Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter
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2018—Cartridge Cove
That had gone well.
Walker threw his uncle, poised on the wide-planked step, an exasperated look. The council had hired a nut job in this Birchfield woman. The petite woman backed into an ivy-draped urn.
He steadied the urn, wobbling on the stone-columned pedestal, at the same instant the Birchfield woman had the same idea. As his hand mounded over hers, her eyes widened. She snatched her hand free.
Stung, he retreated a step.
Right. Add paranoid to the list. Prickly as . . .
She glared at him as if he was a serial killer. Her eyes as blue as . . . He gulped.
As blue as the April sky over the ridge of his farm this morning.
Shoes clattering down the staircase, Marvela Birchfield hurried out. “Honey, are you . . . ? I thought I heard . . .”
Her granddaughter crossed her arms, her face one big scowl at the object of her displeasure—him. Marvela’s gaze flicked between her granddaughter’s taut features and his.
The old woman looped a conciliatory arm around her granddaughter’s waist. “I see you’ve already introduced yourself to Walker Crowe, Linden.”
Linden? He frowned. “Like a tree?”
Her head tilted, the Tree jabbed her finger at him. “That’s Irene’s son? The one I’m supposed to—?”
“A linden tree? And Birchfield, too?”
He flushed. That sounded even more stupid out loud.
Marvela’s granddaughter bristled. “Yeah. So what?” Strands of light brown hair tumbled out of a clumsy attempt at a topknot on her head. “Linden Birchfield—a tree in a field of other trees. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
He’d know in the future to leave her name alone. This woman possessed enough emotional baggage to fill the cargo hold of a plane.
Ross cleared his throat. “Marvela?”
Marvela peered around Walker and gasped. She put her hand over her mouth.
Ross came level with them. He stopped inches from Marvela. “Still as beautiful as the day the Ford Modeling Agency snapped you up.”
Walker and Linden, relegated to outsider status, exchanged puzzled glances. He let his shoulders rise and drop in response to the unspoken query in Linden’s eyes.
Ross’s face softened. “Marvela the Marvelous as marvelous as ever.”
Marvela Birchfield glowed as pretty as the last rose of summer. She smiled, her eyes turning into half-moons. She clasped her hands in front of her. “And you’ve not changed a bit either, Ross Wachacha.”
It was Ross’s turn to pink. “You’re being gracious.” He touched a finger to the white hair above his ear Walker believed gave his uncle a distinguished, authoritative air. “Didn’t know if you’d remember—”
“Ross the Resolute.” Breathless, her eyes swept over his uncle’s weathered face. She touched his arm. “And I never forgot.”
Something passed in the air between his uncle and Marvela Birchfield.
Walker sighed, for the first time in a long while, feeling his aloneness.
Linden moved toward the door, breaking the spell in which their elders seemed mesmerized. “It’s getting cold out here.” She wrapped her bare arms around herself.
A hand over her heart, Marvela stepped into the interior of the house. “Where are my manners? Ross, Walker . . .” She gestured. “Come inside and let me fix coffee for everyone.”
Ross, as sure-footed as any mountain goat, stumbled across the threshold. Stumbled, probably because it was awful hard to walk and keep your eyes on a moving object like Marvela at the same time.
He reached out to steady his uncle. But Ross threw off his arm and surged after Marvela. Walker bit back a smile.
Old love? First love? He’d enjoy worming this story out of his uncle later.
He crossed into the spacious oak-floored foyer. Of Linden there was no sign. Marvela led the way into a Victorian nightmare of a parlor. At her insistence, he settled behind a mahogany coffee table onto a stiff pink silk settee. The springs and his backside groaned at the effort.
Ross eased into a chintz-covered easy chair. “Marvela, you’ve done wonders with this place.”
Walker took a moment to absorb the ambience. Trained to observe and absorb details at a glance, he noted the mantel with its hand-carved Cherokee Rose finials. The silver candlesticks. A Seth Thomas clock. The Tabriz carpet at his feet. Rosewood end tables.
Something the tourists would eat up.
Marvela craned her head in the direction of the foyer. “I don’t know where that girl has got to.” She shook her head. “This generation . . .”
Ross shot Walker a less-than-friendly look. “Self-absorbed—”
“Hey,” Walker protested. “I resent that remark.”
Ross arched his eyebrow. “You resemble that remark.”
Marvela laughed. “Sounds like my Linden and Walker will get on fine.”
Ross stroked his chin. “Like a forest on fire.”
Walker winced. “No need to bring the trees into it.”
A floorboard creaked. “What is it with you and trees?”
He jerked at the sound of Linden’s voice. She’d changed into more businesslike attire—navy blue slacks and a white linen blouse. The smudges of dirt erased from her face, she’d restored her hair to its uptight, updo.
Carrying a sheaf of folders, she plopped them onto the coffee table. “Excuse me, please.”
Blocked on the other side by Marvela and Ross, she scooted between him and the table. Too late, he realized he could’ve slid farther down and saved her the trouble.
A whiff of roses floated past his nostrils as she edged past. Like the old roses his now deceased grandmother had once grown in her front yard. The large, fragrant kind in keeping with this Victorian decor.
Marvela clapped her hands together. “Why don’t I make the coffee while you two get acquainted?”
Ross stood. “I’ll help.”
Marvela gave a cheery wave as they disappeared toward the back of the house. Linden inched away from him, leaving Walker feeling like a pariah.
Not the usual reaction he received from the ladies. He didn’t bite, after all. But if he did, Walker wouldn’t have touched Linden Birchfield with a ten-foot pole.
So not his type, if he had a type. Whatever her problem, nothing to do with him. He had his trees, his team, and his family. And no interest in the romantic complications, which came part and parcel with women—no matter their ethnic heritage.
He shot another surreptitious look in her direction. This lady, he sensed in his gut, was full of snaring entanglements.
Good thing, he’d sworn off women since Afghanistan.
She opened the folder and fanned out its contents.
He allowed himself one more sneak peek. A pretty woman. Petite like a ballerina. His gaze traveled from her eyes to the curve of her neck and back to the blue of her eyes.
Which narrowed.
“If you’re done sizing me up, I’d like to show you what the committee and I have planned.” A frown hollowed the space between her brows.
He chewed the inside of his cheek. Pretty, yeah, but that mouth of hers?
A woman,