Time stood still, became irrelevant. She didn’t talk, and neither did Tate. The only sounds were those of the forest, the only discernible movement that of dragonflies flitting across the calm surface of the pond. The deep, peaceful silence seemed to penetrate her entire being, suffusing her with pleasure. She sighed with something akin to happiness and wiggled her toes in her boots.
“Ready to go?” Tate said.
“No, I feel as if I could stay here all day,” she replied. An inquisitive wasp hovered over the apple and she brushed it away with a lazy hand.
“It’s peaceful here on the mountain,” Tate said. “I had a hard time getting used to it at first, too.”
She turned her head so that the sun fell across her face and closed her eyes to bask in its rays. “Tell me why you made the big decision to take a leave of absence and live in the woods.”
Beside her, Tate shifted position, rustling the grass. She waited.
He took his time answering. “I found myself in the middle of a spiritual crisis. My instincts told me that I was about to undergo a vast change in my soul, but when I looked for my soul, I felt only an emptiness. How could my soul change if it wasn’t even there? I called my boss at Conso and told him I wanted to take a leave of absence.”
Maggie began to chuckle. “Spiritual crisis. Vast change in your soul. Are you for real?”
“As real as I know how to be as one of the Real People,” he said soberly. “That’s what the Cherokee call themselves. Ourselves, I mean.”
She opened her eyes and searched for at least a trace of levity in his expression. She didn’t find it. “You’re really into this Cherokee stuff, aren’t you?”
He smiled. “I was a buttoned-down, white-shirt-and-tie type at Conso. Then my father died, and I met his cousin. Charlie Bearkiller is his name. He took me under his wing, answered questions about my father, told me how to register as a tribal member, and made me start to feel comfortable with the idea that I’m part Indian. For the first time in my life, I began to understand where I came from and where I’m going.”
“And where are you going, Tate Jennings?” Maggie asked softly.
“Forward. Charlie showed me that it’s more natural for Cherokees to move on to new things rather than live in the past. Looking back was a habit of mine. My mind-set was that if only things had been different in my life, I wouldn’t have had to struggle so hard. Now I think that because I struggled, I’m strong enough to face anything. Does this make any sense to you?” His eyes searched her face.
“I’m still at the struggling stage myself,” she admitted.
“If I were you, I’d take advantage of this time to reconnect.”
“Reconnect with what?”
“Yourself. Nature. The things that nourish your soul.”
“You’re lucky. You had Charlie to point you in the right direction.”
“True, but I’ve mostly figured things out on my own within the loose framework that Charlie gave me. When I came into the woods and built my asi—“
“Asi?”
“My sleeping lodge. It’s a small hut, not big enough for me to stand up in, and I only sleep in it when the weather is bad. Anyway, at that time, I thought that moving to the woods wasn’t a big deal. I’d never felt that I belonged anywhere, so this was just another place where I wouldn’t fit. Then, when I was sitting by my campfire that first night, I felt completely and utterly alone. I remember thinking, ‘How in the world am I going to manage living here for six months?’”
“What was the general reaction of people when you told them you were going to live in the woods?”
“My colleagues at Conso thought I’d flipped my lid, and my friends expressed grave doubts. I gave away a lot of possessions that I wouldn’t need, closed up my apartment in Scot’s Cove and ignored my critics. When I established my camp, I threw only a few of the basic necessities on the back of my motorcycle and didn’t look back in case something was chasing me.” He laughed lightly.
“You ride a motorcycle?”
“Sure. A Harley-Davidson.”
“That doesn’t sound much like something a Conso executive would do.”
“It isn’t. But then neither is taking six months off to go live in the woods.”
“What do you do when you’re in your camp? How do you spend your time?”
“I think a lot. I get in touch with nature. I’m also studying the Cherokee language.”
Maggie took another bite of apple. “Did you bring a supply of food up here with you?”
He shook his head. “No, but I haven’t gone hungry yet. I fish, set snare lines for small game, harvest edible roots, and support myself quite well.”
Maggie shuddered. “It sounds pretty awful,” she said. “I can’t imagine not being able to go to the freezer and take out a frozen dinner. I expect wine and cheese and banana cream pie to be readily available. I want hot showers and soft towels, preferably warmed on a heated rod. I like a warm bed and a warm body next to mine.” Juice from the apple ran down her chin, and she wiped it away carelessly with the back of her hand.
She was unaware that Tate was watching her until she happened to look down at him.
“I like a lot of the same things,” he said softly. “Especially that part about the warm body.”
She had always talked too much. Maggie knew that. In this case, she had let down her guard and completely forgotten to whom she was talking. Tate wasn’t Bronwyn, her trusted confidante, and he wasn’t Kip, with whom she was accustomed to sharing all her thoughts. Annoyed with herself and with the way Tate was looking at her, she jumped to her feet and marched to the edge of the pond, where she threw her apple core into the middle of it. Circles spread out from the point of impact; circles begetting circles begetting more circles.
“Maggie?” Tate said. He was close behind her.
