by Various
“Oh.” Daniel didn’t know what to say, so he glanced at Traci, who sent him a shy smile. She hadn’t told him that her son had developed a case of misguided hero worship of him.
“I watch a lot of cowboy movies on TV,” Tom explained. “So I suppose it was only natural for Parker to take an interest in the Old West. But since he always rooted for the Indians, who never seemed to triumph in those old films, I rented him that kids’ movie, the one where the little Indian figure comes to life in the magic cupboard. That clinched it. After that, he was hooked.”
Daniel had never seen the movie Tom described, but he supposed the Indian in it was the noble, proud-of-his-heritage sort—a depiction that certainly didn’t mirror his own actions.
Feeling a twinge of guilt, he squinted at the string of holiday lights decorating the diner. He’d left the reservation, the Qualla Boundary, sixteen years ago and hadn’t returned since. Not even for Christmas. Of course, he sent money to his father, but the checks were always refused, uncashed and unwelcome.
Damn it. Why was he blaming himself? His father was the stubborn one. He hadn’t understood Daniel’s need to break free, his need to prove himself in the white world.
He looked at Traci and wondered what to do about her son. How was he supposed to live up to the boy’s expectations? Parker was infatuated with Indians, but Daniel Crow wasn’t Cherokee anymore.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DANIEL stood in Traci’s garage, dressed in threadbare jeans and an old sweatshirt, a wrench stuffed into his back pocket. While replacing the starter in her car, he’d discovered an oil leak. Maybe he should loan her one of his Camaros. He owned several, along with a couple of Novas and a fleet of Corvettes parked in the remodeled carriage house at the mansion.
Parker bounced into the garage, his tennis shoes squeaking on the cement floor. “Hi, Daniel. I didn’t know you were here. I just got back from my friend’s house. His name’s Benjamin.”
Overwhelmed by the burst of youthful energy, Daniel managed a befuddled, “Oh, yeah?” He wasn’t experienced with children. His son—his Parker—had died at three months old. He could still recall the baby’s soft, powdery skin, the little cooing sounds he made, the way his eyelids fluttered before he drifted off to sleep.
“My mom’s making soup for lunch, but I’m not having any ‘cause I ate macaroni and cheese at Ben’s house.” Rubbing the end of his nose, the boy pursed his lips. His skin was pink and slightly chapped. “Did you fix our car?”
“Yes, but there are other things wrong with it.” He couldn’t help but wonder how his son would have looked at six, if he would have been the same size as Traci’s boy.
“Are you gonna fix those things, too?”
“If your mom doesn’t mind. I’ll probably have to take the car to my house.” Keeping his hands busy, Daniel put away his tools. A strand of Parker’s hair was sticking straight up, and he had the fatherly notion to smooth it.
“Hey, Daniel?”
“Yes?”
“Can you talk Cherokee?”
He tried not to frown. “I used to speak the Kituwah dialect when I was younger.”
“Koala?”
“No. Kit-u-wah.”
“Do you remember enough to teach me?”
He did, of course. He hadn’t forgotten his native tongue. He had just stopped using it. Meeting Parker’s hopeful gaze, he wiped his hands. Daniel didn’t want to be anyone’s hero, but it appeared he had little choice. Shattering Parker’s illusions didn’t seem like an option.
“If you get a piece of paper and a pencil, I’ll show you the Cherokee syllables.”
The kid flew out of the garage, the tail of his shirt hanging below his waist-length jacket.
He returned in record time, handing over the writing implements. Daniel sat on the floor next to Parker and penned the syllables. “A man named Sequoyah invented the Cherokee alphabet. It took him tweleve years to perfect it, but he didn’t give up. At first people thought he was crazy, but later they respected him for teaching the tribe how to communicate with a written language.”
He went on to explain the sounds and how they compared to English. Parker listened with rapt attention. Unable to resist, Daniel smoothed the boy’s cowlick.
On another sheet of paper, Parker attempted to copy the syllables. As the boy set his face in a determined expression, the cowlick popped up again. Daniel found himself smiling.
Parker beamed, displaying his handiwork. “I’m gonna show my mom. And my grandpa, too.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Once Daniel was alone, he decided the Cherokee lesson hadn’t cost him anything. Surprisingly, it hadn’t made him guilty or moody. Nor had it made him feel as if his heritage was a source of pity, the way the tourist seasons in North Carolina used to affect him. But he supposed it was the way the boy had looked at him, the innocence and admiration in his eyes.
Daniel finished packing his tools and carried them out to his truck. Lifting them onto the bed, he wondered about Parker’s father. The paternal grandpa lived next door, but where was the boy’s dad?
Curious enough to ask Traci about her ex-husband, he entered her duplex through the garage and followed the aroma of tomatoes, onions and spices floating through the air. The kitchen, he decided, with its butcher-block countertops and built-in booth, had been designed for home-cooked meals and conversation.
Traci stood at the stove, stirring soup in a big copper pot. Her hair had been gathered into a topknot, but curls sprang rebelliously from the ladylike confinement.
Hesitating in the doorway, Daniel watched her, suddenly wanting more than conversation. He imagined pressing his lips to the delicate column of her neck. He could almost taste her skin … the sweet, womanly flavor.
