Follow the Sun

by Deborah Smith

  “Erica Alice, I’m not letting go of your ankle until you talk.”

  “I was a nerd; he was a nerd. We dated all through high school. It was a terrific nerd romance. Then I went to Georgia Tech to study civil engineering and he went to UCLA to study world arts and cultures.

  “We hardly saw each other for four years, but he wrote lots of long letters full of deathless prose about making the world into a better place. Then he got a chance to visit the Middle East on a year-long study program. On his way out of the States he met me up in Boston. He made me feel as if no one would ever love me more in my life. We were married an hour before he got on an airplane.”

  She picked at the blanket for a second. “And that was the last time I ever saw him in person.”

  James stroked her ankle. “What happened?”

  “He disappeared. The State Department confirmed that he’d been kidnapped by some political faction. I saw photographs of him over the years, so I knew he was still alive.”

  “So you waited,” James murmured. “For eight years before you found out that he was dead. My God, you’re incredible.”

  “I’m a dolt,” she retorted, and chuckled harshly. “He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even kidnapped. He’d joined a terrorist group and married a Lebanese woman. At last count, they had three kids.”

  She sat in awkward silence, toying with a string on the blanket. James’s hand tightened around her ankle as if he wanted to stamp his fingerprints permanently on her skin. Erica avoided looking at him even when he shook her foot lightly.

  “What’d you do when you found out?” he asked in a husky voice that played havoc with her emotions. This forceful giant of a man might growl and snap at her sometimes, but he could be as sweet as a puppy, too. A wolf puppy, but a puppy, nonetheless.

  Blinking back tears, Erica could only manage to repeat, “I was a damned dolt. What a boob. Eight years.”

  “Sssh. You ought to get a medal.”

  “An idiot award.”

  “Hush. When did you find out about him?”

  “About two years ago. I got an annulment and tried to think of myself as a free person, but it hasn’t worked real well. I guess eight years of martyrdom turned me into a creature of habit. And I’m not exactly self-confident around men … except in business.”

  “Dammit, you can’t waste any more time.” He cursed again, this time less politely. “What a story. The guy ought to be barbecued.”

  She almost smiled. “I’ve often thought about which parts I’d like to roast first.”

  James looked at her shrewdly. “So what are you going to do? Let that bastard ruin the rest of your life?”

  “No, but—”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “I—I guess it’s a who, not a what.”

  “No, no, no. You can’t sit around waiting for Mr. Perfect and ignoring everyone else. You’ll never get anywhere that way.”

  Erica looked at him hopefully, her heart filling her throat. Was he making an offer?

  “I don’t need romance,” she said eagerly. “I mean, I know I’m not the type that men get mushy over. Guys just don’t pamper big women. We don’t look delicate. If I could find someone who’s experienced but not too cynical, someone who could be a good friend, someone who, you know, would teach me things, I’d be happy.”

  James frowned at her. “You need a lot more than sex education. You need a new self-image. Don’t worry about being too tall to attract men. Take me, for example. I’m such a hulk that you look delicate to me.”

  Happiness bubbled up inside her. He was making her an offer. “You’re good for my ego,” she said, and laughed merrily. “I feel like Eliza in My Fair Lady. Make me a new woman, Henry Tall Wolf Higgins.”

  “Let’s see, let’s see.” He squinted thoughtfully, his fingers tapping on her ankle.

  “Tell me what to do, and I’ll give it a try.”

  “Hmmm. Okay, I’ve got it.” He didn’t look particularly happy, but he did seem satisfied.

  Erica leaned forward, waiting breathlessly. “Anything.”

  He patted her ankle. “I know a great guy up in D.C. Used to play for the ‘Skins. He’s divorced, but it was nothing ugly. He’s real clean-cut, a little shy, not nearly as bookish or smart as you are, but he does read a lot. He’s a liberal Republican. I think you’d like him.”

  For a second Erica could only stare at James, her mouth open in disbelief. Her chest constricted with stunned bitterness. After years of idiotic martyrdom and self-denial she’d been forced into close company with this man, this incredibly provocative man, and all he wanted to do was get rid of her.

