CHEROKEE Read online

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

  Epilogue

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  Chapter 1

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  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.

  Was it Sarah's eyes that captivated him? Those dark, exotic-shaped eyes? Or was it her hair—the lush black curtain? Her skin was beautiful, too. Clear and smooth and the color of temptation.

  Before Adam's imagination took him further, he blinked away his last thought, breaking their stare. Sarah picked up her juice, and he sensed her uneasiness. Was the connection between their loneliness? Was she as alone as he felt? Within the span of a month, everything familiar in Adam's world had changed. He'd moved, switched jobs and stumbled upon his adoption.

  "I've been storing some things that belonged to my parents," he said finally. "Mostly personal items, but there were two tall file cabinets from my dad's office. They were filled with old business records, but I kept them anyway." He glanced at Sarah's slender hands, recalling the shock tied to his discovery, the way his own hands had shaken. "I moved recently. Not a major move, just to a place that's closer to work. But since I was reorganizing and packing, it seemed like a good time to clean out those files."

  "You found something, didn't you?"

  "Yes." He swallowed back the pain, the lump that had formed in his throat. "There was a document from an adoption agency. It was in a manila envelope with some old tax records. I guess that's why I didn't see it before." He swallowed again, then released a heavy breath. "I discovered that I was born in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, to a Cherokee woman named Cynthia Youngwolf." Leaning against the table, be searched Sarah's eyes, hoping for a miracle. "Do you know anyone by that name?"

  She shook her head. "Tahlequah is the Cherokee capital. There's a large Indian population there. It would be impossible to know everyone."

  Adam's heart sank. "I've been trying to find her, but nothing has panned out. First I checked with the Oklahoma phone directory, and then I placed some personal ads in newspapers. After that, I listed my name with one of those adoption search agencies." He hoped his biological mother was looking for him, too. Looking for the son who had lost his adoptive parents.

  Surely Cynthia Youngwolf wondered about him. What woman wouldn't think about the child she had given up?

  "This whole thing has been pretty overwhelming."

  "I'm sorry I wasn't able to help," Sarah said.

  Adam studied her face, features that were strong yet delicate. Vulnerable yet proud. Were other Cherokee women as compelling?

  What did his mother look like? And who was his father? Were they secret lovers? Too young to raise a child? He had questions, and no one but Cynthia Youngwolf could answer them.

  And what about his parents? The ones who had raised him? Why hadn't they told him that he was adopted?

  He couldn't control the turmoil, the jumbled emotions that left him feeling hurt and confused. Why had they lied to him, pretending he was their biological son? They'd had so many opportunities to tell him, especially during all that family counseling.

  And what about the critical events leading up to the therapy? Were there subtle hints? Quiet innuendoes? Something, anything that marked the truth?

  Yes, he thought, his heart striking his chest. There was.

  Adam had been seventeen at the time, a tall, rangy boy with fire in his blood. And two weeks earlier, he'd gotten caught stealing a pint of whiskey from the local market, the place where his mother bought groceries.

  Adam had lied, of course, insisting he'd swiped the liquor on a dare. Yet that hadn't stopped his parents from cornering him, from trapping him with one of their mandatory talks. But why? He knew they hadn't found the other bottle, the one he kept hidden in the trunk of his car.

  "We picked up some literature," his father said.

  Slumped on the couch, Adam glanced up at his dad. His mother sat in nearby chair, twisting the tassel on one of the pillows she'd embroidered. His dad was tense, and his mom was jittery and fretful. Things didn't look good.

  "Literature?"

  Ronald Paige nodded, a quick, hard jerk of his head. "About alcoholism."

  Irritated, he righted his posture. "And what's that got to do with me?"

  "You drink, Adam. You drink a lot."

  "That's bull." He dragged a hand through his hair and ground a booted heel into the carpet. "I party on the weekends once in a while. That doesn't make me an alcoholic."

