Cherokee. Sheri WhiteFeatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
nature, I suppose.”
“But you would probably do the same thing if you were in my situation. Uncovering the circumstances of my birth will fill a void in my life. I’m part Cherokee, Sarah. I belong to a nation of people I know nothing about.”
“Maybe your biological mother didn’t want you to be raised by an Indian family.”
“That’s possible, I suppose. But if that’s the way she felt, then I need to know why. Don’t you think I have a right to know about my culture, learn everything I can?” He paused, pointed to the plants crowding the window sill. “I’ve devoted most of my adult life to alternative medicine, but that didn’t come from the way I was raised. My adoptive mom grew herbs for cooking purposes, but I took it a step further. I studied about their healing properties on my own. Isn’t it possible that’s the Cherokee in me?” He met her gaze, his voice taking on a wistful tone. “Maybe there was a medicine man in my family.”
Sarah sighed. She respected the healer in Adam, but he was caught up in the Indian mystique, glorifying it in a way that would only lead to disappointment. She knew firsthand that the old ways were lost. Her father was living proof of the Cherokee lifestyle today—false promises and alcoholism. There wasn’t a medicine man on earth who could take away the pain William Cloud had caused.
When the opportunity arose, Sarah changed the topic of conversation. She didn’t want to talk about being Cherokee, didn’t want to think about it or relive it in her mind.
After dinner, Adam and Sarah sat on the patio, the sky sprinkled with stars, the summer air cooled by a soft, intermittent breeze. Adam admired his companion, thinking how beautiful she looked—her hair a long, luxurious curtain, her eyes as dark and mysterious as the night. No wonder she had come to the City of Angels. She was one of them, he thought. A lost angel.
Something was wrong in her life, and he wanted to fix it, make her pain go away.
“Do you eat sweets anymore?” she asked.
Adam quirked an eyebrow. Her question seemed out of the blue, but everything about Sarah Cloud was unpredictable. “No. At least I haven’t in a long time.”
“Me, neither. But don’t you ever want to cheat?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. Every once in a while I get a craving.”
“Me, too. Chocolate eclairs are my favorite. I love the custard filling.”
She made a hungry little moaning sound, and Adam pictured her mouth sinking into the rich, creamy pastry. Damn it. Now he wanted to touch her, slide his arms around her waist, ease his body next to hers, slip his tongue…
He studied her lips, the full, alluring shape. Kissing wasn’t an option. He had agreed to friendship. No romantic entanglement.
Then why couldn’t he convince his hormones of that?
He sipped his tea, hoping the honey-flavored brew would ease his craving, give his mouth something to do. The taste of her, the fevered flavor of their forbidden kiss, still lingered in his mind.
“Do you want to cheat next time?” he asked.
Her voice turned soft. “Are we talking about dessert?”
“Yes,” he responded. “We won’t be so guilty if we do it together.”
She looked at him from across the table, and like magnets drawn to metal, their gazes locked and held. Sarah pushed her hair off her shoulder, and Adam gripped the handle on his cup. They could move, make unimportant gestures, but they couldn’t take their eyes off each other. Couldn’t stop staring.
Suddenly the world around them ceased, sounds and scents fading. She felt it, too, he thought. The sexual pull. The heat that wasn’t supposed to happen. They weren’t talking about chocolate eclairs.
“I don’t think cheating is a good idea,” she said, breaking their unnerving stare.
“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice huskier than usual. “We have more discipline than that.”
She folded her hands on her lap. “Of course we do.”
They sat quietly then, and Adam noticed the world had returned. The breeze blew a little stronger, stirring scents from his garden. He turned toward the plants and studied the small crop, needing to focus on something other than the attraction he had vowed to ignore.
“I read that when traditional Cherokees gather wild herbs, they ask a plant for its permission to be gathered, then leave a small gift of thanks,” he said, thinking it was a beautiful practice. He wondered how it would feel to leave a shining bead on the ground in place of a plant.
“Was that in one of your text books?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I subscribe to a Cherokee newspaper. I get it online, in digest form, and they post cultural tidbits in every issue. Unfortunately my education didn’t include Native American practices, at least not to any degree.”
“The elders pass along things like that.”
“I don’t know any elders,” he said, watching her tight expression, the one that came over her face whenever he mentioned their heritage. “You’re the only Cherokee I know.”
“I can’t help you, Adam. I don’t follow the old ways anymore.”
He scooted his chair forward. “Why not?” he pressed, hoping to uncover her mystery, unveil the true woman, the soul behind the quiet, exotic beauty.
She didn’t respond. Instead she reached for her tea and held the mug, drawing comfort, it seemed, from the warmth.
He saw sadness in her eyes, the loneliness reflected in his own. They were meant to be part of each other’s lives, he thought. He wouldn’t let this lost angel fly away.
“I don’t think being Cherokee is anything to be proud of,” she said finally.
He didn’t know how to react, so he waited for her to continue. She did, after she tasted her tea.
“When I was young my mother filled my head with all of those romantic notions about the old ways. I was taught to believe in the unity of family and have pride in my heritage.” She met Adam’s gaze, her voice distant. “Cherokee men were supposed to be warriors—their role to remain strong and provide for their wife and children.”
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