Cherokee Stranger. Sheri WhiteFeatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
song on the jukebox ended and another began. This time, an early Elvis tune played havoc with her emotions. Another favored melody, she thought. Another connection to the mysterious stranger.
Did he live in this area? Or had he come to Lewiston to see family members? To meet up with an old friend?
Emily had come here for an appointment at a medical center located ninety minutes from home. She could have made the trip in one day, but she’d decided to stay the night, to reflect, to spend some time alone.
In exactly two weeks, she was scheduled for a wide excision, a surgery that would cut away the cancer. At this point, two weeks seemed like an eternity, but her condition, the melanoma, wouldn’t progress in fourteen days. It wasn’t an unreasonable amount of time, not between insurance authorizations and the surgeon’s availability.
Emily took a deep breath. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t panic about going under the knife, that she wouldn’t worry if the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes.
When the appetizer arrived, Meg hovered for a moment, her teased-and-sprayed hairdo bobbing as she moved her head.
“Gorgeous, isn’t he?” she said.
“Yes.” Emily knew the man continued to watch her. She could feel the heat of his gaze.
“Why don’t you buy him a drink?”
“What?” She stared at the brazen redhead.
The waitress cocked her hip. “A beer, darlin’. He’s about due for another.”
“This probably isn’t the best time for me to—” She paused, realizing what she was about to admit. How inadequate she felt, how disjointed.
“That’s okay. It was just a suggestion.” Meg gave her a friendly smile and retreated, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts.
Should she buy him a drink? Her? The small-town girl diagnosed with skin cancer?
As he finished the last of his beer, Emily lifted her fork, skewered a mushroom and sucked it into her mouth. He pushed his hair away from his forehead, exposing a widow’s peak and slashing black brows.
Her entire body went woozy and warm.
To hell with the cancer. She was going to meet this man. Say something to him.
With as much courage as she could muster, she rose, determined to approach his table. As she crossed the room, she spotted Meg leaning against a barstool. She gazed at the other woman, hoping for a boost of encouragement.
The waitress flashed a sly wink.
By the time Emily reached him, her pulse thudded in her ears. He came to his feet, and she realized how tall he actually was. He towered over her by nearly a foot.
She extended a clammy palm. “My name is Emily.”
He took her hand, much too easily.
“I’m James.” His gaze roamed her body, up and down, over the ruffled silk blouse she’d ordered from a fancy catalog to the simple, five-pocket jeans she’d acquired at a discount store. “Dalton,” he added, his voice tinged with an unrecognizable accent. “James Dalton.”
Doing her darnedest to breathe, to keep a steady flow of oxygen filtering in and out of her lungs, she motioned to her table. “Would you care to join me?”
He didn’t respond. Instead he reached behind her and undid the gold barrette that secured her ponytail.
Spellbound, Emily merely stood, her long, wavy hair spilling over her shoulders. She knew Meg was watching, equally bewitched by James’s bold behavior.
He hooked the ornament onto his jacket pocket as if he meant to keep it. “I like the color of your hair,” he said. “It reminds me of…”
Her heart leaped for her throat. “Of what?”
“Someone I used to know.”
His expression turned dark, and she realized he’d yet to smile. The eyes that had been studying her seemed haunted, and his golden brown skin wore a shadow of beard stubble.
But he was still beautiful, even more enchanting up close. A jagged scar interrupted the pattern of his right eyebrow, and a slight cleft indented his chin. His cheekbones, she noticed, slashed like twin blades, balancing an Anglo versus Indian heritage. Was he from the Nez Perce reservation? Was that the reason he was in Lewiston?
He moved closer, and a shiver streaked up her spine. How would it feel to immortalize him? she wondered. To create his image on canvas?
Emily made her living waiting tables at her home-town diner, filling coffee cups and chatting with people she’d known all her life, but she dabbled in art, selling her work at weekend craft fairs. She wasn’t aspiring to be more than she was. She simply enjoyed having a hobby, painting faces that fascinated her.
“Dance with me,” he said.
She blinked, felt his fingers slide through her hair. “There’s no dance floor.”
“But there’s music.”
Yes, she thought. Music he’d chosen. “Meg said I should buy you a drink.”
He combed through the strands, separating each wave. “Meg?”
“The waitress.” Did he know he was seducing her? He must be part wizard, part warrior, part wolf—the hero of a magic tale.
“Dance with me,” he said again.
She should have told him no. She should have walked away. Because somewhere deep down, she knew where this was leading. When the evening ended, James Dalton would ask for more than a dance. He no doubt wanted a warm, willing blonde to share his bed, a one-night stand, a moonlit affair to satisfy his needs.
But even so, she allowed him to take her hand, to guide her to a cozy little spot near the jukebox.
Emily had needs, too. Needs that had remained dormant for much too long. She deserved to feel whole, to see desire on a man’s face, to know that he wanted her.
Especially now.
She didn’t want to think about her responsibilities, even though her mind drifted to her six-year-old brother Corey, to the little boy she’d left with an overnight baby-sitter.
She’d called Corey earlier, and he’d chattered gleefully on the phone. But he didn’t know that his sister was—
“Emily.” James said her name, and she looked up, relinquishing her thoughts, giving him her undivided attention.
He took her into his arms, and she clung to his shoulders. Such strong shoulders, she thought. So broad. So capable.
Emily and her partner swayed to the music, moving to a slow, rhythmic song. His heart pounded against hers, the sound melding into one dizzying chant.
“They’re watching us,” she said. Meg, the bartender, the other patrons in the bar. She knew they were observing every fluid motion, every satin-draped pulse.
He lowered his head to nuzzle, to brush her cheek with his. His beard stubble abraded her skin, marking her with his touch.
“Can you blame them?” he asked.
“No.” She couldn’t blame their audience. Nor could she blame herself. Heaven help her, but James Dalton was impossible to resist.
When he cupped her face to kiss her, she leaned into him. He didn’t invade her with his tongue. Covering her mouth, he sipped gently, offering a persuasive promise of what was yet to come.
He tasted of warmth, of beer, of secret liaisons, of a night she would never forget.
The kiss ended, and they stepped back to look at each other. His eyes were still haunted, still ghostly somehow, and she wondered how a tortured soul could be so beautiful.
He reached for