Follow the Sun

by Deborah Smith

  One sleeve and half of the bodice were a glossy black; the black ran down the neckline diagonally to her hip, where it disappeared under a wide black-and white-striped bow. The rest of the dress was a soft, antique-pearl shade of white.

  Three maids fussed over her appearance, oohing and aahing, admiring the way the stylist had swept her dark hair into an old-fashioned chignon. They called for the valet, and he entered her dressing room carrying a black, velvet-covered case in both hands.

  “What’s this?” Tess murmured.

  “The prime minister asks that you wear these in honor of your mother.”

  The valet opened the case and revealed a pearl-and-diamond tiara with a matching bracelet and teardrop-shaped earrings.

  Tess trembled as the maids helped her don the exquisite jewelry. Her voice shaky, she asked, “Has Mr. Surprise finished dressing?”

  The servants greeted her questions with awkward silence and furtive looks. “He was asked to go ahead of you. Your Highness. The prime minister wished to speak to him in private before the ball began.”

  Tess whirled around, studying their faces anxiously. “Would you send for him, please? He’s supposed to escort me.”

  “The prime minister intends to do that. Your Highness.”

  Tess rushed up to Kristian Bjornsen as he entered the anteroom of her suite. The tall, graying prime minister was a Scandinavian Jimmy Stewart; there didn’t seem to be anything harsh about him, but his quiet presence was commanding.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked firmly.

  “Mr. Surprise agrees that it would be best if you experience this event alone,” Kristian explained gently. “Tonight you’ll meet our most important political and social leaders. Mr. Surprise will be in attendance, but he intends to stay in the background.”

  Kristian Bjornsen paused, looking solemn. “Prinsessa, this evening I’d like to announce who you are.”

  • • •

  HOW COULD JEOPARD do this to her? Tess stood beside the prime minister, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her head up. The magnificent ballroom simmered with excitement and hushed whispers-rumors had been traveling around Kara’s inner circles for two weeks, and now they’d been confirmed.

  Queen Isabella had given birth to a daughter, and here she was to meet the country’s best and brightest; she was Kara’s princess and might one day be its queen.

  And all Tess could do was stare numbly into the crowd, tormented, searching the room for the man who’d betrayed her.

  She answered questions in a daze; she heard her beauty congratulated and her mother complimented; she was told with which men she should waltz and why each one was important.

  It finally dawned on her that most of her partners were single, under forty, and members of royal families. With horror Tess realized that she was being presented with acceptable candidates for a husband.

  Had Jeopard known about this too?

  At the end of the long evening she dragged herself to Kristian Bjornsen and in a soft, emphatic tone said, “If you do not find Jeopard Surprise and bring him to me this instant I shall do a war whoop and throw hors-d’oeuvre knives at the orchestra.”

  Astonished, he stared down at her. “Your Highness, there’s only one waltz left for the evening. And we’ve already scheduled—”

  “Now, sir.”

  “We don’t want you to be unhappy. Your Highness.” He signaled a man and sent him for Jeopard.

  Unhappy? Was that a strong enough word? How about miserable? Disappointed? And one waltz with Jeopard wouldn’t change the fact that he’d deserted her. Tess went to the center of the ballroom and waited.

  The glittering crowd began to part to allow the lone, unfamiliar figure through. People stared at the glorious blond stranger dressed in white tie and black tails. His stunning entrance bespoke a natural ruler and a strength of character that made him a royal presence in his own right.

  Women fanned themselves fervently; men traded disgruntled looks of envy.

  Tess looked Jeopard in the eye and saw exactly what she’d expected—a cool, perfect mask.

  “I believe this will be the last dance,” she said with unsmiling aloofness. “Could we share it?”

  He bowed slightly. “If Your Highness wishes.”

  He held out one hand. When she touched the palm, she found it damp and cold, much like her own. She knew then that he shared her anguish, but the fact didn’t change what he’d done.

