Follow the Sun

by Deborah Smith

  “I took my grandfather to New York,” he was telling the audience, “and we stood on Fifth Avenue during the rush hour. We watched all the people for a while, and finally Grandfather turned to me and said, ‘James, I don’t think they’re leaving.’ ”

  The joke brought warm laughter and a smattering of applause. Erica felt a twinge of dismay. How could he make fun of such a sad subject? His people had lost so much over the years. She paused, thinking of the cousins she’d met two days before. Our people, she corrected herself, feeling proud.

  “We have a popular bumper sticker down on the reservation,” James said. “It reads, ‘I’m glad Columbus was looking for India instead of Turkey.’ ”

  People guffawed and thumped the tables. Erica drummed her fingers and tried not to bite her tongue.

  “We’ve made a great living at being mascots and advertising symbols,” James told the audience. “Sports writers love us. ‘Washington Redskins Scalp Opponents.’ ‘Cleveland Indians Go on Warpath.’ Folks, we do take time out to pose in front of cigar stores, you know.”

  Erica couldn’t stand it. She stood up quickly. “Mr. Tall Wolf, could you tell us a little about some of the fine Indian leaders the Cherokees have had? Men like Sequoyah, who invented the Cherokee syllabary, and John Ross, who sued the federal government in an attempt to save the southern homelands?”

  An awkward silence settled in the room. He stared at her for only a second. Then, an exasperated look on his face, he shot back, “I think you just told us.”

  Erica gritted her teeth as the audience chuckled at his quick reply. She didn’t want to annoy him; she wanted to help. She kept her tone pleasant and sincere. “Do you feel that humor is an effective weapon against prejudice? Are the Cherokee people able to laugh about their problems the way you can?”

  He bristled. “I’m not laughing at these problems.”

  “As their spokesman—”

  “I’m just a businessman who happens to be Cherokee. I’m not the tribe’s official representative.”

  “But you’re treated that way. Is it a burden? Do you resent it?”

  “This is a surprise,” he said with a strained smile. “When I got here tonight I didn’t notice the cameras from Sixty Minutes.” Everyone laughed. “And you don’t look like Mike Wallace.”

  Harold Brumby lolled back in his chair and said in a stage whisper, “Mike wears better suits.”

  No one dared laugh at that, but there were a lot of satisfied smiles. Erica felt a dull, sinking feeling at the center of her dignity, but she grinned cheerfully at Harold. “And Mike’s a lot shorter.”

  Now the laughter was on her side. She glanced toward the podium and was surprised to see James Tall Wolf eyeing Harold with disgust. Slowly James swiveled his gaze to her.

  “When you make people laugh with you about a problem, you gain their attention and respect,” he told her. “I think you just proved that.”

  “Ah. Yes.” She sat down, undone more by his subtle compliment than she would ever be by Harold’s less-than-subtle insults.

  He continued with his speech, but now he cast wary looks at her each time the audience laughed. Erica forced herself to smile and nod, but questions kept sticking in her throat. He wasn’t addressing the issues.

  At an opportune moment she vaulted to her feet. “Mr. Tall Wolf. Excuse me again.”

  The cuff of her jacket caught a spoon and sent it clattering loudly into her neighbor’s coffee cup, splashing him. Erica grabbed the spoon and thunked it back into place, her face hot.

  “In the old days we named people according to their personalities,” James Tall Wolf said in just the right tone of patronizing amusement. “I think I’ll call you She-Who-Makes-Noise. “ He paused. “Okay, Noise, what is it now?”

  Erica cleared her throat and waited for the chuckles to end. Damn him, he knew how to work a crowd. “Mr. Tall Wolf, what are you and other prominent Cherokees doing to solve the economic and social problems facing the tribe today? What are you doing about poor housing, unemployment, lack of adequate educational opportunities, and the disintegration of traditional Cherokee culture? Besides telling jokes, that is.”

  The lethal tightening of his facial muscles warned that she’d finally gone too far. Erica stared up at him stoically. The issues were too important to ignore.

