Читать книгу Cherokee Stranger - Sheri WhiteFeather, Sheri WhiteFeather - Страница 10

Emily lived seven miles from town on a paved country road. Her yellow-and-white house, James noticed, looked like a cottage, something out of a gingerbread fairy tale.

He parked his newly acquired truck and sat behind the wheel, hoping the purpose of his visit wouldn’t put her off. He hadn’t seen her for several days, since he’d left the diner without saying goodbye. But he’d run into Harvey Osborn this afternoon at the hardware store, and the old guy had given James an earful.

So here he was, parked on her street, preparing to confront her.

A woman he barely knew.

A woman who had cancer.

He studied the decorative lamppost in front of her house, wondering if the Creator had put Emily in his path for a reason. If meeting her was part of some sort of divine plan.

Yeah, right.

Did he honestly believe the Creator gave a damn about him? That he was even worthy of a plan?

James wasn’t exactly the disciple of a deity. He was an ex-con, an accessory to murder, a man who had no business associating with someone like Emily.

He cursed beneath his breath and exited his vehicle, knowing he should head back to work instead, forget about Emily, keep his distance. But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. He needed to talk to her.

Taking the shrub-lined walkway to her stoop, he adjusted his hat, shielding his eyes, guarding his emotions.

Her dome-shaped door displayed a four-paned window, but he couldn’t see through the smoked glass nor could he predict what awaited him on the other side.

What was he supposed to say to her? How was he supposed to start this conversation?

James knocked, rapping softly. Within a heartbeat, within one anxious, chest-pounding thump, Emily answered the summons, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

Her hair, that honey-blond mane, waved in a loose natural style, springing softly around her face. And her eyes, as green as a sunlit meadow, caught his, trapping him beneath the battered brim of his hat.

She could have been Beverly, he thought. The lady he’d loved.

“James?”

She blinked her sweeping lashes, and he told himself she wasn’t his wife. Her resemblance to Beverly wasn’t that specific.

What about her illness? The disease that chilled his bones?

That, he decided, was specific enough to bring him to her door, to leave him standing here, tongue-tied and terminally tortured.

“James?” she said again.

He found his voice, raw as it was. “Harvey told me where you lived.”

“I wasn’t expecting company,” she responded, a bit too cautiously. “I just got off work a little while ago. But I suppose Harvey mentioned that, too.”

James frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me you had cancer?”

Her breath rushed out, and he wondered if she’d gone woozy. She gripped the doorknob, her cheeks turning pale. “When was I supposed to tell you?”

“How about the night we met?” The hot, hungry night he’d almost made love to her.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It would have been awkward.”

No more awkward than this, he thought.

She released the doorknob, but her hands didn’t remain idle for long. She fidgeted with the T-shirt she wore, tugging uncomfortably at the fabric.

“It’s no big deal,” she said.

No big deal? He had the notion to shake her. To hold her, to drag her next to his body and never let go.

James’s wife had died of lung cancer. Beverly had been as young and beautiful as Emily. As delicate. As stubborn. He knew the disease didn’t discriminate. Those who weren’t supposed to be at risk sometimes ended up on a grassy slope, marked by an elegant headstone, by a slab of marble etched with a lonesome epitaph.

A grave James couldn’t visit. A resting place that gave him no peace.

“I want answers, Emily. I want to know about your condition.”

“I thought Harvey told you.”

“He didn’t have all the details.”

“What did he say?”

“That you have skin cancer. And you’re having surgery.”

She lifted her chin, gave him a tough-girl look. “That’s plenty of information. More than you need to know.”

“Like hell.”

Her expression didn’t falter. “I’m under no obligation to explain myself to you.”

He moved closer, crowding her. “Five days ago you were willing to let me pop your cherry. And not because you were tired of waiting.” Battling his temper, he cursed his own comment. But what did he care about being proper? About protecting the honor of a woman he barely knew? “You were freaked out about the cancer. Admit it. That’s why you picked up a stranger in a bar.”

“So what’s your excuse?” she shot back.

My dead wife, he wanted to say. The mother of his lost child. “Men don’t need excuses. Men—” He froze, realizing how harsh he sounded, how ungentlemanly he was behaving.

God help him, he knew better. In spite of his crude upbringing, of the crimes he’d committed, he knew how to treat a lady, how to respect her.

“Men what?” she asked, shoving at his shoulder, trying in vain to push him away, to keep the monster he was at bay.

