Christmas On Snowbird Mountain
Fay Robinson
Susannah Pelton is a woman alone, a woman who's lost everyone she loves and has become wary of entanglements. Ryan Whitepath is a Cherokee, member of a close family and a vibrant community, a man who cares about his little girl, Nia, above all else.Because of her mother's death, Nia is emotionally ill, but Ryan's grandmother tells him a redbird with a broken wing will heal his daughter. Ryan dismisses her vision–until redheaded Susannah shows up on their North Carolina mountain with her wrist in a cast.Nia seems to connect with Susannah, who agrees to stay until Christmas. But Ryan wants to change that to forever–for his own reasons as well as Nia's!
A young girl with huge brown eyes was staring up at her
“Hi,” Susannah said.
The girl pointed to the cast that protruded from the left sleeve of Susannah’s sweater. “Did you hurt your arm?”
“I broke my wrist.”
“Does it hurt?” the child asked.
“Not so much now, but it did in the beginning. The doctor put this on to make it better.” The girl kept staring at it, seemingly fascinated. “Would you like to see?”
She nodded, and Susannah pushed up her sweater. The cast covered her hand, except for her fingers and thumb, and went up to just below her elbow.
“How come you don’t got any of your friends’ names on it?”
“Well, that’s a very good question. Do you think you could do it for me?”
Her eyes lit up. “Uh-huh. I even got a marker.” Hastily she took off her backpack and rummaged around until she came up with two. She slowly and carefully wrote the name Nia in black. Instead of dotting the i she drew a red heart.
“How beautiful,” Sussannah said. “Thank you.”
Nia looked quickly over her shoulder, as if realizing she’d strayed too far from the person who’d brought her. “I got to go.”
“Are you here with your mother?”
“My daddy. My mama’s dead.”
Dear Reader,
I wish you and your family a wonderful holiday. I’m so pleased this month to bring you my first Christmas book. I had great fun researching, particularly the customs and history of the Cherokee in western North Carolina. The mountains are spectacular, the people warm and generous.
My story is about Ryan Whitepath, a Cherokee and talented artist…and Susannah Pelton, a woman who has lost everyone she loves. I hope you’ll enjoy the Cherokee legends in this book, the language and the love story. I think Ryan’s “Nana” will tickle you, and his little daughter, Nia, will steal your heart.
Happy reading—and Merry Christmas!
Fay Robinson
P.S. Write me at fayrobinson@mindspring.com. To learn more about the research behind this book, please visit my Web site at www.fayrobinson.com. Or come chat with me at www.eHarlequin.com.
Christmas on Snowbird Mountain
Fay Robinson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my mother…who was fearless.
And for Sherry, Brenda, Jackie and all the other good sons and daughters taking care of elderly parents.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to send my appreciation to the people of Graham County, North Carolina, the city of Robbinsville and the community of Snowbird for their hospitality and willingness to answer my questions. I also found the following works valuable in my research: Snowbird Cherokees: People of Persistence by Sharlotte Neely, The University of Georgia Press; Meditations with the Cherokee: Prayers, Songs, and Stories of Healing and Harmony by J. T. Garrett of the Eastern Band of the Cherokee, Bear and Company; Medicine of the Cherokee: The Way of Right Relationship by J. T. Garrett and Michael Tlanusta Garrett of the Eastern Band of the Cherokee, Bear and Company; Another Country: Journeying Toward the Cherokee Mountains by Christopher Camuto, The University of Georgia Press; Aunt Mary Told Me a Story: A Collection of Cherokee Legends and Tales as told by Mary Ulmer Chiltoskey, edited and compiled by Mary Regina Ulmer Galloway, North Carolina Publications; Cherokee Plants: Their Uses—A 400 Year History by Paul B. Hamel and Mary U. Chiltoskey, Cherokee Publications; Cherokee Cooklore by Mary and Goingback Chiltoskey, Cherokee Publications; Walk in My Soul by Lucia St. Clair Robson, Ballantine Books; Beginning Cherokee by Ruth Bradley Holmes and Betty Sharp Smith, University of Oklahoma Press; Celebrate the Solstice: Honoring the Earth’s Seasonal Rhythms Through Festival and Ceremony by Richard Heinberg, Quest Books; The Winter Solstice: The Sacred Traditions of Christmas by John Matthews, Quest Books; The Encyclopedia of Mosaic Techniques by Emma Biggs, Running Press; Mosaics by Kaffe Fassett and Candace Bahouth, The Taunton Press; Working with Tile by Jim Barrett, Creative Homeowner; Decorating with Tile by Margaret Sabo Wills, Creative Homeowner and Setting Tile by Michael Byrne, The Taunton Press.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Fayetteville, West Virginia
Late October
SUSANNAH LOOKED DOWN into New River Gorge at the rapids nearly nine hundred feet below. Understanding why Native Americans had once called this the River of Death was easy. Even if you miraculously survived a fall here, you’d die on the boulders that dotted the banks, or face the possibility of being swept away in the cold, rushing water.