  He smiled, flashing white teeth at her in a predatory way that iced her blood. “I don’t waste my time trying to answer complicated questions in a twenty-minute speech after dinner.”

  “Why? Do you feel that most whites really aren’t interested in the plight of Native Americans today?”

  He went very still, his bench-breaking hands clenched on the sides of the podium, his dark eyes holding hers with a look that made her knees weak. He seemed to be fighting some monumental decision. Whatever chord she’d touched, it was a deep one.

  He lifted his chin and said in a loud, firm voice, “Yes. I frankly don’t think most of you give a damn.”

  That blunt remark sent a ripple of shock through the audience. Erica gazed breathlessly at James Tall Wolf, mesmerized by the challenge and the fury in his eyes, even though they were directed at her.

  “Could you elaborate?” she asked.

  “Hell, yes.” And he did so nonstop for the next ten minutes, his voice reaching through the ballroom like a dark whip. Erica sat down limply in her chair and watched him in awe. She sensed the crowd’s electric response, and when she glanced at the faces around her she knew that whether they liked or disliked James Tall Wolf, they’d never forget him.

  Neither would she.

  He finished abruptly, shot her a cold look that brought her back to reality, and told the audience good night. He strode out of the ballroom without looking back, leaving a patchwork quilt of approval and disdain; areas of bright applause bordered by gray silence.

  Erica barely heard the president’s closing remarks. When everyone stood to leave she fumbled distractedly for her purse and briefcase.

  All right, she’d let him cool off for a few days, and then she’d get his phone number from the association’s secretary and give him a call. She’d explain that she was part Cherokee and had only wanted to express a sincere interest in the tribe.

  Getting wearily to her feet, she tucked her briefcase under one arm and endured silent frowns from the departing crowd. A few were not so silent.

  “Thanks for insulting a guest speaker.”

  “Didn’t know you were so interested in Indians.”

  “You broads never know when to shut your mouths.”

  To that remark she replied, “Blow it out your chimney, Harold.”

  She escaped to a rest room, where she gaped first at her ashen face, then at the disheveled state of her air. Her dark blue skirt was twisted, and she’d forgotten to pull the jacket lapel over a small mud stain on her blouse.

  Damn, she didn’t care about her looks ordinarily; she’d never been able to compete with her mother or half sisters on that basis, so she’d stopped paying attention long ago.

  “I love you,” she told the chestnut-haired Amazon in the mirror, “but you must have looked homely as hell to the Wolfman.”

  The Wolfman. An appropriate nickname, even if he wasn’t hairy.

  The hotel hallway was deserted by the time she finished straightening herself up and headed for an elevator. Even the elevator was empty. Good.

  Erica put her briefcase down, leaned gratefully against the cool, paneled wall of the elevator, and reached for the ground-floor button.

  Her fingers bumped into a big, brawny hand the color of light copper. Erica jerked her hand back and gazed up into James Tall Wolf’s dark eyes. Angry, watchful eyes.

  He stepped into the elevator and hit the top-floor button. His intense, unwavering gaze never left hers as the door slid shut, closing them in together for a long ride down.

  He planted both hands on the wall, trapping her between his arms. Erica gasped. He leaned forward, a muscle throbbing in his jaw, and said g
rimly, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “I WASN’T TRYING to antagonize you.”

  “The hell you weren’t.” He leaned closer, his breath hot on her face.

  Erica inhaled good cologne and a faint trace of rich cigar smoke; to her it was the essence of threatening masculinity. His hair was blue-black under the elevator lights, and his eyes were so dark that the pupils seemed to merge with their backgrounds.

  “I don’t need lectures from a knee-jerk liberal”—he spoke between gritted teeth—”who hasn’t got one friggin’ idea what it’s like to be Cherokee.”

  “I have an imagination.”

  “Dammit, what did you want from me tonight?”

  She hugged herself and glanced at the passing floor numbers. “Nothing.” They reached the bottom level and stopped. “Ground floor,” she quipped in a mechanical voice. “Sporting goods, appliances, amnesty for women with good intentions.”

  Without taking his eyes off her he reached over and hit a button. She made a soft protesting sound as the elevator began to move upward.