  She clambered off the bed and stood at the foot of it, her hands clenched around her blanket, her feet braced apart in a stance of pure defiance. “I don’t need you to pimp for me!” She turned and marched from the room, her dignity in tatters around her.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE NEXT MORNING at six A.M. he pounded on her bedroom door and called, “Wake up, kamama egwa.”

  Erica refused to ask what the name meant. She sat up wearily, still angry and tense. “Yes?”

  “I’m going out. Meet me at the museum at twelve.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going on a hike. Wear comfortable shoes.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “And don’t eat lunch. We’ll go native in the woods.”

  Frustrated, Erica sank both hands into her hair and groaned softly. Native. “I’m not taking my clothes off to eat lunch. Where are we going?”

  “Be there,” he said firmly, and she listened to him leave the house. He still had a slight limp, so they couldn’t be hiking far.

  Erica fell back on the bed and stared at a ceiling made of thick boards painted pale blue. Dove had certainly loved blue; most of the colors in the house were some variety of the color. It was soothing, and she needed soothing just then.

  She suspected she was going to need it more as the day went on.

  ERICA DROVE OVER to Asheville after breakfast and turned in her rental car, then went to a used-truck dealer and drolly leased a Jeep Cherokee. As she drove back along a winding road perched on the sides of mountains, she blessed the Jeep’s oversized tires and four-wheel drive.

  She rolled down her window, let the fragrant spring breeze wash over her, and slipped a Cherokee-language cassette into the Jeep’s tape player. She’d mail-ordered the tape from the reservation in Oklahoma, and the dialect differed significantly from that used in North Carolina, but she could still benefit from it.

  She smiled as she went through the tape, feeling very Cherokee as she repeated phrases and words. “Egwa. Big.” Erica gritted her teeth. James had called her kamama egwa. Something big. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  After that she didn’t smile.

  Eventually she reached the sign that marked the reservation’s eastern border. “Qualla Boundary, she read aloud. She didn’t know what Qualla meant, but it sounded homey. A few minutes later Erica slowed the Jeep as woodland gave way to billboards and the road became crowded with tourist traffic.

  She turned off the tape as she entered Cherokee. Gazing out at the tourist district. Erica cataloged the offerings—the Sequoyah Cafeteria, the Papoose Motel, the Pow Wow Gift Shop, an amusement park called Santa’s Land, and dozens of other attractions.

  In contrast, Becky Tall Wolf’s little restaurant was simply called Mama’s Best Meal and, judging by the early lunch crowd, it was a success. Erica had to stop at crosswalks to let hordes of camera-toting families pass.

  As she sat waiting she glanced at the storefronts. Before one stood a middle-aged Cherokee man in full chief’s costume—beaded moccasins, fringed buckskins, and a huge feathered war bonnet. A large sign was propped on a porch post beside him.

  “Take a photograph with Chief Running Bear. And don’t forget to tip!”

  She sighed. On the reservation this occupation was called “chiefing.” The costumes were strictly Plains Indian
style, and more Hollywood than authentic, at that. But still, it was a job, and from what she’d heard the men who did it worked long, hard hours. Even when the public was obnoxious they demonstrated an incredible amount of courtesy and showmanship.

  Farther down Erica stopped at another crosswalk. This time when she looked over at the shops she gasped in surprise.

  Grandpa Sam was chiefing.

  She pulled into one of the slanted parking spaces that fronted the stores and hurried over to Sam’s spot. He held a squalling toddler in one arm while the mother stood beside him uncertainly and the father snapped pictures with an expensive-looking camera.

  Erica winced. Grandpa Sam had braided his long white hair into two plaits that hung down over his shoulders, onto his chest, and decorated them with orange feathers.

  Still, dressed in a headdress that hung to his heels and wearing a beaded buckskin outfit made by an obviously loving hand, he brought dignity to the costume.

  As the family walked away Sam called cheerfully, “Have a good stay in Cherokee!” He turned, saw Erica watching, and grinned. “Howdy do, Eh-lee-ga.”

  She smiled with fascination. “Is that how you say my name in Cherokee?”