In the past twenty-three years, two men had drowned after jumps from the steel-spanned bridge where Susannah stood waiting to leap. A third had died when his pilot chute failed to open properly.
“Are you scared?” the older woman in front of her asked. Kay was her name. They’d met at last night’s party and agreed to give each other moral support. Like Susannah, Kay was a first-timer.
“I’m a little uneasy,” Susannah admitted, “but excited, too.”
As far as jumps went, this wasn’t one of the worst. Another plus was that it was legal—at least for the next six hours during the annual Bridge Day event. Many other BASE jumps from natural and man-made structures had been outlawed in the U.S. The acronym stood for Building, Antenna, Span and Earth. Bridges and cliffs were two of the most popular places for take-offs.
But Susannah accepted the fact that, sanctioned by the National Park Service or not, flinging her body off a fixed object and plummeting toward the earth at more than forty miles an hour was dangerous, much more so than skydiving, another sport she’d taken up in the past year. The low altitude left little room for the deployment of a reserve chute if her main one failed. Her canopy or lines could also become tangled in the structure.
Even now rescue workers, or “trolls” as they’d been nicknamed, were below on the bridge supports, dangling like spiders from rappelling ropes.
Susannah wasn’t worried so much about hitting a beam as she was overcoming the hazards of the landing. The designated area on the right shore was only a few meters wide, wooded and strewn with rocks.
She’d trained to land safely in wet places and water, her maneuvering skills were good and boats were positioned below to help if needed, but she remained a weak swimmer despite classes. A boat wasn’t much help if you couldn’t keep your head above water long enough for it to get to you.
The river was freezing and swollen from a week of hard rains, and setting down in it today was Susannah’s option of last resort.
But she had to go through with this regardless of the danger, or rather because of the danger. During the nine years she’d taken care of her sick mother, she’d forgotten what it meant to feel carefree or excited. She certainly hadn’t done anything adventurous.
“A good daughter.” That was what the nurses had called her. Reliable. Sensible. Responsible. She was all those things and proud of it.
Alzheimer’s, though, destroyed not only the patients but the people who loved them. That was what it had done to Susannah, devastated her emotionally. And now that her mother was gone, she felt a longing to be less reliable, less sensible and responsible. To be less everything, or at least different from the dull, unimaginative person she’d grown into.
She had the opportunity to live a different life and take chances—like with this jump—and she intended to do it.
If she chickened out, she might as well go back to the bleak existence she’d had until eighteen months ago, when her mother had died.
The new-and-improved Susannah wouldn’t lose her nerve. This person took risks. This person no longer had to worry about being suffocated by responsibility. Her new approach to life was simple: see everything, experience everything and never forget that each day might be her last.
She’d sold the house and quit her job as an office manager for a law firm in Waycross, Georgia. Anything that wouldn’t fit under the camper shell of her new pickup truck she’d given away or taken to the Salvation Army.
In no particular order, she’d committed her desires to paper. Her Life List, as she called it, was a blueprint for happiness and fulfillment.
While the items changed and the list continued to grow, so far she’d gone for a dip with dolphins, run a marathon, raised money to protect the endangered black rhino, belly danced, helped Habitat For Humanity build a house for a low-income family and visited the capitals of thirteen states. Thirty-seven more to go.
