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Cherokee
Sheri WhiteFeather
The quest for his Cherokee heritage had brought Adam Paige to Native American Sarah Cloud, hoping sweet Sarah could enlighten him on the culture they shared.The bright, beautiful woman quickly became more than his guide to a proud nation. But Adam knew too well what deep desires could mean for his wounded spirit. Her goal had been only to help Adam regain his birthright. But soon Sarah was giving Adam more than she'd given any man - her heart was his for the asking.Yet what would become of their much-coveted happiness once Adam learned his legacy held a powerful, shocking secret neither had ever imagined?
A Cherokee Knight.
A Dragon Slayer.
Sarah couldn’t keep her eyes off Adam. He stood before her, his thumbs hooked in his pockets—a stance that made the female in her take notice.
He took a step toward her. “We still haven’t talked about what happened earlier.”
“We’re just friends.” The statement sounded foolish, even to her own ears.
“I keep telling myself that. We’re just friends. There’s nothing happening between us.” He laughed, a rough-textured sound that faded as quickly as it came on. “That’s a lie, at least for me. I can’t help myself. I want you. And I can’t pretend that I don’t.” He moved closer, until they were only inches apart. “You’re my midnight seduction, sweet Sarah.”
Her heart thumped wildly. She wanted to kiss him, seduce him, feel him branding her skin. Mist and moonlight, she thought. Fairy tales and fantasies. She craved all of that and more.
But wanting Adam didn’t mean she had the courage to take him.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!
The ever-fabulous Ann Major offers a Cowboy Fantasy, July’s MAN OF THE MONTH. Will a fateful reunion between a Texas cowboy and his ex-flame rekindle their fiery passion? In Cherokee, Sheri WhiteFeather writes a compelling story about a Native American hero who, while searching for his Cherokee heritage, falls in love with a heroine who has turned away from hers.
The popular miniseries BACHELOR BATTALION by Maureen Child marches on with His Baby!—a marine hero returns from an assignment to discover he’s a father. The tantalizing Desire miniseries FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS continues with The Pregnant Heiress by Eileen Wilks, whose pregnant heroine falls in love with the investigator protecting her from a stalker.
Alexandra Sellers has written an enchanting trilogy, SONS OF THE DESERT: THE SULTANS, launching this month with The Sultan’s Heir. A prince must watch over the secret child heir to the kingdom along with the child’s beautiful mother. And don’t miss Bronwyn Jameson’s Desire debut—an intriguing tale involving a self-made man who’s In Bed with the Boss’s Daughter.
Treat yourself to all six of these heart-melting tales of Desire—and see inside for details on how to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest.
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Cherokee
Sheri Whitefeather
SHERI WHITEFEATHER
lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, summer powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. Since her one true passion is writing, she is thrilled to be a part of the Silhouette Desire line. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.
Sheri also works as a leather artisan with her Muscogee Creek husband. They have one son and a menagerie of pets, including a pampered English bulldog and four equally spoiled Bengal cats. She would love to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 5130, Orange, California 92863-5130.
To the Cherokees who inspired this story— Annie Dear-Johnson for her strength and sensitivity; Lisa Kelly and her daughter Mandi for their beauty and heart; Kona Bruckner and her children, Amy, Bryon and Jeremiah for their triumph; Christine Tevis and her sons, Bobby, Bruce and Bryon (my favorite little artist) for following Windrunner’s path.
I would also like to acknowledge Barbara Carlton for teaching her son about his Cherokee heritage and Barbara Ann Tucker, my Texas friend, for the lovely letters and powwow pictures. And to another Barbara, my proud and supportive mother-in-law, many thanks for encouraging us to consider alternative medicine whenever one of us is ailing. Unfortunately we don’t always listen, but the characters in this book took your advice to heart.
