Читать книгу Beyond the Cherokee Trail - Lisa Carter - Страница 14

Chapter 5

5

2018—Cartridge Cove

That had gone well.

Walker threw his uncle, poised on the wide-planked step, an exasperated look. The council had hired a nut job in this Birchfield woman. The petite woman backed into an ivy-draped urn.

He steadied the urn, wobbling on the stone-columned pedestal, at the same instant the Birchfield woman had the same idea. As his hand mounded over hers, her eyes widened. She snatched her hand free.

Stung, he retreated a step.

Right. Add paranoid to the list. Prickly as . . .

She glared at him as if he was a serial killer. Her eyes as blue as . . . He gulped.

As blue as the April sky over the ridge of his farm this morning.

Shoes clattering down the staircase, Marvela Birchfield hurried out. “Honey, are you . . . ? I thought I heard . . .”

Her granddaughter crossed her arms, her face one big scowl at the object of her displeasure—him. Marvela’s gaze flicked between her granddaughter’s taut features and his.

The old woman looped a conciliatory arm around her granddaughter’s waist. “I see you’ve already introduced yourself to Walker Crowe, Linden.”

Linden? He frowned. “Like a tree?”

Her head tilted, the Tree jabbed her finger at him. “That’s Irene’s son? The one I’m supposed to—?”

“A linden tree? And Birchfield, too?”

He flushed. That sounded even more stupid out loud.

Marvela’s granddaughter bristled. “Yeah. So what?” Strands of light brown hair tumbled out of a clumsy attempt at a topknot on her head. “Linden Birchfield—a tree in a field of other trees. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

He’d know in the future to leave her name alone. This woman possessed enough emotional baggage to fill the cargo hold of a plane.

Ross cleared his throat. “Marvela?”

Marvela peered around Walker and gasped. She put her hand over her mouth.

Ross came level with them. He stopped inches from Marvela. “Still as beautiful as the day the Ford Modeling Agency snapped you up.”

Walker and Linden, relegated to outsider status, exchanged puzzled glances. He let his shoulders rise and drop in response to the unspoken query in Linden’s eyes.

Ross’s face softened. “Marvela the Marvelous as marvelous as ever.”

Marvela Birchfield glowed as pretty as the last rose of summer. She smiled, her eyes turning into half-moons. She clasped her hands in front of her. “And you’ve not changed a bit either, Ross Wachacha.”

It was Ross’s turn to pink. “You’re being gracious.” He touched a finger to the white hair above his ear Walker believed gave his uncle a distinguished, authoritative air. “Didn’t know if you’d remember—”

“Ross the Resolute.” Breathless, her eyes swept over his uncle’s weathered face. She touched his arm. “And I never forgot.”

Something passed in the air between his uncle and Marvela Birchfield.

Walker sighed, for the first time in a long while, feeling his aloneness.

Linden moved toward the door, breaking the spell in which their elders seemed mesmerized. “It’s getting cold out here.” She wrapped her bare arms around herself.

A hand over her heart, Marvela stepped into the interior of the house. “Where are my manners? Ross, Walker . . .” She gestured. “Come inside and let me fix coffee for everyone.”

Ross, as sure-footed as any mountain goat, stumbled across the threshold. Stumbled, probably because it was awful hard to walk and keep your eyes on a moving object like Marvela at the same time.

He reached out to steady his uncle. But Ross threw off his arm and surged after Marvela. Walker bit back a smile.

Old love? First love? He’d enjoy worming this story out of his uncle later.

He crossed into the spacious oak-floored foyer. Of Linden there was no sign. Marvela led the way into a Victorian nightmare of a parlor. At her insistence, he settled behind a mahogany coffee table onto a stiff pink silk settee. The springs and his backside groaned at the effort.

Ross eased into a chintz-covered easy chair. “Marvela, you’ve done wonders with this place.”