She’d confronted her fear of heights by taking skydiving lessons, and said goodbye to a lifetime of claustrophobia by going on a three-day caving trip with a group of experienced spelunkers.
Growing her short auburn hair to her waist would take more time; so far, it had only reached her chin. And some of the things she dreamed of accomplishing—like performing in a ballet and being the star of a movie—were perhaps a bit too ambitious, but she wasn’t discounting any possibility.
If she didn’t at least try, she’d certainly never eat real French onion soup in Paris or dance the tango in Brazil. She’d never have wild, uninhibited sex with a handsome stranger.
The line moved forward more quickly than Susannah expected, bringing her focus back to this item on her list. She was among three hundred people awarded slots to jump today. The weather was fair and no one had experienced any problems yet. Soon it would be Susannah’s turn.
Kay mumbled over her shoulder, “I don’t think I can do this.”
“If you don’t, you’ll lose your entry fee and the couple hundred more you spent on the adaptive rigging.”
“Money I can replace,” Kay told her. “My life I can’t.”
“Very true, and I don’t want to push you into doing this if you’re afraid, but you told me last night that you’ve been planning this for months and asked me to give you a nudge if you backed out. Didn’t you say you begged your family to let you come?”
“Yes.”
“If you don’t follow through, how would you face them?”
“I’d face them just fine. My husband would be relieved. He said I was crazy when I took up skydiving last year, but when I told him I wanted to try this—” she snorted “—he said I’d gone completely nuts. I’m beginning to believe he’s right.” Nervousness had her chewing her fingernails. “What insanity made you sign up?”
“I watched a TV program one night where BASE jumping was featured. The idea of it terrified me, so I knew I had to do it—you know, to prove I could.”
“You are insane.”
“Probably so, since I’m afraid of heights and I can’t swim.”
“But you skydive. How can you do that if you’re afraid of heights?”
“I don’t know. I just force myself. I figure going ahead while being scared is better than hiding from the fear.”
Kay looked over the side and grimaced. “Hiding is starting to sound pretty good to me right now. This seems a whole lot scarier than skydiving.”
“But that’s the whole point, to do something a little off-the-wall, even if it’s scary. If you weren’t here, what else would you be doing?”
“I’d probably be raking leaves or cleaning house.”
“I bet this’ll be more fun.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Kay nodded, seemingly reassured, but when it came time for her to jump, she balked. “I can’t,” she said, scrambling down off the exit platform.
Some of the hundred thousand spectators around them began to boo.
“Come on,” Susannah urged. “You said you wanted to add adventure to your dull life. Here’s your chance.”
“I know, but I was wrong. The truth is, I love my life. I have a great husband and two kids who need me and think I’m perfect. So what if I’m nearly forty, overweight and the most exciting thing I do all week is laundry? I can live with that.” She squeezed Susannah’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” And she truly did. Kay had her family to think about. Susannah no longer had family, or anyone who mattered. She especially didn’t have anyone who thought her perfect.
She’d been the only child of elderly parents, now both dead along with both sets of her grandparents. Her friends had all drifted away when her mother’s Alzheimer’s worsened and her behavior had become more bizarre.
Even Andrew, the man she’d planned to spend the rest of her life with, had abandoned her when she needed him most. He’d been unable to cope with having his needs placed behind those of a sick person.
At twenty-eight, Susannah was alone in the world. If she died today, not a soul would care except this woman from Arkansas whose last name she didn’t even know.
The crowd started to chant, urging Susannah into action. “Jump…jump…jump.”
The official controlling the line gave her a hard look. “Are you going or not?”
“Yes, I’m going.”
She climbed the platform straddling the bridge rails and visualized what she had to do once she took off. By arching her body and pointing her hips at the horizon, she could stay upright until the wind turned her naturally into a face-to-earth position. Two seconds into the freefall, she’d reach to the small of her back and grab her pilot chute, tossing it toward the sky.
If everything went right, the chute would unfurl and she’d feel the reassuring tug upward, when the canopy fills. And if it didn’t, she’d be seven seconds away from death.
“Hey,” she called out to Kay. “What’s your last name?”
“Murphy. Yours?”
“Pelton.”