She didn’t have anyone, that was the problem, and everyone needed someone. She needed someone, especially now. Unexpected tears pricked the back of Maggie’s eyelids, and the circles in the water blurred into an impressionistic wash of blue and silver. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, wishing that her emotions wouldn’t hover so close to the surface.
“It’s not you that’s making me uncomfortable,” she admitted in a rush of words. “It’s just that I feel so…so alone.”
“You wouldn’t have to be,” he said.
“Yes, well, I thought I had a future with the man I loved, and now look at me.”
“I’m looking,” Tate said, “and I like what I see.”
“You can’t mean that,” she said, sniffling.
His harsh tone surprised her. “You’re beautiful and witty and capable and desirable. Know it and act like it.”
Her chin flew up. “I would if I wasn’t an emotional basket case,” she retorted. It took some nerve to admit her state of mind, especially to him. And, she reminded herself, he didn’t know the half of her situation.
There was still a grim set to Tate’s lips as his strong arms encircled her and pulled her close. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “I’m counting on it.”
“I wouldn’t count on anything if I were you. Nothing is reliable, nothing makes sense,” she said, trying to twist away. His lips brushed her temple lightly; they might have been mistaken for dragonfly wings. His arms around her were iron bands, holding her fast.
“Stop wriggling,” he said. “I want to kiss you.”
“Are you sure? I might be in love with another man.”
His arms slowly released her. He backed away. “You think you still love that guy?” he said with a heavy dose of skepticism.
“Well, maybe,” she said.
He seemed taken aback. “Maggie, you’re too smart for that.”
“The situation is complicated. There are a lot of things I need to consider. I don’t think that the reconnecting you were talking about a while ago was supposed to be taken literally. Starting a physical relationship isn’t going to nourish my soul.”
“Why not?” Tate said in all seriousness. She stared at him, at the dark eyes that seemed to know all her secrets, at the determined set of his chin.
She had always been a strong woman, and she didn’t want Tate Jennings to perceive her any other way. If she let him kiss her now, he would know that she was giving in. And that would make her look weak.
“Loosen up, Maggie,” he said, but this only irritated her. Despite his moments of insight, he didn’t know what she was going through, would never be able to understand. She backed off. The clearing was silent, the pond shimmering in the sunlight. She felt the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes.
“Please don’t go,” he said, but she shook her head violently, denying the open declaration of desire in Tate Jennings’ eyes, and then she brushed past him, heading blindly for the path. She halfway expected him to follow her, but when she looked back, she saw only the greenery that had closed around the path, and she heard only the jeering of a lone blue jay hidden among the trees.
Chapter Four
After Maggie fled the pond, Tate, lost in thought and heading back toward his property, saw a great crane rising from the trees. The crane, he knew, was considered a good omen by the Cherokee, and he had adopted it as his own personal good-luck symbol.
That night as he sat beside his campfire growing mesmerized by the flames, he again saw the crane. This time it spread its wings in the blue depths of the fire, finally flying away in a spiral of golden sparks.
As if his spirit were one with the crane in flight, he glided over the cabin where Maggie lived, and the spirits of the ancestors filled his body, telling him to chant in the timehonored Cherokee way. At one time he might have felt self-conscious about chanting alone in his camp, but not any more. It was late when, exhausted, he wrapped himself in his blanket, filled with a sense of joy at the new directions his life was taking and at his newfound oneness with nature.
He didn’t know how long he lay there before the doe stepped out of the forest. As she stared at the fire’s embers, he marveled at how beautiful she was. He thought she might come closer, and he waited for her to make the move. And when she did, he saw that she was limping.
He sat up as quietly as he could, but she saw the motion and pricked up her ears. He remained as motionless as she was until she turned tail and staggered into the woods.
He felt compelled to help her. It was the time of year when female deer who were about to give birth sought a safe place away from the rest of the herd, and he knew there might be a fawn nearby. The doe, limping as she was, might well need his help.
Tate soundlessly stalked the deer through the night forest, his vision keen, his ears alert for any sound. He saw her ahead on the trail, took a shortcut, and, as she was about to stumble into a thicket, he caught her in his arms.
A sense of urgency overcame him as he bound the doe’s leg injury and saw her safely to where her fawn waited. But the doe didn’t stay with her fawn; instead she glanced at him over her shoulder and leaped away.
Why, there was nothing wrong with her leg, Tate thought with amazement as he watched her white tail bobbing through the underbrush. She disappeared into the night as the laughter of the Yunwi Tsundsi rang in his ears, and then he realized that he had been tricked by them, fooled into entering the forest.
And then he was running recklessly, crazily, running as if for his life, his heart pounding mightily as he pushed aside tree limbs and leaped over boulders. Dogs were chasing him, howling as they grew near.
At last, as he knew he would, he reached the misty promontory above the river’s rapids. There he immediately spotted Maggie waiting anxiously in her canoe below—not an aluminum canoe like the one that had been lost but an old-fashioned dugout. The Little Deer River was muddy and swollen with recent rains; it was so high, the creek where one could normally turn the canoe to head back upstream was flooded over its banks. Maggie cried out, but he couldn’t understand what she said. He strained his ears, and he heard her shout something like, “Sunny!” This made no sense, because the fog hung like a shroud over the scene so that the sun was totally obliterated.