  He nodded. “Eh-lee-ga. We got no ‘r’ sound.”

  “Mr. Tall Wolf—”

  “Call me Grandpa Sam. You’re one of us, the Ani-Yun-Wiya, the Real People, and all of them call me Grandpa.”

  Erica thought her chest would burst with affection. “Thank you. Grandpa Sam,” she said around a knot in her throat.

  “What you doin’ today?”

  She told him about going to the museum to meet James. As she did, his gaze strayed across the street. Suddenly he muttered, “I’ll be damned. Quicker than flies after a dead horse.”

  Erica glanced over. A competing chief, this one short and plump, with a face like a Cherokee Buddha, was holding a toddler in his arms. He gave Sam a thumbs-up.

  “Copies me ‘cause he’s too dumb to think up things on his own,” Sam grumbled.

  Erica bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Do you do this every day?”

  The majestic war bonnet nodded solemnly. “Make good money at it, most days. Mainly do it ‘cause I like to keep busy and meet people.” He thumped his chest. “I’ve had my picture made with people from all over the world, and some of ’em write me letters when they get home. I’m on ten different postcards, too.” Sam cupped a hand beside his mouth and said in a low voice, “Don’t mention I said so, but Germans tip better than Americans.”

  Erica clasped her hands behind her back and asked casually, “Grandpa Sam, what does kamama mean?”

  “Hmmm. It means butterfly.”

  Erica gazed up at him in surprise. “If somebody called me a big butterfly, would it be a compliment?”

  He looked mischievous. “Yes. Who called you that?” When she shifted a little and smiled ruefully, he clucked his tongue. “That James,” Sam murmured. “He’s a caution.”

  Erica nodded, a dull lump in her stomach. Caution was the appropriate word.

  OUT OF THE corner of one eye Erica spotted James crossing the museum floor toward her. He was way laid by an elderly museum worker who apparently knew him. She squealed and grabbed his hand, then began to talk.

  The giant standing near Erica took that moment to speak to her for the first time. “Pardon me,” he said politely in a voice as deep as mountain thunder. “May I ask you a question?”

  Erica turned toward him, tilted her head far back, and looked at a rugged, attractive face topped by black hair. But it wasn’t Indian-black, and neither his features nor his coloring indicated any Cherokee blood. Her neck ached from looking up. Lord, he was seven feet tall. Was there some sort of magic-growth elixir around there?

  “Yes?”

  “I saw you in the bookstore talking to the cashier. Is she a friend of yours?”

  That was Echo. Hmmm. What did this black-haired Atlas want with James’s sister? “Yes, she’s a friend.”

  “Is she married?”

  “Uhmm, no.” Erica squinted at him shrewdly. There was a worldliness about his dark eyes that made her feel he was much more sophisticated than his questions made him sound. She glanced at his tan corduroy trousers, short-sleeved khaki safari shirt, and well-used hiking shoes.

  “Who are you, and why do you want to know about her?”

  He thought for a moment, then leaned close to her ear and murmured, “I noticed in the guest book that your name is Erica Gallatin. Do you have a relative named Tess?”

  Erica drew back in astonishment. “Yes.”

  “I’m a neighbor of hers. Drake Lancaster. Call her in California and check me out.”

  That sounded legitimate. Erica gestured vaguely around them. “But how—”

  “I work for the forestry service, and I’m based in Los Angeles. I’m doing some pollution research over in the Nantahala area, a few miles west of here.”

  “But how—”

  “I keep a sailboat at the marina where Tess lives. At Long Beach.”

  “Ah!” Well amazing as this coincidence was, he did know indisputable details about her cousin. Erica was still stunned, but she held out a hand. “Hello, then.”

  He shook gently so his large paw wouldn’t crush her fingers. “Now, about the cashier. I want to buy some books, and then I want her to go to lunch with me. Will you help me out?”

  Erica had been glancing at James, and she enjoyed the way he kept glancing at her and the giant. She took Drake Lancaster’s hand again. “If you’ll do me a favor I’ll introduce you to the cashier and tell her you’re a friend of my cousin’s.”