“I enjoyed meeting you, Kay Murphy.”
“Same here, Susannah Pelton. Have a great life.”
“I plan to.”
Susannah took a deep breath to shore up her resolve, and with three running steps, launched herself into the air.
Sitting Dog, North Carolina
One week later
THE ONLY SOUNDS in the forest were the faint chattering of the birds as they foraged for seeds and the crunch of Ryan Whitepath’s boots in the snow.
He could have driven the four miles to the school bus stop to get Nia, but he preferred the half-mile shortcut down the mountain, where he could free his mind from the projects he had to finish this week.
Work was going well. Professionally and financially he was successful. He had more commissions than he could handle and three upcoming gallery shows featuring his handcrafted tiles and display mosaics. But the obligations of his career were keeping him inside too much lately, and his personal life had gone to hell.
Disconnected was a good description of how he felt. His once-strong connection with the earth, which had always brought him peace and was the very foundation of his art, had experienced a short circuit over the past year. He needed to restore it before his creativity suffered.
He missed the feel of the wind on his face and the way it carried the faint smell of wood smoke on a brisk day. He missed witnessing the change of seasons up close, the brilliance of fall fading to the gray of winter, then the revival of color in the spring and summer.
All this land, as far as he could see across the Snowbird and Unicoi ranges, had once been the home of the Ani Yunwiya, the Principal People, but the nine hundred acres his family owned now had come to them only fifty years ago.
His father had taught him about the mountains as a boy, the places where the deer wallow and the wild boar root, where caves exist that can hide a man forever and wild berries grow in such abundance that you never have to worry about hunger.
Such secrets, gifts from parent to child for countless generations, were bonds to Elohi, Mother Earth, the Center. Ryan had neglected his obligation to pass along what he had learned to his daughter. Perhaps she felt disconnected, as well, and that was part of her problem.
She wouldn’t like that he hadn’t brought the truck, but maybe on the walk home they’d see wild turkeys or the pair of comical mink that had taken up residence near the stream, and it would make her smile. So little did these days.
The death of her mother from pancreatic cancer last March had been hard on the six-year-old, even though Nia had never lived with Carla nor visited her in London more than a handful of times.
Nia was experiencing what the therapist called Separation Anxiety Disorder. She’d lost one parent. Now she was afraid of losing the other.
Ryan had tried explaining about the eternity of the soul, that it’s alive before it goes into the body and remains alive after it leaves, but she was too young to fully understand. So he’d sent her to psychologists to help her deal with the grief. After three months of meetings with one and then four months with a second, he couldn’t see much progress. Nia remained confused and unhappy.
His vibrant, outgoing daughter was gone. In her place was a quiet child who cried for no reason and didn’t want to be alone, sleep or even go to school.
The doctor had suggested trying drug therapy after Christmas to control the anxiety attacks that had begun in the last month, but the thought frightened him. Nia was only a baby. Medications carried risks, especially in someone so young.
He didn’t know what to do. His grandmother counseled patience. She believed something besides Carla’s death was bothering Nia.
Nana Sipsey had taken of the sacred tobacco one night and had a vision: a redbird with a broken wing would heal his child’s heart and, in so doing, heal itself.
Ryan hadn’t voiced his skepticism, but it existed. His grandmother came from a long line of healers of the Ani Wodi, the Red Paint Clan. He trusted her knowledge of medicines for simple cures of headaches, colds and such.
Accepting prophecy was difficult for him, though, especially when something as important as the emotional stability of his daughter was at stake.
Ahead, John Taylor’s Trading Post came into view. The school bus pulled up outside just as Ryan left the woods.
This short stretch of road was the heart of Sitting Dog. A gas station-grocery store, an activities center and a volunteer fire station were the only buildings, but the eighty-four residents could find just about anything they needed, from tools to eggs, without driving the twenty miles to Robbinsville.
Their small community didn’t have a McDonald’s or a Blockbuster, but the store had videos for rent and its lunch counter served food that appealed to both Indians and whites.
A bank would be nice, but people who worked over on the reservation, Qualla Boundary, fifty miles to the northeast, took care of check cashing and deposits before driving home.