Walker took a moment to absorb the ambience. Trained to observe and absorb details at a glance, he noted the mantel with its hand-carved Cherokee Rose finials. The silver candlesticks. A Seth Thomas clock. The Tabriz carpet at his feet. Rosewood end tables.

Something the tourists would eat up.

Marvela craned her head in the direction of the foyer. “I don’t know where that girl has got to.” She shook her head. “This generation . . .”

Ross shot Walker a less-than-friendly look. “Self-absorbed—”

“Hey,” Walker protested. “I resent that remark.”

Ross arched his eyebrow. “You resemble that remark.”

Marvela laughed. “Sounds like my Linden and Walker will get on fine.”

Ross stroked his chin. “Like a forest on fire.”

Walker winced. “No need to bring the trees into it.”

A floorboard creaked. “What is it with you and trees?”

He jerked at the sound of Linden’s voice. She’d changed into more businesslike attire—navy blue slacks and a white linen blouse. The smudges of dirt erased from her face, she’d restored her hair to its uptight, updo.

Carrying a sheaf of folders, she plopped them onto the coffee table. “Excuse me, please.”

Blocked on the other side by Marvela and Ross, she scooted between him and the table. Too late, he realized he could’ve slid farther down and saved her the trouble.

A whiff of roses floated past his nostrils as she edged past. Like the old roses his now deceased grandmother had once grown in her front yard. The large, fragrant kind in keeping with this Victorian decor.

Marvela clapped her hands together. “Why don’t I make the coffee while you two get acquainted?”

Ross stood. “I’ll help.”

Marvela gave a cheery wave as they disappeared toward the back of the house. Linden inched away from him, leaving Walker feeling like a pariah.

Not the usual reaction he received from the ladies. He didn’t bite, after all. But if he did, Walker wouldn’t have touched Linden Birchfield with a ten-foot pole.

So not his type, if he had a type. Whatever her problem, nothing to do with him. He had his trees, his team, and his family. And no interest in the romantic complications, which came part and parcel with women—no matter their ethnic heritage.

He shot another surreptitious look in her direction. This lady, he sensed in his gut, was full of snaring entanglements.

Good thing, he’d sworn off women since Afghanistan.

She opened the folder and fanned out its contents.

He allowed himself one more sneak peek. A pretty woman. Petite like a ballerina. His gaze traveled from her eyes to the curve of her neck and back to the blue of her eyes.

Which narrowed.

“If you’re done sizing me up, I’d like to show you what the committee and I have planned.” A frown hollowed the space between her brows.

He chewed the inside of his cheek. Pretty, yeah, but that mouth of hers?

A woman, he got the distinct impression, who didn’t smile much. He wondered what it’d take to make her smile.

Pondered what he could do to make those rosebud lips smile. He swallowed.

She handed him a paper. “I’ve created ads for various media outlets, print, online, and television.”

He leaned forward to get a better look-see.

“Area churches are coordinating the gospel singing. The Jaycees are handling the kickoff parade. Local artisans are renting vendor booths. I’m coordinating my efforts with Dr. Sawyer and the grand opening of the Trail of Tears Interpretive Center—”

His knee brushed against her leg.

She stopped. Her fingers fondled the silver locket at her throat. Silence ticked between them.

His heart thudded, and he searched desperately for something—anything—to say to this sophisticated career woman who stirred his senses. She stared at him, as if waiting.

Waiting for what?

His gaze locked onto hers. And something flickered in her sky blue eyes. His pulse rocketed.

If the cool Linden Birchfield could affect him so, maybe his mom was right. Maybe it was time to get out more.

Time to find a nice, Christian Cherokee girl. Farm the land. Have kids of his own . . .

“Are you listening to me, Mr. Crowe?”

“Uh-huh . . .”

Gulping, he dragged his eyes away from her accusing ones.

Keep it cool, Crowe. Businesslike.

He took a breath. “You’ve accomplished a lot. How long have you been in town?”

Better.

