Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter
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handed him a paper. “I’ve created ads for various media outlets, print, online, and television.”
He leaned forward to get a better look-see.
“Area churches are coordinating the gospel singing. The Jaycees are handling the kickoff parade. Local artisans are renting vendor booths. I’m coordinating my efforts with Dr. Sawyer and the grand opening of the Trail of Tears Interpretive Center—”
His knee brushed against her leg.
She stopped. Her fingers fondled the silver locket at her throat. Silence ticked between them.
His heart thudded, and he searched desperately for something—anything—to say to this sophisticated career woman who stirred his senses. She stared at him, as if waiting.
Waiting for what?
His gaze locked onto hers. And something flickered in her sky blue eyes. His pulse rocketed.
If the cool Linden Birchfield could affect him so, maybe his mom was right. Maybe it was time to get out more.
Time to find a nice, Christian Cherokee girl. Farm the land. Have kids of his own . . .
“Are you listening to me, Mr. Crowe?”
“Uh-huh . . .”
Gulping, he dragged his eyes away from her accusing ones.
Keep it cool, Crowe. Businesslike.
He took a breath. “You’ve accomplished a lot. How long have you been in town?”
Better.
She shuffled some papers. “Just a week, but I’ve been working with the committee via email since January.” Lining up the edges of the papers, she rapped them against the table, straightened a few unruly corners and racked them together again.
Her slim piano fingers seemed incapable of remaining motionless. He wondered if he made her as nervous as she made him. Though why the high-strung city lady . . .
Get a grip, he scolded.
Army specialists didn’t—shouldn’t—get intimidated. And certainly not by some slip of a woman, no bigger than one of the willow trees down by Singing Creek. But the correlation of the graceful, bending trees and Linden Birchfield wouldn’t leave his mind. His gaze flitted to her hands again.
Ringless fingers . . .
“The quilt patterns will be painted onto wooden blocks and installed on the barns, which meander along the historic Cherokee Trail. Other quilt barn trails around the Blue Ridge Parkway have proven to be a draw for tourists.” Her mouth pursed. “Your mother’s selected patterns with definite Cherokee significance, but some of the barn owners are proving difficult to convince.”
Remembering his own opposition to the festival, he clenched his fists. “’Cause giving up their privacy and splendid isolation isn’t worth the tourist invasion.”
“Hardly an invasion. I’ve seen the numbers, Mr. Crowe.” She made an expansive gesture. “Cartridge Cove. Western North Carolina. The high unemployment. I’ve been up the road to see what Cherokee town offers. Tourists are the bread and butter of your entire tribe.”
She slammed the folder shut. “So what exactly is your problem? It’s not like anyone’s asked you to paint your barn.”
He gritted his teeth. “My problem is you have no idea what you’re unleashing upon this town. You do your work, get paid, and then leave. The rest of us have to live with the changes you bring.”
She leaned into his space. “I’ve done my research, Mr. Crowe.”
He broadened his chest. “Head knowledge. You don’t understand a thing about The People, Miz Birchfield.”
“Is that what this is about?” She jabbed a finger. “Reverse discrimination because I’m not Native American?”
“Cherokee.”
“What?”
He pointed to her and then to himself. “You and I both are native Americans. As is anyone born on U.S. soil. We prefer non-Indians call us American Indian or even better, by our tribe affiliation—Navajo, Lumbee, Cherokee.”
Walker mirrored her body language, inches from her face. “Just one example of what you don’t understand.” He shook his head. “Not discrimination.”
Her eyes flitted to the swishing motion of his ponytail. Her lips parted.
Walker’s heart jackhammered at the blue flicker in the depths of her orbs.
Exhaling, she raised both hands, palms up. “I need this account, Mr. Crowe. The Snowbird Cherokee need this festival. Sure, it’s about revenue, but it’s also about restoring a lost heritage. A symbolic reunification of the tribes separated by an inhumane event.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I don’t understand your people, but I’d like to. I want to do the best job I can and represent your people and my clients the best way I’m able.”
She turned those eyes of blue sky on him. “You could help me to understand. I’m willing to learn if you’ll show me.” She angled her knees toward him.
“And,” she whispered. “It’s Miss Birchfield, not Ms.”
His mouth went dry. Walker broke eye contact and scanned the empty foyer. Where were his uncle and Marvela Birchfield with the coffee?
Linden placed her hand on top of his on the settee. “Would you help me?”
The scent of roses wafted around him. Reminding him of his grandmother?
Not.
Was it hot in here? He tugged at the collar of his shirt. Or was it just him?
Linden moistened her lips. “Would you help me to understand what it means to be Cherokee?”
Good thing he’d sworn off women. Especially uppity, wound too-tight, non-Indian women.
She reclined against the silk upholstery and crossed her ankles. “You’re not afraid for some reason, are you?”
His eyes jerked to her face. She cocked her head and smiled.
Perfect, white teeth. He’d have expected no less with her Birchfield blood.
“I’m not afraid of anything.” Or you, he added to himself.
A strange, sad look clouded her eyes. Her lips quivered. “How fortunate for you.”
She stirred and donned the aloof, brittle smile she wore like a cloak. She extended a hand. “Do we have a deal? Will you help me?”
He gripped her hand, and they shook on it. But he did so against his better judgment. And with a sudden lurch of his stomach, he wondered what he—Mr. Noncommitment—had gotten himself into.
***
Linden’s fingers tingled as his hand clasped hers. This was about the job, she reminded herself. And second chances. Her professional future depended on this festival being an outstanding success and enhancing her portfolio.
The pleasing aroma emanating from the man teased her senses. A clean scent she couldn’t identify. Something that reminded her of . . . Christmas?
“Well,” Marvela swept in. Two steps behind, Ross carried a mahogany tray with coffee cups and a silver pot. “It looks like the children are playing nicely together after all, Ross.”
Her hand still gripped Walker’s. Or was it the other way around?
She blushed.
He dropped her hand. And his eyes to the toe of his dark leather boot. “What took you so long?” he growled.
“Well-mannered, too, this generation.” Ross set the tray down. “I apologize on behalf of my nephew. Holed up in his mountain