctor's office, his hand stitched and bandaged. He'd rented another car so he could distance himself from Sarah. He needed to be alone, to deal with his feelings in his own way. He couldn't share anything with her, not even something as simple as a rental vehicle.
Squaring his shoulders, he entered the motel lobby, intending to get this over with as quickly as possible. He wasn't in the mood to chat with strangers, to fake a smile or return a casual hello.
The lobby was fairly busy. The clerk waited on an older man, and a young couple with a trio of active kids gathered brochures and planned their day.
To keep himself from making direct eye contact with anyone, Adam studied the floor, hoping he appeared as unapproachable as he felt.
When the room finally cleared, he walked toward the desk. "Hey. How ya doin'?" the clerk said, recognition in h
is upbeat tone, an indication that he recalled checking Adam and Sarah into their room.
Suddenly Adam didn't know how to explain the situation. Keeping his bandaged hand below the counter, he frowned. He'd told the doctor he'd cut himself on some glass, but this was different. He'd damaged property. This wasn't about his injury.
"I broke the mirror in my room," he said, keeping it honest and simple. "I apologize, and I'm more than willing to replace it."
The clerk measured him with a curious stare, and Adam caught his own blunder. He shouldn't have come in here with a dark cloud hovering over his head, with a don't-mess-with-me stance. He should have called, handled it over the phone.
"Is everything all right?" the other man asked.
"Yeah. It was an accident. You can bill my credit card to fix it."
"And that little lady you're with is all right, too?"
Stunned and immediately sickened, Adam felt his stomach roil. Did the clerk think he had hurt Sarah? Was that the sort of person he appeared to be? A man who abused women? A man like the bastard who had spawned him?
"She's fine."
"So long as she didn't cut herself, too. I noticed your bandage when you came in."
Adam blinked, realizing he'd misunderstood the clerk's concern for Sarah. Was this how he'd react for the rest of his life? Guilty and paranoid about his father's sin? "My hand isn't as bad as it looks."
"Well, then." The other man's posture relaxed. "Why don't I get you checked into another room while we get that one squared away?"
"Thank you."
Five minutes later, Adam exited the lobby, his breath clogging his lungs. He returned to the old room and packed his belongings along with what Sarah had left behind.
And when he entered the new room, he panicked. What was he supposed to do? Stare blindly at the TV? Pace the floor like a caged animal? Struggle to block the fear? The paranoia?
Damn it. The walls were closing in.
He needed to go for a drive. He needed…
His next thought hit him like a fist. A drink. He needed a drink.
No, he told himself as he headed toward his car. No. He was clean, sober. He'd followed a holistic path, healing his mind, respecting his body.
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