He almost stopped breathing when he realized that Maggie was losing control of the canoe.
When he saw her terrified face turned upward, her eyes searching for him against the backdrop of the forest, he knew what he must do. He stepped to the edge of the cliff and jumped.
This time, he missed the canoe. This time, he landed in the water. As he sank beneath the surface, he felt the grasping hands of the Little People who lived in the river clawing at him and dragging him under. He struggled to break free.
“Sunny!” he heard as he came up and gasped for air.
By this time, Maggie had succeeded in turning the canoe and was clinging to the overhanging limb of a tree that had been felled by a recent storm. Through the swirling veil of white mist he saw with relief that the tree’s arms had reached out to enclose Maggie and keep her from harm.
Struggle as he might, he could not fight the force of the water carrying him along toward the treacherous falls. He managed one last look at her, at her face contorted with fear and longing as she watched his struggle. He thought he heard her whisper “I love you” as he was swept over the rim of rock, but perhaps it was only the voice of the water.
Tate sat bolt upright, sweat pouring from his body. The dream had frightened him. The sense of falling, of losing Maggie, had been so strong that he could taste it even now that he knew he was safe.
Losing Maggie. Now that was ridiculous, Tate thought as he got up and dipped a gourdful of drinking water from the bucket inside the asi. Maggie wasn’t his to lose.
He thought of her sleeping snugly inside her cabin, her hair spilling across the pillow in shimmery golden strands, her skin alabaster in the moonlight filtering through the draperies at the window. Not that he had been in her bedroom to see the draperies or the window; he only knew that was how Maggie would look as she slept.
Tate tossed a log on the coals of the fire and closed his eyes, trying to become one with Maggie’s thoughts. He centered in on her, made himself see what she saw behind her closed eyelids. Yes, although he didn’t understand the way it worked, he could sense her, feel her, could almost be her. Her breath rose and fell in his chest, her thoughts played through his receptive mind. His eyes flew open when he saw, through her, the exact same scene he had seen in his dream—the raging river, the sight of her hanging on to the tree for dear life, the whisper of the words “I love you.”
He knew without a doubt that she was dreaming his dream. Shaken, he released Maggie’s thoughts. But when he reclaimed his own, they skittered around in his mind like squirrels in a cage, and he was unable to concentrate on any one thing. He knew that he’d been picking up on her thoughts that day that he’d jumped into her canoe, and he’d been startled by his own ability. But this—this was more than that. Wanting nothing so much as to put distance between himself and his conflicting emotions, he got up and ran to the dark river, plunging into the current and swimming against it under the starlit sky until he was exhausted.
After that, he couldn’t go back to sleep. Instead he sat staring into the fire all night, imagining that Maggie was saying—really saying—the words I love you and that they were meant for him.
Now that was a dream in itself. In his whole life, Tate was sure that no one had loved him, truly loved him.
IN THE MORNING after her upsetting dream, the one where she had watched helplessly from her shelter beneath a tree as Tate was swept over the edge of Maidenhair Falls, Maggie dragged an old patio lounge into the middle of the cabin’s clearing and spread a beach towel over it. She lay down in the sun, hoping that its warm rays would dispel the lingering coldness around her heart.
The dream had frightened her. She almost never had nightmares, and this one had been the worst she’d ever had. Even now she could feel her panic when she was struggling to control the canoe, her anguish as she saw Tate swept away over the rapids, and her
helplessness when she realized that she could do nothing to save him.
Last night she had awakened desolate after Tate had disappeared over the falls; she’d felt irretrievably broken and as if her sole reason for living had been taken from her. She tried to tell herself that the disturbing dream had been merely a replay of the day when Tate had jumped into her canoe, but the explanation didn’t satisfy her. She had the vague unsettling sense that this dream about Tate meant something, although she could not have said what.
She slathered herself with suntan lotion and lifted her chin to the sun so that the pale skin of her neck would tan. She closed her eyes.
A few minutes later, a shadow fell across her face. “You could get skin cancer. Lying in the sun like that is unhealthful.” When she opened her eyes, Tate Jennings was looming over her, his long hair fluttering in the breeze like a banner. She felt ridiculously happy to see him, and she realized suddenly that the dream had left her wondering about his safety.
“I’m not the one who goes running around in a loincloth, which as far as I know has no skin protection factor whatsoever,” she said. She rose to a half-sitting position, propping herself on her elbows.
“Most of the time I wear clothes. Do I meet with your approval today?”
“Your clothes do,” she said. “I’m not sure if you do or not.” On second thought, he did. He was wearing thighhugging jeans, a T-shirt, and a colorful woven band around his forehead to hold back his luxuriously thick and unfashionably long hair. He looked undeniably virile, a man in his prime. For a moment she imagined what it would be like to lie in bed beside him—but only for a moment.
Uninvited, he sat down on the ground beside her.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said pointedly.
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