Cherokee. Sheri WhiteFeather

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СКАЧАТЬ said a word. She didn’t accuse, and he didn’t apologize. They only stood, staring at each other. His graduation gift to her had been an impassioned promise, an ardent vow of sobriety, and that gift had just been shattered, along with Sarah’s eighteen-year-old heart.

      “We’re here.”

      Blinking, she turned to see Adam, not her father, watching her. “I’m sorry. What?”

      “The juice bar.”

      “Oh, of course.”

      Once inside, they ordered their drinks and sat across from each other in a small booth. Sarah fidgeted with her cup. Adam studied her, his gaze scanning the length of her hair.

      “Vicki told me that you’re originally from Tahlequah,” he said. “And that you’re registered with the Cherokee Nation.”

      She stiffened at the mention of her hometown and her heritage, her memories still too close to the edge. “Yes, I am. Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

      He nodded, his voice tinged with emotion. “I just found out that I was born in Tahlequah and that I’m part Cherokee, too. I know that sounds strange, but up until a little over a month ago, I had no idea that I was adopted.”

      Sarah released a heavy breath. He was born in Tahlequah? This gorgeous Californian? No wonder he reminded her of home.

      She didn’t want to discuss his newly discovered Cherokee roots, but after his personal admission, how could she just get up and walk away? The least she could do was give him a moment of her time, no matter how uncomfortable the subject made her.

      “You were adopted by a white family?” she asked.

      “Sort of,” he answered. “My father was English, but my mom was Spanish and Italian. I always figured 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.”

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