  Jeopard took her in his arms as the orchestra began a dreamy, majestic waltz. She’d never danced with him before, but they melded with the same inner rhythm that made them so wonderful together in other ways.

  No one else danced; the crowd seemed riveted—upset, perhaps, as word spread that the prinsessa was dancing with a common bodyguard.

  “Why did you make a mockery of everything I feel for you?” she whispered. “Are you so easily turned away by what other people think of us?”

  His hand tightened on her waist, and she saw a muscle flex in his jaw.

  “I’m giving you the opportunity you deserve. There’s no other way I can make you look at what these people are offering you. As long as you’re with me, you won’t know how you really feel about all of this.”

  “You think you’re so much wiser than I am. I hate your righteous attitude.”

  “I feel older, but not wiser. It’s killing me to let you go.”

  “Let me go?” She stared at him, while her stomach twisted with dread. “Did you know that tonight they’ve introduced me to a parade of blueblooded bachelors, each acceptable as the queen’s consort? Do you approve of that?”

  “Yes.”

  Tess would have stumbled had he not held her closer. Rage and grief built inside her like a thunderstorm. “You asked me to marry you,” she reminded him. “And I agreed.”

  “I won’t hold you to it.”

  “Did I indicate that I’d ever let you out of it?”

  He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he looked at her again they glistened with despair. “I’m letting you out of it. I’m leaving for America tonight.”

  “No,” she said weakly, almost moaning the word.

  “You stay here and look at this life without my interference. I’ll be waiting, and you’ll know where to find me.”

  She started to speak.

  “No, Tess, sssh. No vows, no promises that you’ll follow me. You’ve got to be honest with yourself and decide how you feel about the life you could lead here.”

  Tears shimmered on her cheeks. “Your cynicism is breaking my heart. I’ll never forgive you for doubting me.”

  He winced. “I’ll have to take that chance.”

  The waltz ended. She swallowed harshly, and dignity was the only thing that saved her from digging her fingers into his coat in an attempt to hold him.

  He lowered his head, brushed his lips over hers, then stepped back and bowed. Tess stood, frozen in unspeakable sorrow, as he walked away.

  CHAPTER 12

  MILLIE SURPRISE MCKAY was no lightweight. She may have been small and pretty, with soulful green eyes and chin-length curly hair the color of old gold, but she was, in her husband’s adoring words, “a little Tasmanian devil.”

  She’d mellowed only a bit since becoming the devoted mother of a sturdy baby boy nicknamed Zot because of certain impolite sounds he made.

  And now she was standing in Jeopard’s office, looking deceptively delicate in a chic blue jumpsuit, while looking undoubtedly upset. She held a gurgling Zot under one arm; the other arm was held akimbo.

  “Kyle called me,” she said sternly. “I caught the next plane out of Nashville.”

  Jeopard gave her a hug, kissed Zot’s forehead, and led her to a couch. They sat down, with him slouched and her sitting anxiously on the edge of her seat.

  Jeopard smiled at her. “How’s Brig? Still cutting the new album? I saw the interview in People last week.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You’ve got to get yourself under
control.”

  “I am under control.”

  “You’re wearing a piece of deer antler around your neck! Kyle told me that you rented a sailboat so that you could sit on it for hours every day and stare at the ocean! What is that stubble doing on your face, and why are you wearing shorts and a T-shirt in the office?

  “Jep, unlike the rest of us, you were born elegant. To sum this up, right now you look like misery on two legs.”

  “I’m happy to be miserable,” he said sincerely.

  “What?”

  “It’s good to have feelings again.” He cupped the antler amulet in one hand and rubbed it thoughtfully.

  “Oh, Jep, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve never seen you this way before.”

  “I’ve never been this way before.”

  She sat Zot on the floor. He curled his lips back like a chimpanzee and made an eeking sound.

  “My nephew has potential as a politician,” Jeopard observed.

  “I read about Tess Gallatin in the paper yesterday.”

  Jeopard looked at his sister dully. “I saw the article. All the wire services carried it. It was the first official announcement about her.”