  “Women with good intentions,” he echoed in a sarcastic tone. “Oh, hell, now I get it. The questions were just a come-on, a little bit more dignified than most. Congratulations. Your intentions got my attention.”

  Erica stared at him in astonishment. “No.”

  “Next time just shake that skinny behind at me instead. I’d give it a second look.”

  “You’re mistaken. I’m not interested in jocks with egos bigger than their—”

  “Oh, come off it.”

  His arms scooped around her, and he pressed her to the wall. Erica yelped just as his mouth sank onto hers with angry force, twisting, taking, proving a point. He stabbed his tongue between her lips and ran his hands over her rump, squeezing hard.

  She stood on tiptoe, trying to escape, but her foot slipped out of its blue pump and she lost her balance. Half-hanging off the floor with her fanny cupped in his hands, she squirmed against him and tried to shut her mouth.

  Erica told herself that everything had happened so fast, she didn’t have time to be rational. The fact that his touch was much more passionate than angry had a disastrous effect on her resistance.

  “Hmmm,” he said from deep in his throat.

  “Hmmm,” she responded hesitantly.

  Then he willed her tongue into his mouth and attacked it as if it were a melting Popsicle.

  Big Red Riding Hood was definitely about to be eaten by the wolf—and it amazed her that she didn’t want to run away. Why? What was wrong with her? She was vibrating with blind, desperate excitement, and he knew it. Dammit, he knew it, and she was beyond caring that he knew.

  Erica gave up and wound her arms around his shoulders. The shifting of her body brought her closer to him, and he flexed slightly, nudging her belly with a hard ridge.

  James Tall Wolf pulled his mouth away from hers just enough to talk. “Your intentions are even better than I expected,” he said hoarsely.

  He frowned at her, his expression not so much angry as it was surprised. A painful realization cut into Erica. He hadn’t expected her reaction or his own. He was shocked to find her desirable.

  Wounded and embarrassed, she shoved him away. He stepped back tensely, watching her with a troubled awareness that made him look fierce. “Yeah, there’s plenty under that blouse besides a bleeding heart.” His voice was gruff.

  She sagged against the wall, one shoe off, her blouse half out of her skirt, her mouth feeling so hot and swollen that she lifted a hand to it. “Touch me again and I’ll kick an extra point right between your goal posts.”

  The elevator reached the top floor, and the doors opened. A sweet-looking elderly couple stood there in the small alcove, holding hands. “Oh, my,” the woman said pertly, peering in at Erica’s disarray.

  “Sorry. Excuse us.” Erica pushed the button that closed the door. “No!”

  But James Tall Wolf had already pushed the button for the ground floor again. She gave him a lethal look. They were both breathing too fast. “If you wanted revenge, you got it.”

  He gazed down at her sternly, his arms crossed and his long legs braced apart. “A jackass at my table called you ugly. Are you?”

  The question was so bizarre that she sputtered, “N-no!”

  “Then get rid of that awful suit and buy something that fits. And pull your hair up so your face shows. And when men look at you, don’t hang your head like some sort of wimpy old maid.”

  His words hit her in the solar plexus, but she drew her chin up and glared at him. “I don’t know who you were looking at, but it wasn’t me. You’ve got more money and power and reason for happiness than most people ever do, but all you can do is whine about being misunderstood because you’re a Cherokee and then insult me with your stupid-jock notion that any woman who’s nice to you wants to crawl into your bed.”

  She tucked in her shirt and quickly jammed her foot back in the lost pump. “I wanted to be your friend.”

  “So you stood up and made fun of me in front of people.”

  “I honestly didn’t mean to.” Her shoulders slumped. She was so addled at that moment that all she could think about was the feel of his mouth on hers and the damp heat he’d created between her thighs. She shook her head at him wearily. “Thanks for the education, Mr. Tall Wolf. I guess I did think that you’d be more noble than the average sports-celebrity-turned-businessman. But you’re just a spoiled jock.”

  He dismissed her with a fierce wave of one hand. “Fine. I’m not used to desperate, frumpy women who don’t have the courage to ask outright for what they want.”