She turned, and their eyes met. But a second later, her gaze shifted to the decorated door frame.
Curious, Daniel glanced up, then realized he had trapped himself in one of those awkward moments.
A sprig of mistletoe, garnished with a shiny gold ribbon, dangled above his head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DANIEL stood below the mistletoe, and all Traci could think about was kissing him. He looked rough and masculine, with his hair banded into a ponytail, his jeans frayed, his sweatshirt old and faded.
“Would you like some lunch?” she asked instead.
“Sure. Okay.” Tall and broad-shouldered, he stepped farther into the room, dwarfing her cluttered kitchen.
“Just have a seat. It’ll be ready in a minute.”
“I need to wash up first.”
“Oh. Of course.” She slipped past him, offering the sink.
While Daniel scrubbed the grease from his hands, Traci moved around, gathering plates and silverware, setting the table. She hadn’t forgotten how strong and solid his body was, or how it felt pressed against hers.
She removed rolls from the oven, and he turned away from the sink. She’d dreamed about him again, bronzed and naked, sliding between her thighs, his stomach muscles …
“Can I help with anything?”
The pan teetered, nearly burning her wrist. “What? No. I’m fine.” Just warm and aroused and envisioning wicked sex.
He scooted into her cramped built-in dining booth, and Traci served their lunch. Taking a deep breath, she joined him.
They sat across from each other in silence. Great. Now she would be self-conscious about eating, about lifting food to her mouth, chewing, swallowing.
He smiled, and she realized he was trying to break the ice, the strange heat between them. Grateful, she smiled back.
He tasted his meal. “This is really good.”
“Thanks. My mom used to make vegetable soup on long winter days. It’s tradition, I guess.”
“Really?” Daniel poured dressing over his salad. “Does she live close by?”
“No. She and my dad are missionaries, so they travel a lot.”
He cocked his head. “I thought you grew up around here.”
“I d
id. My dad was the pastor of a local parish. He and Mom didn’t start doing missionary work until I was older.” She missed her parents, but she respected their need to make a difference in the world. “They call as often as they can. They adore Parker.”
Daniel smiled again. “He sure is a nice kid.”
“I’m pleased you think so.” Pride swelled her heart. Like any mother, she wanted her child to make a good impression, but for some reason, Daniel’s opinion mattered more than most. “He went next door to show Tom what you taught him. It was nice of you to spend some time with him. I know you were busy with the car and all.”
“Like I said, he’s a great kid.” Lifting his water, he took a drink. “He’s really close to Tom, isn’t he?”
She nodded. “Tom’s a good grandpa. I don’t know what I’d do without him, especially since my parents don’t live around here anymore.”
“What about Parker’s dad?”
Her stomach tensed. “What about him?”
“Are he and Parker close?”
“No.” She set her spoon on the table. “Bradley Calhoun left town when Parker was about a year old.”
Daniel’s jaw nearly dropped. “You mean he just walked away?”
“Yes,” Traci said, wishing she didn’t have to tell him the truth about her marriage.
CHAPTER NINE
TRACI picked up her fork and toyed with her salad, moving lettuce around on the plate. “We dated for several years,” she said, recalling her relationship with Brad. “But we were young, and we never talked about a future. So when I got pregnant, he was really upset. He only married me because Tom insisted he do the right thing.”
“Have you heard from him at all?” Daniel asked.
“Just once, when he served me with the divorce papers.”
“I’m sorry, Traci.”
She frowned into her food. “I didn’t love him the way I should have, but I wanted it to work. I wanted it to be something special.”
Daniel sent her a sympathetic look. “Plenty of people get married for the sake of a child, but it doesn’t always work out.”
“I thought it was going to be different for me.” She had tried to convince herself that Brad was the love of her life, but her heart had betrayed her. Traci could still recall her girlish fantasies, her hope that a child would bring them closer. But life had become more stressful after their baby was born, and Brad couldn’t cope with a clinging wife and a rambunctious toddler.
“The marriage was doomed from the beginning, but I still wish things could have turned out differently for Parker. Brad had no right to leave him.”
Daniel stopped eating. “Does Parker ever ask about his dad?”
“He used to, but he doesn’t anymore. And he was only a year old, so he doesn’t have any memories to feel sad about. He might get angry when he’s a teenager, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes.” Giving herself something to do, she sliced a roll and buttered the center.
“Tom’s the one who’s had the most trouble coping. He wanted his son to be more like him, to be satisfied with simple things. But Brad wasn’t happy living in a small town, following in his father’s footsteps. There was always anger and resentment between them. They argued something fierce the day Brad left.”
“So they never got along?”
“No. Never. True, Tom was hard on Brad at times, but I think Brad was wrong for the way he treated his father. And of course, our forced marriage didn’t help matters. It was a volatile situation all the way around.”
Suddenly silence engulfed the room. Daniel shifted, and Traci felt his foot bump hers under the table. Avoiding her gaze, he drew back quickly, fingering the saltshaker with a tight expression.
“Did I say something to upset you?” she asked. Had she aired too much of her dirty laundry?
“I don’t want you to think I’m like Brad.”