“Sa Sa,” he called out, and Nia turned. She’d gotten off the bus with two friends who lived nearby, Iva Williams and Mary Throwing Stick. “Hi, girls,” he said as he walked up. “How was school?”
Mary answered for them. “Buddy Henderson brought his tonsils in a jar and made Iva sick. It was so gross.”
“I didn’t puke, though,” Iva said proudly.
Ryan tried not to laugh, but it was impossible. “I’m glad to hear it.” He pulled Mary’s braid. “You didn’t puke on anybody, did you, Pretty Miss Mary?”
She giggled and wrinkled her nose. “Uh-uh.”
“Nia, how was your day?”
Nia shrugged and didn’t say anything. Ryan didn’t press. Simply getting her to go to school this morning had been a triumph. He was thankful she’d made it through the day without coming down with one of her stomachaches or headaches.
“How’s your dog?” Ryan asked Mary. “Did she have her puppies yet?”
“Six of them. All black. Can Nia come by for a minute and see them?”
“Maybe another day.” Darkness would fall soon and he still needed to recheck a couple of measurements at the activities center before the trek home. Workers were building an addition to use as a child care center and small library. Ryan had promised to complete a wall mosaic in time for the reopening, during the Christian holiday next month, and he was sorely behind. “I’ll bring Nia to visit this weekend, Mary. We have chores to do right now.”
“Can she come to my slumber party on Saturday? Iva’s coming. And Tracie. And Kimberly. And…” She rattled off the names of ten or more little girls in their class. They were going to make banana splits and play games, she added with excitement.
Nia didn’t jump in and beg to go, so Ryan hedged. “We’ll see. Her grandmother might have other plans for her. She can let you know tomorrow.”
The girls’ mothers arrived to drive them home, and Nia finally spoke, telling her friends goodbye.
Once they were alone, Ryan tried to talk to her about her reluctance to attend the sleep-over party. “Sounds like a lot of fun, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“You like Mary. And all your friends will be there. Don’t you want to go?”
“I want to stay home with you.”
Ryan didn’t push it. When she didn’t want to do something, no amount of cajoling would work. She was like her mother in that respect. In the few months he’d dated Carla, he’d learned two things: to let her have her way and to leave her alone when she curled up inside herself.
“I need to go into the center for a few minutes,” he told Nia. “Do you want to come with me or wait in John Taylor’s where it’s warmer? You can buy some paper to practice your writing.”
The buildings were adjacent. She’d be safe in the trading post among his neighbors. And it would be good for her to go in by herself.
“Can I go with you?” she asked.
“The heat’s turned down, since there aren’t any activities today. You’d be cold.”
She looked around. “Can’t I stay in the truck?”
“I came down the trail today.”
“We got to walk in the snow?”
“Walking is good for you, and the snow’s not deep. Besides, I told your grandmother and Nana Sipsey I’d see if I could find some possum wood grapes for a pie. You can help me pick them.”
“But…the dark might get us. Or we could get lost.”
“We’ll be home by nightfall.” His answer didn’t seem to reassure her. He knelt down. “Hey, I’d never let anything hurt you. I know every inch of these woods.”
“What if we meet a bear?”
“Mr. Bear is probably sleeping right now. He’s snoring in his cave.”
“But he could hear us and wake up.”
“I’ll wrestle him if he does.”
“He might bite you.”
“I’ll bite him back.”
She smiled a tiny bit. “Oh, Daddy.”
“Will you go into the store? Show Daddy what a big girl you are and buy the paper yourself.”
“I’m scared to.”
“Remember what Dr. Thompson said. When something scares you, ask yourself why. What do you think’s in there that can hurt you?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug.
“You’ve known John Taylor and his wife since you were a little baby, and you’ve been in the store hundreds of times. Nothing in there will hurt you.”
“You come, too.”
“You can do it by yourself.”
Her frightened little face almost made him cave in.
“Will you try, sweetheart?”
She nodded.
He walked her to the front door and gave her money, enough to buy some gum and a pad of paper.
“Stay inside. Don’t leave the building for any reason. I’ll come for you in a few minutes. I promise everything will be okay.”
He said a silent prayer as she let go of his hand and went into the store alone.