She shuffled some papers. “Just a week, but I’ve been working with the committee via email since January.” Lining up the edges of the papers, she rapped them against the table, straightened a few unruly corners and racked them together again.

Her slim piano fingers seemed incapable of remaining motionless. He wondered if he made her as nervous as she made him. Though why the high-strung city lady . . .

Get a grip, he scolded.

Army specialists didn’t—shouldn’t—get intimidated. And certainly not by some slip of a woman, no bigger than one of the willow trees down by Singing Creek. But the correlation of the graceful, bending trees and Linden Birchfield wouldn’t leave his mind. His gaze flitted to her hands again.

Ringless fingers . . .

“The quilt patterns will be painted onto wooden blocks and installed on the barns, which meander along the historic Cherokee Trail. Other quilt barn trails around the Blue Ridge Parkway have proven to be a draw for tourists.” Her mouth pursed. “Your mother’s selected patterns with definite Cherokee significance, but some of the barn owners are proving difficult to convince.”

Remembering his own opposition to the festival, he clenched his fists. “’Cause giving up their privacy and splendid isolation isn’t worth the tourist invasion.”

“Hardly an invasion. I’ve seen the numbers, Mr. Crowe.” She made an expansive gesture. “Cartridge Cove. Western North Carolina. The high unemployment. I’ve been up the road to see what Cherokee town offers. Tourists are the bread and butter of your entire tribe.”

She slammed the folder shut. “So what exactly is your problem? It’s not like anyone’s asked you to paint your barn.”

He gritted his teeth. “My problem is you have no idea what you’re unleashing upon this town. You do your work, get paid, and then leave. The rest of us have to live with the changes you bring.”

She leaned into his space. “I’ve done my research, Mr. Crowe.”

He broadened his chest. “Head knowledge. You don’t understand a thing about The People, Miz Birchfield.”

“Is that what this is about?” She jabbed a finger. “Reverse discrimination because I’m not Native American?”

“Cherokee.”

“What?”

He pointed to her and then to himself. “You and I both are native Americans. As is anyone born on U.S. soil. We prefer non-Indians call us American Indian or even better, by our tribe affiliation—Navajo, Lumbee, Cherokee.”

Walker mirrored her body language, inches from her face. “Just one example of what you don’t understand.” He shook his head. “Not discrimination.”

Her eyes flitted to the swishing motion of his ponytail. Her lips parted.

Walker’s heart jackhammered at the blue flicker in the depths of her orbs.

Exhaling, she raised both hands, palms up. “I need this account, Mr. Crowe. The Snowbird Cherokee need this festival. Sure, it’s about revenue, but it’s also about restoring a lost heritage. A symbolic reunification of the tribes separated by an inhumane event.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t understand your people, but I’d like to. I want to do the best job I can and represent your people and my clients the best way I’m able.”

She turned those eyes of blue sky on him. “You could help me to understand. I’m willing to learn if you’ll show me.” She angled her knees toward him.

“And,” she whispered. “It’s Miss Birchfield, not Ms.”

His mouth went dry. Walker broke eye contact and scanned the empty foyer. Where were his uncle and Marvela Birchfield with the coffee?

Linden placed her hand on top of his on the settee. “Would you help me?”

The scent of roses wafted around him. Reminding him of his grandmother?

Not.

Was it hot in here? He tugged at the collar of his shirt. Or was it just him?

Linden moistened her lips. “Would you help me to understand what it means to be Cherokee?”

Good thing he’d sworn off women. Especially uppity, wound too-tight, non-Indian women.

She reclined against the silk upholstery and crossed her ankles. “You’re not afraid for some reason, are you?”

His eyes jerked to her face. She cocked her head and smiled.

Perfect, white teeth. He’d have expected no less with her Birchfield blood.

“I’m not afraid of anything.” Or you, he added to himself.

A strange, sad look clouded her eyes. Her lips quivered. “How fortunate for you.”