Her heart lurched. “Why would I?”
“Because I didn’t get along with my dad, either. And I haven’t spoken to him in over sixteen years.”
“Oh, my.” Startled, she leaned forward. “That’s a long time.” Much too long, Traci thought.
“Why did you turn away from your father?” she asked, unnerved by the sudden parallel between her ex-husband and Daniel Crow.
CHAPTER TEN
DANIEL ran his thumb over the saltshaker, then looked up to see Traci watching him with a disturbed expression. “I was raised on a reservation,” he said, wondering how to describe the primitive world he came from. “It’s about 56,000 acres near the Great Smoky Mountains. The main part is called the Qualla Boundary.”
“And you didn’t like living there?”
He laughed—it was a hollow, humorless sound. “I hated it. My father is what’s called a traditional Cherokee. I grew up in one of the remote townships. Everything was the old Cherokee way. There was nothing modern about our lifestyle.”
Traci pushed her salad to the end of the table. “What about your mother? Have you been apart from her all these years, too?”
“She died of pneumonia when I was little. I remember my father mourning her, wearing ashes on his head and burning her belongings. It all seems so distant now. When we purified ourselves in the river, I cried.” He released the saltshaker and sent it spinning. “I couldn’t believe she was gone.”
Her gaze locked on to his. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too.” How many years had he longed for a maternal touch, a woman to hold and comfort him? “My aunts helped out, but it wasn’t the same. They were older, matronly, I suppose. But at least they weren’t as traditional as my father.”
“So everyone on the reservation doesn’t live the old way?”
“No. Some people have newer homes, and some have attended college. You can’t lump everyone together.” He lifted his water, took a drink. “My father and I barely eked out a living, relying on the tourist season for our income. But what bothered me the most was Dad’s attitude.
“He was a damn fine craftsman, but he didn’t mind selling his jewelry to the tacky gift shops in town. To me, it was degrading. I hated being a poor little Indian kid stringing beads and painting T-shirts for my next meal.”
Traci tilted her head, her voice quiet. “I assume you argued about it.”
He nodded. “The more I expressed an interest in leaving the rez, the more upset he got. ‘This is your homeland,’ he kept telling me. ‘This is where you belong.’ You see, the Eastern Band are descendants of the Cherokees who hid in the mountains rather than be forced to march along the Trail of Tears to Oklahoma.”
“That’s quite a legacy, Daniel.”
“I know.” A twist of guilt tightened his chest. “But I still had the right to find my own way in the world. I wanted my dad to understand, to support my decision, but he never did.”
“So you left?”
“But not without a major fight. And not without denouncing my heritage.”
Traci frowned, making the guilt worse. “Where did you go?”
“To South Carolina, to Charleston. I was eighteen years old and determined to get rich someday. It became the focus of my life.”
He glanced away, unable to tell Traci about the rest of his life, about the wife and child he had buried. Daniel didn’t want to admit how lost he was or why he had been drawn to the haunted halls of Orchid House.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE following afternoon, the wind blew with a cutting edge. Traci walked behind Daniel and Parker, the narrow path flanked by perennial shrubs.
“The original owner was a lumber baron,” Daniel said. “And he built this estate for his Southern wife. But I suppose you already know all of that.”
Traci moved along, warming her hands in her coat pockets. “I don’t mind hearing about it again.” And she still wondered why Daniel had chosen an isolated mansion for his home.
Were the rumors about him true? Did he really keep a room on the second floor of Orchid House locked, refusing the cleaning lady acce
ss? Supposedly he spent hours and hours alone in that room, shutting out the world around him.
They stopped at an ornate iron gate, and Parker looked up. “Who lives here, Daniel?”
“No one. This is a carriage house. In the old days, it’s where the horses and buggies were kept.”
“How come it has so many floors?”
“Because there used to be a hayloft and rooms for the stable boys. But I hired someone to remodel it, and now I use it for a garage and workshop.”
And that was why they were here, Traci thought. Daniel had offered to loan her one of his Camaros. Although he’d sold his business, he still collected old Chevys. A hobby, he’d told her, that kept him busy tinkering beneath their hoods.
They entered through barn-style doors, and Parker gasped. “Wow. Look at all those cars, Mom.”
Yes, she thought, practically stumbling over her feet. Look at them. Sleek and shiny, Daniel’s vehicles were restored to perfection. Each classic model was parked on a black-and-white vinyl floor, making the expansive interior look like a showroom.
“You don’t intend to loan me one of these, do you?” She couldn’t imagine borrowing something so valuable, so extravagant.
“Sure do.” He motioned to a racy red Camaro, its chrome polished to a reflective shine. “This one is the same year as yours.”
“I can’t drive that.”
“Why not?”
“Yeah, Mom. Why not?”
Traci glanced at her son, who had just mimicked Daniel’s question. “Because,” she said to both of them, “it’s too nice. What if I scratch the paint?”
“A pretty lady should drive a pretty car,” Daniel countered. “Besides, it’s only for a few days, just until I fix the oil leak in yours.”
She shook her head. “I appreciate your generosity, but repairing my car is more than enough. I’ll work out my own transportation.”
