Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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, he got the distinct impression, who didn’t smile much. He wondered what it’d take to make her smile.

      Pondered what he could do to make those rosebud lips smile. He swallowed.

      She 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 СКАЧАТЬ