  His dark eyes gleamed with pleasure at the intrigue. “All right.”

  “Put your arm around me. Pretend we’re old pals from college. This won’t get you in trouble, I promise.”

  He smiled slowly. “That’s all right. Trouble doesn’t bother me.”

  He might have been shy, but he wasn’t awkward. Gracefully he slipped a massive arm around her waist and pulled her close to his side. “Just old friends?”

  “Right.” Erica smiled at James. He arched one brow but continued talking to the museum worker. She lifted a hand and waved casually. Drake Lancaster followed the direction. He smiled and nodded to James before looking down at her again. “Now what?”

  “You went to Georgia Tech. Studied … hmmm, biology. Yeah, that ties in with your job. I was a little sister in your fraternity—”

  “Whoa,” he said, chuckling. “When you make up an identity, keep it simple. It works better that way.”

  She looked at him quizzically, wondering how a biologist would have experience with such things. James’s appearance beside her made her forget that thought. Erica grinned at him and pointed to Drake. “An old college friend.”

  She patted Drake’s chest and smiled up at him. “I can’t believe it’s been so many years.”

  He squeezed her waist companionably. “We had some good times. I’ve never forgotten.”

  Lord, this man was a wonderful accomplice. Erica smiled at James, who was doing a good job of looking inscrutable.

  “Drake Lancaster, meet James Tall Wolf. James is helping me do some research on a relative of mine.”

  James shook the giant’s hand and smiled pleasantly at him. “You went to Georgia Tech with Erica?”

  “Sure did.”

  “He studied biology,” Erica chimed in. “And now he works for the forestry service.”

  James arched a brow. “Did you play football?”

  “Oh, yes,” Erica interjected. She looked up hopefully at Drake Lancaster.

  There was a hint of exasperation in his eyes, but he chuckled. “Sure did.”

  “What position?”

  Drake never missed a beat. “Defensive end.”

  “Hmmm. Well, glad to meet you.” James looked from Drake to her and smiled with a nonchalance that made her heart sink. He didn’t care if she knew a dozen giant, good-looking men. “Ready for lunch?”


  Erica shrugged. “Sure. But I want to introduce Drake to Echo first. Umm, Drake knows my cousin Tess, by the way. Tess, from California.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be waiting.” He shook Drake’s hand again, then sat down on a cushioned bench and yawned.

  Erica grimly led Drake Lancaster to the museum bookstore. “Thank you,” she told him. “You did all you could.”

  The bookstore was empty of customers; Echo had her back to the door, and she was rearranging books on a big display rack, one that rotated.

  Erica glanced at Drake Lancaster and was fascinated by the intense way he studied a woman to whom he hadn’t yet spoken. But of course Echo was beautiful, in addition to being six two and having an incredible mane of black hair. She wore deerskin ankle boots, soft cotton pants, and a ruffled blouse that made her look very feminine.

  Wonderfully feminine, but not delicate. Erica recalled that Echo, in her spare time, was a blacksmith.

  Echo grabbed the rotating rack, hoisted the whole thing off the floor and easily carried it to a spot in one corner. Drake Lancaster leaped forward to help her but arrived just as she plopped the rack into place.

  He grasped her elbow. “That was impressive,” he said with utter sincerity. “You must have strong hands.”

  Echo jumped, looked up, and simply stared at Drake in open-mouthed wonder. Erica stopped a few feet away and watched wistfully as an almost visible form of energy passed between the two of them.

  She sighed, thinking of James waiting for her in the museum without an ounce of jealousy or interest. Well, if she couldn’t find romance for herself, at least she’d find it for other people.

  “Echo,” she said softly, watching the hypnotized look in her eyes, “this gentleman wants to talk to you.”

  JAMES GUIDED HER to Grandpa Sam’s old pickup truck. He kept a benevolent silence as he drove along a pleasant, almost suburban street paralleled by a tree-shadowed river. He pointed to it. “Oconaluftee,” he noted.

  “Gesundheit.”

  He chuckled. They passed the ceremonial grounds, the tribal council house, and a small, neatly kept building that housed the Bureau of Indian Affairs. James cut across the river and turned down another road.