  Frumpy. Erica could stand most insults, but having this man make fun of her looks was too painful. “Take steroids again,” she told him. “They couldn’t make you any nastier than you are now.”

  His eyes flared. “Doll, if I were still on the macho juice I’d have torn this elevator apart and chased you down a hall.”

  The elevator bumped to a stop. She grabbed her briefcase and started toward the door, not caring which floor they were on. He blocked her with one long arm. Erica nearly stumbled, trying to avoid contact with him.

  “This is my floor,” he told her in a low, challenging tone. “I don’t think you want to get off here.”

  “No. I definitely don’t.”

  He smiled wickedly. “Be honest. I might grant you a favor.”

  “I’ve never tried a one-night stand before, and I’d prefer to wait for a friendlier offer.”

  “You sound like you spend a lot of time waiting for any offer.”

  “And I doubt you have enough morals to turn down any offer. Good night, Rabid Wolf.”

  “She-Who-Makes-Noise, you’re a hard woman to please.” He chuckled harshly and walked away without looking back.

  “RICKY, YOUR MOTHER’S on the phone.”

  Erica snapped to attention. “Thanks, Marie. Got it. Right. Is my lunch here yet? Have you typed that contract to send to George Gibson? Where’s my new box of floppy discs?”

  Marie Stewart, never one to take employer-employee relationships seriously, frowned at her like a scolding nanny. “Are you all right?” The office manager glanced at an air-conditioner vent on a wall painted functional brown. “Too hot?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You’re edgy, and you were fanning yourself a second ago.”

  “Too much coffee.” Too much James Tall Wolf Erica added silently. Too much thinking about the night before. Too much of that lust-in-the-teepee novel she’d bought on the way to work that morning.

  “Your mother. Line two.”

  Erica slapped the phone to one ear. “Hello?”

  Patricia Gallatin Monroe said what she always said when she called. “This is the Boston mother phoning her Washington runaway.” In eight years the words had rarely varied. “I received your message.”

  “Hi. Your secretary said you were out of town. Something about catering a party for the Kennedys. Agai
n?”

  “Hmmm. They adore my people. I have the best pastry chef in Boston.”

  “Mother, I’m proud of you.”

  “I know. I did a marvelous job, as usual. Ask Lucianne. Your sister is still trying to steal my clients.”

  Erica sighed. Her mother’s household ran on pride, propriety, and vigorous competition, even among family members. Erica’s half sisters, Lucianne and Noëlle, thrived on the system. It was either compete or get out. Erica had gotten out.

  Erica the rebel. She looked down at her navy blue tailored dress. Little pieces of lint clung to it. Some rebel.

  “I flew down to Georgia, day before yesterday, and met my Gallatin cousins.”

  There was dead silence on the Boston end of the phone. Finally her mother said, “I asked you not to.”

  “I’m going to study Dad’s family. I want to know about them.”

  “Your father was white.”

  ‘One-eighth Cherokee.”

  “Why do you care, after all these years? You never cared before.”

  Erica rubbed her forehead wearily. “I never knew anything about the Gallatins because you refused to discuss them.’

  “You were so little when your father died in the accident. After I remarried I thought you wanted to feel like a Monroe.”

  “Not so little—seven years old. I never forgot Dad.” That was an understatement. She still had all his navy aviation insignia in her jewelry box.

  Marie buzzed her on the intercom. “Boss, T.K. is on line one.”

  “Mother, I have to go. I just wanted you to know that my cousins are wonderful people. You’d like them. ‘Bye.”

  Her head throbbing with tension. Erica punched the other line. “Are we on for tonight?”

  A sinister, chuckling male voice came back. “The Nemesis Gang sallies forth again. Bring your hammer.”

  “WE’RE GOIN’ ON a raid, my man,” Stephen said in his thick Texas drawl as he tossed a basketball at a hoop on his expensively decorated office wall. Beside the hoop hung the annual Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar. Stephen Murray, real-estate tycoon, good friend, and lady-killer, was the most laid-back businessman ever put in pinstripes.