CHAPTER TWO
SUSANNAH PARKED the truck at the pumps, filled the tank and checked the tires. This area here was beautiful, like a Christmas card scene. Snow frosted the branches of the trees and a blue mist veiled the mountains in the distance, making them seem painted.
Despite the beauty, driving the winding roads in icy conditions had made her tense. She was tired and hungry and her thermos was empty. A cup of hot coffee and a sandwich would be heaven. She also needed to get directions to see how far she was from Sitting Dog and the studio of the artist she wanted to talk to. She hoped he gave lessons. If he’d work with her, she might be able to mark another item off her list.
First, though, she had to find a place to stay for the night. When possible, and to save money, she stopped at RV parks and slept on the truck seat or used her sleeping bag in the back, under the camper. Tonight would be too cold for that. She’d have to squeeze money out of her tight budget for a motel room.
Well, at least she’d be able to take a hot shower. That alone was worth the extra expense.
Sleeping in a real bed and being able to go online to update her Web site were other pluses of a night indoors. Her travel diary, or “Web log” as the people on the Internet preferred to call it, was getting more than a hundred thousand hits a month from visitors signing on to read about her adventures.
Cranking the truck, she pulled away from the pumps so others could use them. She found a parking space in front of the store.
The warmth of the store was welcome. The building, much larger than it looked from outside, had three parts. The entry room held groceries, clothing and household items. At the back were two doorways. Through one was a self-service laundry. The other appeared to be a small restaurant.
Four old men sat near a gas heater playing a game with rectangular blocks. Cherokee, she guessed they were. Full-blooded or close to it.
She’d seen photographs of Native Americans, but had met very few in person. She hadn’t imagined them to be so beautiful or their faces to hold so much expression.
Her fingers itched to get her art pad out of the truck and sketch them, but as a stranger in this isolated place she was already the center of attention. Everyone had turned to look at her as she walked in. They continued to stare as she picked up toothpaste and deodorant and walked to the cash register.
“Hello,” she said brightly to the men. She gave them her warmest smile.
A man in a brown shirt threw up his hand in response and smiled back. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.” After paying for the gas and toiletries, she went to the rest room to freshen up and wandered over to the restaurant to have a look at what they offered. She took a seat at the counter, where one large woman seemed to be both taking orders and fixing meals. Bitsy, as one of the other patrons called her, had to weigh three hundred pounds.
“What would you like?” she asked.
“I’d love a cup of coffee. And do you have soup or sandwiches?”
“Both. I have ham, turkey, barbecued pork or venison sandwiches. Pumpkin soup, walnut, tomato or chicken noodle, all homemade. If you want a hot dinner, your choices are vegetables, hamburger steak or chicken gizzards.” She handed her a small chalk-board that listed the vegetables; many were traditional and some—like ramps—Susannah had never heard of.
She wavered between being adventurous and satisfying her hunger.
“I’d like to try something exotic, but I’m also starving and don’t want to order and then not like what you bring. Any suggestions for something unique, but that I’ll probably enjoy?”
“What are you leaning toward?”
“Well, definitely not the gizzards, but the venison sounds intriguing. And the pumpkin soup. And the walnut soup. But, then again, ham I know I like. Maybe I should play it safe.”
“I can make you a half ham, half deer meat sandwich and put the two kinds of soup in small cups instead of bowls so you can have a taste of both for the same price. And I make a nice bean bread that goes well with soup.”
“Oh, sounds perfect.”
“It’ll be right up.”
“Can you also tell me how far it is to Sitting Dog?”
“You’re here.”
“But where’s the town?”
“You’re smack-dab in the middle of it. If you want a town, then Robbinsville, fifteen or twenty miles to the northeast, is the place to head. They’ve got, oh, maybe seven hundred folks.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a town.”
“Sugar, you’re in Graham County. We’ve got plenty of mountains, creeks and trees, but we’re way short on people. Only about eight thousand of us are crazy enough to live here.”
“In the whole county?”
“Yep. The land’s mostly government-owned national forest. We’re the only county in North Carolina that doesn’t even have a four-lane road.”
“I passed through some of the forest land. I went nearly fifty miles without seeing another car.”