“Nothing,” he said, taking a step back, giving her the space she needed, hating himself for the discomfort he saw in her eyes.

She released a shaky sigh, and he resisted the urge to spill his lowlife guts, to admit why her cancer made him crazy.

“I’m sorry, Emily.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” He held up his hands, like an outlaw trying to stop the bullet he deserved. “I’m just worried about you.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, a nervous habit he’d seen her do before. Was she contemplating his sincerity?

“I’ll tell you what you want to know,” she finally said.

Silent, he waited for her to make the next move. Which she did, by gesturing to the shallow ridge on her front stoop, offering him a place to sit.

What did he expect after the way he’d acted? For her to invite him into her home? Into her fairy-tale cottage with its lace curtains and artfully painted trim—a place someone like him would never belong.

Emily sat beside James in the shady spot she’d chosen, unsure of where to begin. Her shoulder brushed his, and the contact made her foolishly weak. She would never forget the way he’d kissed her that night, the erotic, openmouthed pressure of his lips, the wetness from his tongue.

And now he wanted to hear about her cancer.

She turned to look at him. Their faces were close. Too close. She shouldn’t have suggested such tight quarters, such a confined place to have this conversation.

His eyes were nearly hidden by the brim of his hat. She couldn’t see into the window of his soul, couldn’t uncover his secrets. Even though he’d managed to uncover all of hers.

“Do you know anything about skin cancer?” she asked.

He shook his head. “A little. But not enough to understand what’s happening to you.”

“I have melanoma.” The most dangerous form of skin cancer, she thought. “It begins in a type of cell called a melanocyte. Melanocyctes produce melanin.”

“The pigment in our skin,” he said.

“Yes.” She gazed at him, at his deep, rich coloring. “People with fair skin and red or blond hair are at risk because their skin cells have less melanin.”

“Like you.”

She nodded. In spite of her fair skin, of her tendency to burn, she’d spent years trying to perfect a tan, to look good in a bathing suit. She thrived on summer days, on splashing in a nearby river, on strolling along sun-dappled trails.

Until now.

“How did you find out you had melanoma?” he asked.

“I went to my HMO doctor on another matter. I twisted my ankle and decided to have it x-rayed.” Avoiding his gaze, she glanced at the yard. A freshly fallen leaf stirred in the breeze, fluttering to the ground. The May weather was mild, but Emily’s emotions ran rampant. She dreaded the onset of summer, of challenging the sun, of being overly cautious every time she stepped outside. “My ankle was fine, but the doctor noticed a suspicious-looking mole on my leg.”

“Suspicious-looking?”

“The shape was irregular and the color was uneven. I never paid much attention to it. To me, it was just a mole. It had been there for years.” Emily steadied her voice, determined to make this sound more clinical. Less personal. She wanted to overcome her anxiety, to feel like herself again. “My doctor referred me to a skin care clinic in Lewiston. They removed the mole and got a pathology report.”

He waited for her to continue, but she paused to pull air into her lungs. She didn’t like discussing this with a stranger, a man she’d almost slept with.

He shifted his weight, making her much too aware of his body next to hers. Anxious to get this conversation over with, she went on. “There are different types of melanoma and the disease is diagnosed in stages, which is determined by the thickness of the cancer and how deeply it’s invaded the skin. Mine is considered stage one.”

“When is your surgery scheduled?”

Rather than gesture to the afflicted area, to the part of her that would soon be scarred, she kept her hands still. “Next Friday.”

James studied her, much too intensely. “What about recovery time?”

“It depends on the extent of your surgery and what kind of work you do. I’m taking a month off.” She wondered why he seemed determined to grill her, to acquire every last detail. “My boss offered me a few weeks sick pay, and I was going to take a vacation this summer anyway.” To spend some lazy days at the river, she thought. To bask in the sun. Something she could no longer do. “That will be more than enough time.”

“Is your family going to look after you?”

“My parents passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his shadowed eyes meeting hers.

“Thank you.” Facing this without her mom and dad made her feel vulnerable, especially with James watching her so closely.

He cleared his throat and prompted her with another question. “Who’s taking you to the hospital?”

“A girlfriend. She’s going to keep an eye on me afterward, too.”

“I can help,” he said. “I can stop by when your friend isn’t available.”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He reached out to skim her cheek, to trace the contours of her face.

“Yes.” Emily refused to admit how nervous she was, how being diagnosed with cancer had changed her. “I won’t be bedridden.”

He ran his fingers along her jaw. “If you need me, all you have to do is call.”