Cherokee. Sheri WhiteFeather
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my coloring had come from her. You know, all that Latin blood.” He glanced down at his drink, then back up. “My parents died when I was in college. They were killed in a plane crash.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Grief was something that still haunted her. She knew how it could destroy, claw its way into a person’s soul. And at this oddly quiet moment, Adam’s soul could have been her own. Their gazes were locked much too intimately.
Adam didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Everything around him had gone still. There was nothing. No one but the woman seated across from him. He wanted to touch her. Make the invisible connection between them more real.
Was it Sarah’s eyes that captivated him? Those dark, exotic-shaped eyes? Or was it her hair—the lush black curtain? Her skin was beautiful, too. Clear and smooth and the color of temptation.
Before Adam’s imagination took him further, he blinked away his last thought, breaking their stare. Sarah picked up her juice, and he sensed her uneasiness. Was the connection between them loneliness? Was she as alone as he felt? Within the span of a month, everything familiar in Adam’s world had changed. He’d moved, switched jobs and stumbled upon his adoption.
“I’ve been storing some things that belonged to my parents,” he said finally. “Mostly personal items, but there were two tall file cabinets from my dad’s office. They were filled with old business records, but I kept them anyway.” He glanced at Sarah’s slender hands, recalling the shock tied to his discovery, the way his own hands had shaken. “I moved recently. Not a major move, just to a place that’s closer to work. But since I was reorganizing and packing, it seemed like a good time to clean out those files.”
“You found something, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” He swallowed back the pain, the lump that had formed in his throat. “There was a document from an adoption agency. It was in a manila envelope with some old tax records. I guess that’s why I didn’t see it before.” He swallowed again, then released a heavy breath. “I discovered that I was born in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, to a Cherokee woman named Cynthia Youngwolf.” Leaning against the table, he searched Sarah’s eyes, hoping for a miracle. “Do you know anyone by that name?”
She shook her head. “Tahlequah is the Cherokee capital. There’s a large Indian population there. It would be impossible to know everyone.”
Adam’s heart sank. “I’ve been trying to find her, but nothing has panned out. First I checked with the Oklahoma phone directory, and then I placed some personal ads in newspapers. After that, I listed my name with one of those adoption search agencies.” He hoped his biological mother was looking for him, too. Looking for the son who had lost his adoptive parents.
Surely Cynthia Youngwolf wondered about him. What woman wouldn’t think about the child she had given up?
“This whole thing has been pretty overwhelming.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help,” Sarah said.
Adam studied her face, features that were strong yet delicate. Vulnerable yet proud. Were other Cherokee women as compelling?
What did his mother look like? And who was his father? Were they secret lovers? Too young to raise a child? He had questions, and no one but Cynthia Youngwolf could answer them.
And what about his parents? The ones who had raised him? Why hadn’t they told him that he was adopted?
He couldn’t control the turmoil, the jumbled emotions that left him feeling hurt and confused. Why had they lied to him, pretending he was their biological son? They’d had so many opportunities to tell him, especially during all that family counseling.
And what about the critical events leading up to the therapy? Were there subtle hints? Quiet innuendoes? Something, anything that marked the truth?
Yes, he thought, his heart striking his chest. There was.
Adam had been seventeen at the time, a tall, rangy boy with fire in his blood. And two weeks earlier, he’d gotten caught stealing a pint of whiskey from the local market, the place where his mother bought groceries.
Adam had lied, of course, insisting he’d swiped the liquor on a dare. Yet that hadn’t stopped his parents from cornering him, from trapping him with one of their mandatory talks. But why? He knew they hadn’t found the other bottle, the one he kept hidden in the trunk of his car.
“We picked up some literature,” his father said.
Slumped on the couch, Adam glanced up at his dad. His mother sat in nearby chair, twisting the tassel on one of the pillows she’d embroidered. His dad was tense, and his mom was jittery and fretful. Things didn’t look good.
“Literature?”
Ronald Paige nodded, a quick, hard jerk of his head. “About alcoholism.”
Irritated, he righted his posture. “And what’s that got to do with me?”
“You drink, Adam. You drink a lot.”
“That’s bull.” He dragged a hand through his hair and ground a booted heel into the carpet. “I party on the weekends once in a while. That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it. You’re addicted. All the signs are there.”
All the signs are where? he wondered. In some stupid brochure his parents had latched onto? “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this.” When he stood, he topped his father by several inches. “You guys are freaking out. Making something out of nothing.”
“And you’re out of control. You don’t even seem like our son anymore.”
“Really? Well maybe I wished I wasn’t. All you ever do is hassle me.” Turning to leave, he caught sight of the look that passed between his parents. A look that said something secretive, something he couldn’t quite name.
Shrugging it off, he slammed the front door and headed for his car, grateful the whiskey was still there.
A horn honked and Adam jolted, realizing where he was. He sat in the juice bar, staring blindly out a window. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. He had come a long way since his bout with the bottle, and, up until their untimely death, his parents had remained by his side. The loving, supportive family that had kept his adoption a secret. None of it made sense.
He turned to face Sarah, hoping she could help him unscramble this puzzle. “Do you still have family in Tahlequah? Will you ask them if they’ve ever heard of Cynthia Youngwolf?”
Her eyes shifted focus. Instead of meeting his gaze, she studied her drink, her tone distant. “My family…my father doesn’t live in Tahlequah anymore. He’s in another part of Oklahoma now.”
“I see,” Adam responded, although he didn’t. All she would have to do was ask her father about a name, yet she appeared reluctant to do so. Why? he wondered. Why wouldn’t she make one simple phone call? And why had her shoulders tensed throughout portions of their conversation?
One minute he saw attraction in her eyes, the next detachment. Warm. Aloof. Gentle. Afraid. She appeared to be all of those things. And that made him want to touch her even more, reach for her hand and hold it. This woman, he thought, this dark-eyed mystery, was connected to his birthplace, a heritage he knew nothing about.
The Cherokee books he’d purchased helped, but they weren’t enough. Reading didn’t combat the loneliness. He needed more than just words on a page.
He needed human contact.
He needed Sarah.
Adam started. He needed a woman he’d just met? Was he losing his mind? The last of his sanity?
No, he thought. He wasn’t crazy. A woman born in Tahlequah, a stunning Cherokee with dark eyes and long, flowing hair. He couldn’t have dreamed her if he’d tried. Sarah was the answer he had been waiting for.
She