And finally to the countless readers out there expressing an interest in the American Indian culture, this recipe is for you:
INDIAN FRY BREAD
(from various sources)
Cornmeal or flour for dusting board
2 cups flour
½ tsp salt
½ tsp baking powder
½ cup instant dry milk
¾ cup water
Oil or shortening for deep frying
Dust pastry board. In a mixing bowl, stir flour, baking powder, salt and powdered milk. Add water in small amounts, stirring until the mixture reaches the consistency of bread dough. Knead until smooth and elastic. Cover and let rest for ten minutes. Heat oil or shortening in a deep frying pan. Pull off a palm-size mound of dough, roll into a ball, then flatten into a 6-inch disc. Fry one at a time on both sides until golden. Serve hot, sprinkled with powdered sugar, drizzled with honey or covered with taco fixings. Makes about 4 servings.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
One
Sarah Cloud entered the break room, her productive day nearing its end. She didn’t own Ventura West, a successful skin care salon in the San Fernando Valley, but she took pride in working there. She enjoyed soothing her clients with a refreshing mask and a quiet shoulder massage. They relied on her to make them feel whole, to sweep them away from the hustle and bustle of their harried L.A. lives, if only for an hour each week.
Removing a small container of orange juice from the refrigerator, she looked up. Tina Carpenter, the sweet but air-brained receptionist, stood in the doorway.
“You’re never going to believe who’s here,” the young woman said, her eyes wide and bright. “It’s that doctor-type guy from the clinic next door.”
Sarah smiled, amused by Tina’s definition of the holistic practitioner. Of course it wasn’t his profession that mattered to the women in the salon. All were in agreement that their new neighbor was by far one of the most attractive men they had ever seen. Sarah had no idea what to think, since she had yet to catch even a quick glimpse of him. Not that she cared. Southern California overflowed with tall, tan, muscular men.
Tina flashed an excited grin. “Guess what? He wants to talk to you. And he even said it’s personal. I wonder if he’s going to ask you on a date or something.”
Baffled, Sarah capped her orange juice. A date? With a woman he’d never even met? Not likely. “Are you sure it’s me he wants to talk to?” This wouldn’t be the first time Tina had misconstrued a message. The receptionist was the owner’s niece—an inept but permanent employee.
“Of course I’m sure, silly.” Tina grabbed her arm. “Come on. He’s waiting.”
Sarah approached the reception area, then slowed her pace when she saw him. He stood near the front window, almost out of place amid the elegant ambiance of the salon. He wasn’t what she had expected. He wore dark indigo jeans and a blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. But it wasn’t his ranch-style attire that made her stop and stare. She knew immediately that the color of his skin hadn’t been enhanced by the sun, his golden complexion and strong, chiseled profile suddenly reminding her of home. An uncomfortable reminder.
When he turned, their eyes met. And then held. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He was too unusual to be considered classically handsome. Each riveting feature battled for dominance—eyes too deep, a mouth too full, cheekbones so prominent they could have been sculpted from clay.
He was a mixed blood, she realized. But how mixed she couldn’t quite tell. He wore his hair long, but it was brown instead of black, secured at his nape in a thick ponytail.
Sarah took a deep breath, more uncomfortable than ever. She hated being reminded of home.
He came toward her, his height overwhelming. She had been wrong. California wasn’t overflowing with men like him. His masculine presence commanded attention, but his smile generated warmth. No wonder no woman within breathing distance could keep her eyes off him. Tina leaned over the reception desk, and Claire, the flamboyant makeup artist, craned her neck to get a good look at his backside.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Adam Paige. I work next door.”
Sarah extended her hand, sensing he waited for her to do so. Apparently he had been taught the same protocol. A man didn’t touch a woman without invitation, not even in a greeting.
The handshake sent an electrical charge straight up her arm. She drew back quickly, keeping her voice polite and professional. “I’m Sarah Cloud. How can I help you?”
He pushed at his shirtsleeve, shoving it further up his arm. “Vicki Lester suggested I stop by. She’s a patient of mine.”
Sarah nodded. Vicki was a client of hers, too. And a friend. Vicki lived in the same sprawling apartment complex. “She didn’t tell me to expect you,” Sarah said, hoping she didn’t sound too distrustful. How could her friend neglect to mention this man and all his rugged beauty?
“I saw Vicki this morning,” he explained. “After her appointment, we got into a serious conversation. When I told her about what’s going on in my life, she thought I should talk to you.”
His life? I’m an esthetician, Sarah thought, not a psychologist. If he had problems, the best she could do was ease him with a facial—lift the tension from his forehead, massage the stress from his shoulders.
She glanced up at those broad shoulders and swallowed. Then again, talking might be better. She actually found herself attracted to Adam Paige—a man whose golden complexion and Indian cheekbones reminded her of why she’d left home. “Would you like to sit down?”