She stirred and donned the aloof, brittle smile she wore like a cloak. She extended a hand. “Do we have a deal? Will you help me?”

He gripped her hand, and they shook on it. But he did so against his better judgment. And with a sudden lurch of his stomach, he wondered what he—Mr. Noncommitment—had gotten himself into.

***

Linden’s fingers tingled as his hand clasped hers. This was about the job, she reminded herself. And second chances. Her professional future depended on this festival being an outstanding success and enhancing her portfolio.

The pleasing aroma emanating from the man teased her senses. A clean scent she couldn’t identify. Something that reminded her of . . . Christmas?

“Well,” Marvela swept in. Two steps behind, Ross carried a mahogany tray with coffee cups and a silver pot. “It looks like the children are playing nicely together after all, Ross.”

Her hand still gripped Walker’s. Or was it the other way around?

She blushed.

He dropped her hand. And his eyes to the toe of his dark leather boot. “What took you so long?” he growled.

“Well-mannered, too, this generation.” Ross set the tray down. “I apologize on behalf of my nephew. Holed up in his mountain aerie, he doesn’t get out much.”

She stole a look at Walker’s face. A pulse ticked in his jaw. A handsome jaw.

Not that she was in the market for a face, handsome or otherwise.

Maybe not handsome exactly, she amended her mental perusal. But interesting, with his raven black hair skimmed out of his broad face into a band at the back of his head. Unlike the usual corporate guys of her acquaintance. Unlike The Jerk and his cloned horde of frat brothers, who took clean cut—if not respectable—to a new level.

Then again, being so different from The Jerk and his ilk could only be a point in Crowe’s favor.

Ross handed a cup to Marvela. “Just catchin’ up. The time got away from us.”

Marvela giggled.

Giggled?

She raised her eyebrows at her grandmother, which Marvela—being Marvela—ignored.

Marvela gripped the coffee pot. “Do you still take your coffee black, Ross?” The “r” elongated in the air, Miss Ophelia-style.

Linden’s gaze sharpened on her grandmother. She probed the look exchanged between Gram and Walker Crowe’s uncle as Marvela passed the old gent his cup.

Marvela thrust the china plate stacked with her famous Cinnamon Delights at Linden. “Pass the cookies around, Linden. And what about you, Walker, darlin’?”

Linden nudged Walker with the plate. Guests first, but her mouth watered, anticipating the cinnamon chips melting against her tongue.

It was the cookie she craved, wasn’t it?

“Uh . . .” Walker tore his eyes from her face—again—and took the plate from her hand.

What was with him? Did she have snakes coiling around her head? After the heavy lifting in the attic today, she didn’t look her best, but really?

And he wasn’t exactly a big talker. Although after the smooth-talking, full of you-know-what kind of eloquence from The Jerk, silence could be golden.

“Cr-Cream,” Mr. Big Communicator stuttered.

His eyes, the blackest she’d ever seen in real life, fell to the plate in his hand. He shoved a whole cinnamon-studded cookie into his mouth. A wide, full-lipped mouth.

“Sugar, hon?”

Linden shot Marvela a suspicious glance. What was this Hostess-with-the-Mostest routine? The B & B didn’t open for another six weeks. Why the Martha Stewart practice session?

“No shuggg . . .” Walker said around a mouthful of cookie. His big hand wrapped around the delicate porcelain plate.

Long, strong brown fingers. She made a conscious effort to peel her eyes off Walker Crowe. And failed.

Because despite the red flannel shirt and cell phone affixed to the pocket of his blue jeans—all of which he filled out so well—there was something wild and untamed about him. Exciting and scary, all at the same instant. And it was so not fair a man possessed those cheekbones.

What was wrong with her today?

Marvela reached for the cream pitcher. “Linden likes a little coffee with her cream. I keep pouring till she tells me to stop.”

Linden shook herself from her contemplation of the Cherokee enigma beside her. “Till it’s the color of beech trees in winter.”