  “It sounds as if she’s going to accept the crown. At least, she didn’t say that she wasn’t. Jep, you’ve been home for three weeks and she hasn’t called you once.”

  “That’s the way I wanted it.”

  “You are one tough hombre. What are you going to do now?”

  Jeopard cleared his throat, then got up and went to a window. He stood there, squinting narrowly in the bright Florida sun. “Keep waiting.”

  “Oh, Jep,” Millie said sadly. “For how long?”

  He lied. “I don’t know.” For the rest of my life.

  • • •

  PEOPLE AT THE Fort Lauderdale marina were beginning to whisper about him, but he didn’t care. He knew they thought it strange that he kept renting a sailboat just so he could sit on the aft deck in a lounge chair.

  Well, hell. He’d never been whimsical before, and he wanted to practice.

  Jeopard stood up, adjusted his sunglasses, and walked to the port railing. He fiddled with the chrome work on a post, polishing it distractedly. The newspaper article from the day before stuck in his mind. He’d read it so many times that he’d memorized it.

  Sierdansk, Kara—Officials of the tiny Scandinavian principality of Kara announced today that they have verified the claim of an American woman who says she is the illegitimate daughter of the late Queen Isabella.

  Tess Gallatin, a California resident, is the daughter of H. R. Gallatin, author of the well-known Sam Daggett adventure novels. Gallatin, now deceased, was a Cherokee Indian.

  “We’re delighted that she’s come forward,” a palace spokesman said. “Everyone who’s met her has been thoroughly impressed.”

  The Karan Parliament issued a resolution officially recognizing Ms. Gallatin’s royal titles. As the queen’s daughter she becomes Princess of Kara, Duchess of Olnawan. Duchess of Cedmur, and Countess of Arvbrijek.

  Speculation is growing that she will succeed her mother as queen. The palace spokesman would not comment, but did confirm that the new princess will be interviewed on national television next week.

  JEOPARD STOPPED POLISHING and stood quietly, all his energy and spirit submerged in missing her. He’d encouraged her to stay there; he’d asked for this; he’d once again fostered his own destruction.

  But he’d done it unselfishly, and because he loved her so much that he was a better man than he’d ever been before. He had no regrets.

  The knowledge didn’t make his heartache much easier to bear.

  “Captain Sundance, you really must leave the dock more often,” a soft English voice called. “Or does the idea of steering a boat still turn you into a bumbler?”

  Jeopard whipped around. Tess stood on the dock, looking like peach sherbet, in a flowing shirtwaist dress and matching pumps. Tears streamed down her face, but she smiled giddily as he ran to the edge of the bow and looked at her.

  “Tessi.”

  Jeopard held out both hands. She took them and leaped gracefully onto the bow. For a moment she and he were too emotional to do more than face each other and share a look of tender greeting. Then she flung her arms around his neck and held him fiercely.

  “Oh, Jep, being away from you was a special kind of hell.”

  He groaned and took her in a deep embrace, then nuzzled his face into her dark hair. “When do you have to go back? I read about the television interview—”

  “It’s already done,” she whispered, her breath warm and fast against his ear. “I taped it yesterday.”

  “But—”

  “I suppose you could say it’s my hello-and-good-bye interview.”

  “What?”

  She leaned back in the circle of his arms and gazed lovingly at him, then glanced at the antler amulet dangling on his T-shirt, Smiling, she slipped a hand inside the neck of her dress and drew out the chain bearing her Cherokee medallion.

  Now it also bore the Blue Princess, in a delicate setting of gold filigree. “I found this in my room after you’d left,” she murmured, touching the diamond with a forefinger. “Thank you. I’ll consider it a sort of wedding present.”

  Jeopard grasped her face between his hands and looked at her in bittersweet agony. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “That I’m here to stay and marry you, of course.”

  “Tess, don’t—”

  “I know what I’m giving up in Kara, and I don’t care. I only stayed until I’d settled my duties there.