He glanced around, caught Tina’s eye and returned her smile, indicating to Sarah that the bouncy blond receptionist appeared to be eavesdropping.
“Maybe we could go across the street to the juice bar instead,” he said.
“Sure, that’s fine.” Sarah had some time to spare, and a cold drink sounded good. She’d left her orange juice on the table, and now her mouth felt unusually dry.
He opened the door for her, and they stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the salon. Ventura Boulevard buzzed around them. Late-day traffic gathered at a red light while summer tourists explored what locals simply called the Valley.
Sarah looked over at Adam as they crossed the street, and he sent her a devastating smile. If she hadn’t been wearing sensible shoes, she would have tripped over her own feet.
Curious, she glanced down at Adam’s feet, wondering what sort of shoes he wore. Lace-up ropers, she saw, California style. No dust, no scuffed toes. In spite of his Western appeal, Adam Paige with the chiseled profile and heart-stopping smile had most likely been born and raised in the Valley.
Sarah lifted her gaze, realizing a case of nerves had set in. Suddenly she felt like the troubled Oklahoma girl she had been. The one who had come to L.A. with nothing more than a battered suitcase and a need to break free of her past.
After Sarah’s mother died, her father had found solace in the bottle, drinking his way into oblivion. And as much as she loved her dad, walking away from him had become her only option. She had learned firsthand how deceptive alcoholics could be, how irresponsible and hurtful.
She glanced toward the sky and recalled his last broken promise, the last devastating lie. She’d graduated from high school two weeks before, and had come home from a new full-time job to find her dad in the backyard. He was dressed in grubby clothes, the old jeans and T-shirt he wore when tending the rose bushes that bloomed every summer. The flowers Sarah loved, the only beauty left in their run-down yard.
Standing in the setting sun, she watched her father reach into a planter and dig below the dirt. And then her breath caught, the threat of tears stinging her eyes.
The bottle that glinted in his hand could have been a knife. When he dusted it off, twisted the cap and took a drink, a sharp pain sliced through her—the sickening stab of betrayal.
He turned and their eyes met. And at that painful moment, she knew. He wasn’t her father anymore, the man she had once admired, the Cherokee warrior who used to tuck her in at night. Too many scenes like this one had destroyed those warm, tender feelings. For Sarah, there was nothing left but emptiness.
Neither said a word. She didn’t accuse, and he didn’t apologize. They only stood, staring at each other. His graduation gift to her had been an impassioned promise, an ardent vow of sobriety, and that gift had just been shattered, along with Sarah’s eighteen-year-old heart.
“We’re here.”
Blinking, she turned to see Adam, not her father, watching her. “I’m sorry. What?”
“The juice bar.”
“Oh, of course.”
Once inside, they ordered their drinks and sat across from each other in a small booth. Sarah fidgeted with her cup. Adam studied her, his gaze scanning the length of her hair.
“Vicki told me that you’re originally from Tahlequah,” he said. “And that you’re registered with the Cherokee Nation.”
She stiffened at the mention of her hometown and her heritage, her memories still too close to the edge. “Yes, I am. Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”
He nodded, his voice tinged with emotion. “I just found out that I was born in Tahlequah and that I’m part Cherokee, too. I know that sounds strange, but up until a little over a month ago, I had no idea that I was adopted.”
Sarah released a heavy breath. He was born in Tahlequah? This gorgeous Californian? No wonder he reminded her of home.
She didn’t want to discuss his newly discovered Cherokee roots, but after his personal admission, how could she just get up and walk away? The least she could do was give him a moment of her time, no matter how uncomfortable the subject made her.
“You were adopted by a white family?” she asked.
“Sort of,” he answered. “My father was English, but my mom was Spanish and Italian. I always figured my coloring had come from her. You know, all that Latin blood.” He glanced down at his drink, then back up. “My parents died when I was in college. They were killed in a plane crash.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Grief was something that still haunted her. She knew how it could destroy, claw its way into a person’s soul. And at this oddly quiet moment, Adam’s soul could have been her own. Their gazes were locked much too intimately.
Adam didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Everything around him had gone still. There was nothing. No one but the woman seated across from him. He wanted to touch her. Make the invisible connection between them more real.