He choked.

Linden grabbed his plate as he hunched. She pounded him on the back with her other hand. And, after his snarky remarks moments earlier, none too gently.

Sputtering, he clamped a hand over his mouth to prevent cookie crumbs from splattering her grandmother’s refurbished parlor. His face, a naturally dusky color, turned an unhealthy shade of red. His eyes watered.

Ross set aside his cup and started to his feet.

For pity’s sake.

“Here,” Linden handed Walker a napkin. “Arms up,” she commanded. “Over your head. Did your mama never teach you what to do when you’re choking?”

She hauled him to his feet. “Don’t make me do the Heimlich on you.”

Confusion, humiliation, and distress crisscrossed his stoic features, but she used the voice her dad utilized with first-year med students. And the six-foot plus Cherokee obeyed, coughing and towering over her. He shoved his long arms toward the ceiling like a teller in a bank holdup. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist above his jeans.

Her mind wandered for a second, illogically wondering what it’d be like to wrap her arms around his sturdy frame—and from her up close and personal vantage point—well-defined middle.

Marvela thrust a glass of water in Walker’s hand. “My son, Linden’s dad, teaches at the hospital in Chapel Hill.” She squeezed Linden’s shoulder. “Guess you absorbed something over the years, huh?”

Wrinkling her forehead, Linden sniffed the air. “Gram? What’s that smell—are you frying chicken?”

Marvela clamped a hand over her mouth. “Ross.”

Again with the r-r-r-r’s?

Ross sprinted out of the parlor with Marvela hot on his heels.

“It’s my contribution to the Indian dinner being held at the church tonight,” Marvela called over her shoulder.

Walker gulped down three-quarters of the water.

Between the rattling of pans in the kitchen and Walker’s noisy attempts to regain his composure, Linden wrung her hands. “Do you need my help, Gram?”

“No,” bellowed Marvela from the kitchen. “Ross and I have it under control. Just in time . . .”

“What’s an . . .” Linden lowered the decibel of her voice and faced Walker dabbing at his eyes with the mauve-colored napkin. “What’s an Indian dinner?”

He set the glass on the table with a ping. “Lesson number one.” He scowled.

Good to know the belligerence as well as his dignity had been restored.

“An Indian dinner sells plates of food to the public to raise money for hospital bills, pay for local team uniforms, or to support the volunteer Cartridge Cove Fire Department. This one’s put on by the church your grandmother, my mother, Irene Crowe, and I attend.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “You attend church?”

A comment that earned her another scowl.

“You don’t?”

Two could play this porcupine game.

“Not if I can help it.”

He set his jaw. “Like I said, if you want to understand the Cherokee you’ve got to understand their heart. And a large part of their Snowbird heart revolves around community and church. It might just behoove you, Miz Birchfield,” he drawled. “To join your grandmother tonight for a worthy cause and get to know some of the people you’re supposed to be serving.”

She pushed back her shoulders. “Well, maybe I will, but not because you think you can boss me around. You’re not the boss of me, Walker Crowe. Nobody is.”

He threw the napkin on the table as Marvela and Ross rejoined them. “Which, I suspect, lies at the heart of your personal problems.”

Walker wheeled past his uncle. “I should’ve already picked up Emmaline by now.”

So he’d assigned a field trip for her—a church field trip from the sounds of it—while Snowbird’s gift to womankind gallivanted all over the county with a date? She hadn’t realized it was possible for someone’s blood to boil as hers did now. She’d have to remember to ask her dad about it later.

Ross stared between the two of them. “So soon?”

Marvela laid a restraining arm on Ross’s shoulder. “Can’t we—?”

Linden sidestepped Ross and Marvela, beating Walker to the entrance. She swung the front door wide. “Best be on your way. Wouldn’t want Mr. Crowe to miss his . . .” She jutted her jaw. “His . . . appointment.”