Beyond the Cherokee Trail. Lisa Carter

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СКАЧАТЬ an unhealthy shade of red. His eyes watered.

      Ross set aside his cup and started to his feet.

      For pity’s sake.

      “Here,” Linden handed Walker a napkin. “Arms up,” she commanded. “Over your head. Did your mama never teach you what to do when you’re choking?”

      She hauled him to his feet. “Don’t make me do the Heimlich on you.”

      Confusion, humiliation, and distress crisscrossed his stoic features, but she used the voice her dad utilized with first-year med students. And the six-foot plus Cherokee obeyed, coughing and towering over her. He shoved his long arms toward the ceiling like a teller in a bank holdup. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist above his jeans.

      Her mind wandered for a second, illogically wondering what it’d be like to wrap her arms around his sturdy frame—and from her up close and personal vantage point—well-defined middle.

      Marvela thrust a glass of water in Walker’s hand. “My son, Linden’s dad, teaches at the hospital in Chapel Hill.” She squeezed Linden’s shoulder. “Guess you absorbed something over the years, huh?”

      Wrinkling her forehead, Linden sniffed the air. “Gram? What’s that smell—are you frying chicken?”

      Marvela clamped a hand over her mouth. “Ross.”

      Again with the r-r-r-r’s?

      Ross sprinted out of the parlor with Marvela hot on his heels.

      “It’s my contribution to the Indian dinner being held at the church tonight,” Marvela called over her shoulder.

      Walker gulped down three-quarters of the water.

      Between the rattling of pans in the kitchen and Walker’s noisy attempts to regain his composure, Linden wrung her hands. “Do you need my help, Gram?”

      “No,” bellowed Marvela from the kitchen. “Ross and I have it under control. Just in time . . .”

      “What’s an . . .” Linden lowered the decibel of her voice and faced Walker dabbing at his eyes with the mauve-colored napkin. “What’s an Indian dinner?”

      He set the glass on the table with a ping. “Lesson number one.” He scowled.

      Good to know the belligerence as well as his dignity had been restored.

      “An Indian dinner sells plates of food to the public to raise money for hospital bills, pay for local team uniforms, or to support the volunteer Cartridge Cove Fire Department. This one’s put on by the church your grandmother, my mother, Irene Crowe, and I attend.”

      She quirked an eyebrow. “You attend church?”

      A comment that earned her another scowl.

      “You don’t?”

      Two could play this porcupine game.

      “Not if I can help it.”

      He set his jaw. “Like I said, if you want to understand the Cherokee you’ve got to understand their heart. And a large part of their Snowbird heart revolves around community and church. It might just behoove you, Miz Birchfield,” he drawled. “To join your grandmother tonight for a worthy cause and get to know some of the people you’re supposed to be serving.”

      She pushed back her shoulders. “Well, maybe I will, but not because you think you can boss me around. You’re not the boss of me, Walker Crowe. Nobody is.”

      He threw the napkin on the table as Marvela and Ross rejoined them. “Which, I suspect, lies at the heart of your personal problems.”

      Walker wheeled past his uncle. “I should’ve already picked up Emmaline by now.”

      So he’d assigned a field trip for her—a church field trip from the sounds of it—while Snowbird’s gift to womankind gallivanted all over the county with a date? She hadn’t realized it was possible for someone’s blood to boil as hers did now. She’d have to remember to ask her dad about it later.

      Ross stared between the two of them. “So soon?”

      Marvela laid a restraining arm on Ross’s shoulder. “Can’t we—?”

      Linden sidestepped Ross and Marvela, beating Walker to the entrance. She swung the front door wide. “Best be on your way. Wouldn’t want Mr. Crowe to miss his . . .” She jutted her jaw. “His . . . appointment.”

      Chapter 6

      6

      Mid-January 1838

      Miss Hopkins! Slow down, I beg you.”

      Sarah Jane swiveled in the saddle. She peered over her shoulder at Pierce who clutched his hat atop his head with one hand and held the reins in a death grip with the other.

      Clicking her tongue against her teeth, she eased the mare to a gentler pace, allowing Pierce time to catch up. “Papa said to hurry. The children seemed sure their mother was in a desperate way.”

      He blew out a breath, which hung like fog in the crisp winter air. “Most improper it is, I fear, Miss Hopkins, for us to be out riding unchaperoned.” He fell in alongside Sarah.

      She leaned over and plucked an errant pine needle from the curls at his ear. “Things are different here, Pierce. It’s not New England. Same rules don’t apply. We do what we have to do. And Papa already had his hands full with Mrs. Corn Tassel’s baby on the way, too.”

      At the word, “baby,” he flushed as scarlet as the cardinal cheer-cheer-ing over their heads on a branch of a tulip poplar. “Again, Miss Hopkins, most irregular and inappropriate for a young lady such as yourself . . .”

      He swallowed. “A maiden lady to witness, much less participate—” The red patches on his windblown cheeks deepened.

      She tried not to laugh as he realized his own unfortunate choice of words.

      He floundered. “I mean, assist in such a delicate matter as—”

      “Cows and horses.”

      She dug her heels into the mare’s side and motioned him to follow.

      “I beg your pardon, Miss Hopkins?”

      One look at his dear, befuddled face, and she surrendered to the impulse to laugh this time. “In these parts, my papa’s often called upon to tend livestock as well.”

      “But-but he’s a medical practitioner. Of humans.”

      She rocked in rhythm with her horse, glad she’d worn her serviceable if ratty jacket over her striped, wool homespun on this brisk ride into the hills. “He does whatever it takes to get his foot in the cabin door. If he manages to bring their only source of milk unscathed through the birthing process—”

      His eyebrows ascended almost to his hairline. “Miss Hopkins.”

      “The СКАЧАТЬ