  "It's more than that, and you know it. You're addicted. All the signs are there."

  All the signs are where? he wondered. In some stupid brochure his parents had latched onto? "I'm not going to sit here and listen to this." When he stood, he topped his father by several inches. "You guys are freaking out. Making something out of nothing."

  "And you're out of control. You don't even seem like our son anymore."

  "Really? Well maybe I wished I wasn't. All you ever do is hassle me." Turning to leave, he caught sight of the look that passed between his parents. A look that said something secretive, something he couldn't quite name.

  Shrugging it off, he slammed the front door and headed for his car, grateful the whiskey was still there.

  A horn honked and Adam jolted, realizing where he was. He sat in the juice bar, staring blindly out a window. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. He had come a long way since his bout with the bottle, and, up until their untimely death, his parents had remained by his side. The loving, supportive family that had kept his adoption a secret. None of it made sense.

  He turned to face Sarah, hoping she could help him unscramble this puzzle. "Do you still have family in Tahlequah? Will you ask them if they've ever heard of Cynthia Youngwolf?"

  Her eyes shifted focus. Instead of meeting his gaze, she studied her drink, her tone distant. "My family … my father doesn't live in Tahlequah anymore. He's in another part of Oklahoma now."

  "I see," Adam responded, although he didn't. All she would have to do was ask her father about a name, yet she appeared reluctant to do so. Why? he wondered. Why wouldn't she make one simple phone call? And why had her shoulders tensed throughout portions of their conversation?

  One minute he saw attraction in her eyes, the next detachment. Warm. Aloof. Gentle. Afraid. She appeared to be all of those things. And that made him want to touch her even more, reach for her hand and hold it. This woman, he thought, this dark-eyed mystery, was connected to his birthplace, a heritage he
knew nothing about.

  The Cherokee books he'd purchased helped, but they weren't enough. Reading didn't combat the loneliness. He needed more than just words on a page.

  He needed human contact.

  He needed Sarah.

  Adam started. He needed a woman he'd just met? Was he losing his mind? The last of his sanity?

  No, he thought. He wasn't crazy. A woman born in Tahlequah, a stunning Cherokee with dark eyes and long, flowing hair. He couldn't have dreamed her if he'd tried. Sarah was the answer he had been waiting for.

  She glanced at her watch. "It was nice meeting you, Adam. But I should get back to work."

  "I'll walk you," he offered.

  They stood on the street corner, and as she brushed his arm, a ray of hope shot through him—an awakening from one of his ancestor's arrows. No, he wasn't about to give up on Sarah Cloud. Somehow, some way, he would break through her defenses, unlock the mystery surrounding her. And in the process, he intended to find his biological mother. The woman who had given him life.

  * * *

  The next week Sarah paced one of the facial rooms, checking and rechecking her supplies. Adam Paige was her next appointment. A facial. The man had booked a facial. Not that she didn't have other male clients. She encouraged men to take better care of their skin, yet the thought of touching Adam made her palms tingle and her pulse race.

  She sanitized her hands for the tenth time, a nervous habit, she supposed. And one she'd just acquired. Checking her watch, she exhaled a shaky breath. Maybe he would fall asleep during the facial the way some of her other clients did. It would be easier touching him if he slept.

  Sarah let out an anxious laugh. Mrs. Whipple snored during her procedure, but then Vivian Whipple was nearly eighty years old. Young, virile Adam Paige wouldn't snore. And he probably wouldn't fall asleep, either.

  Quit stressing and go, she told herself. Adam was probably early, waiting in the reception area for her to greet him.

  Sure enough, he was there. As Sarah approached, he stood. Today he wore tan trousers and a matching shirt. Although he looked more stylish than he had the week before, he still exhibited the same rugged appeal. Both the makeup artist and her client checked him out from their vantage point. And, of course, Tina watched with a dreamy smile, probably thinking Sarah was the luckiest girl in L.A.