  “Jep, listen. Drake finally found someone on the reservation who could decipher the message on my medallion. I honestly believe that my great-great-grandmother wanted to send a message to her family for all the generations to come.”

  “What does the medallion say?”

  “On one side it says, ‘Katherine Blue Song, daughter of Jesse and Mary Blue Song, sister of Anna, Elizabeth, and Sallie. I left my family’s souls at rest in Blue Song land. Gold Ridge, Georgia, 1838.’

  “On the other side it says, ‘Katherine Gallatin, wife of Justis Gallatin. A bluebird should follow the sun.’ ”

  Tess kissed him gently. “Jep, it’s a prophecy, and old Dove Gallatin must have known that when she passed the medallions on to Erica, Kat, and me. I can’t wait to find out what their medallions say.”

  “But how did you interpret yours to mean—”

  “I’m the Blue Princess, and you’re from the sun land. I’m the last princess, just as Katherine was the last Blue Song. Don’t you understand? It all seems to hint that I’m supposed to follow the sun, just as my great-great-grandmother did. I’m supposed to marry you. I even call you Sundance. Do you think it’s all just whimsical coincidence?”

  “Whimsical? No,” he said hoarsely. “Besides, what’s wrong with being whimsical?”

  And then he kissed her until they were both laughing breathlessly.

  SOMEDAY …

  AWARM GUST of April air swept over the new graves with deceptive innocence, carrying the fragrances of pine, oak, dogwood, and honeysuckle down to the magnificent spring-green valley below. The breeze lifted specks of red-tinted Georgia soil from the graves and dried the tiny spots where tears had fallen. The baked earth hinted that the summer of 1838 would be oppressively hot and tortured by drought.

  To the young woman who placed white-blossomed dogwood boughs on the graves the air foretold more death, sorrow, and betrayal.

  Because she was a Cherokee, she whispered sacred formulas to guard the graves of her parents and sisters. Because she had graduated only a month earlier from the Philadelphia Presbyterian Academy for Young Ladies, she added prayers.

  Because she was Katherine Blue Song, a proud girl of imposing character—but mostly because someone was watching—she didn’t cry anymore.

  The people of her tribe were being herded away from their homes like animals, in preparation for removal to the
Oklahoma territory. Her family had resisted, much to the delight of the unscrupulous local militia. Now she was the only Blue Song who would have to leave the ancient homeland. Her family would remain here forever.

  “I’m finished, Mr. Gallatin,” she said in a tired but formal tone, and straightened rigidly inside her plain black dress. “You may do the rest now.”

  The tall, rough-looking man stopped studying her with his perpetually intense gaze. Justis Gallatin touched a blunt gold spur to the side of his gray stallion. Then he tipped his wide-brimmed felt hat to her and ordered in a deep, drawling voice. “Back off, gal, so you won’t get trampled.”

  She walked down the slope a few feet and stood staring into the distance, anger and grief burning inside her so terribly that she hardly saw the old blue-green mountains that were sacred to her people.

  Gal. He was so crude, this chestnut-haired young man, with his unfashionable moustache and reputation for brawling, this white man who had been her father’s partner until the government decreed that Cherokees could no longer mine gold.

  Now he owned everything that had once been Blue Song property—the mine in Gold Ridge, the valley below, even the burned shells of the large frame house and barns on the hill behind her. Tears stinging her eyes, Katherine let her gaze drop to the distant creek where she had played as a child.

  She tried to ignore the sound of his horse’s hooves destroying the mounds of her family’s graves.

  He finally reined the big stallion to a halt and sat quietly watching her dignified profile. After a moment he offered, “None of those grave-robbin’ bastards from town’ll find ’em. You can count on it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Katherine was surprised by the gentleness in his voice, and she didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust him. He had money and power; he was white; the state of Georgia had given him and other white men the right to take everything that had belonged to her family, to her.

  He stepped down from his horse, went to the small mare tethered to a nearby tree, and led her to Katherine. “Up you go, gal. It’s not safe for you to stay here long.”