“Which way did you come in?”
“From Tellico Plains, Tennessee, over the Cherohala Skyway.”
“Lord, girl! You took a chance in this weather. That’s a desolate trip this time of the year, and this early snow must’ve made the going even tougher. Some of those curves never get enough sun to melt the ice.”
“The scenery was worth it. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.”
“It is pretty.”
“Is there a motel close by?”
“No, sorry. We don’t get many tourists this late in the year. In warm weather we attract nature lovers who hike the back country, but they mostly camp out.”
“I imagine with this fresh snowfall everyone’s farther upstate at the ski resorts.”
“Probably. We don’t normally get our first snowfall for a couple more weeks, so I’m sure the skiers have headed up to Maggie Valley. But they’re missing a treat. These mountains are the place to be in winter, especially during the holidays.” She refilled the coffee of a man two seats down. “You only passing through?” she asked Susannah.
“I’m not sure yet. Do you have a bed-and-breakfast? Even a boardinghouse would do.”
“A couple B-and-Bs. And there’s a lodge, but they’re probably closed for the season and won’t open up again until late March or mid-April. When you’ve finished eating, you can borrow my phone book and call around. Maybe someone around here is open.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Several people sat down to order and the woman got busy filling orders. The venison she brought Susannah a few minutes later was delicious, the pumpkin and walnut soups interesting. The best part was the bread—simply out of this world. Susannah was glad she’d taken a chance on something different.
She was finishing her coffee when she felt a presence. She glanced to her side and found a young girl with huge brown eyes staring up at her.
“Hi,” Susannah said.
“Si yo,” the girl answered. Her front teeth on the top and bottom were missing, making her whistle slightly when she talked.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language.”
“I said hello.”
“Oh, well, then si yo to you, too.”
The girl pointed to the cast that protruded from the left sleeve of Susannah’s sweater. “Did you hurt your arm?”
“I broke my wrist.”
“How?”
“Mm, I guess you could say I tried to fly and found out I wasn’t any good at it.”
Actually, the flying part had gone well. She’d jumped from the bridge, her chute had opened perfectly and she’d drifted down toward the landing area without problems. At the last second the wind had shifted. In an attempt to stay out of the water, Susannah had overcompensated and hit the rocks.
“Does it hurt?” the child asked.
“Not so much now, but it did in the beginning. The doctor put this on to make it better.” The girl kept staring at it, seemingly fascinated. “Would you like to see?”
She nodded.
Susannah turned on the stool and pushed up her sweater. The cast covered her hand, except for her fingers and thumb, and went up to below her elbow.
“It’s white. My friend Iva broke her arm last year and her thing was purple.”
“That’s because this one’s made out of plaster. Your friend Iva’s was probably made out of fiber-glass and those come in purple and other colors.”
“How come you didn’t get a pretty one?” She reached out and lightly rubbed her fingers over it.
“Because the pretty ones cost a lot more money and I was being frugal.”
“Fruit girl?”
“Frugal,” Susannah repeated with a smile. “That means I was trying not to spend too much money.”
“How come you don’t got any of your friends’ names on it?”
“Well, that’s a very good question.” And one Susannah didn’t know how to answer for a child. How did you explain to someone her age that you didn’t have any friends? Fortunately she didn’t have to.
“We printed our names on Iva’s,” the girl said, forging ahead. “I put mine right there.” She placed her index finger in the middle of Susannah’s forearm.
“That sounds pretty.”
“I could only print then, but I can write my name in cursive now.” She looked up with expectation, her sweet face showing exactly what she longed to do. “I can write it real good.”
“You can already write in cursive? Goodness. How old are you?”
“Sudali.” She held up six fingers.
“Well, this must be my lucky day because I’ve been looking all over for a six-year-old to write her name on my cast and couldn’t find one. Do you think you could do it for me?”
Her eyes lit up. “Uh-huh. I even got a marker.” Hastily she took off her school backpack and rummaged around until she came out with two. Susannah held her arm steady in her lap while the girl slowly and carefully wrote the name Nia in black. Instead of dotting the I she drew a red heart.
“How beautiful. Thank you.”
“You won’t wash it off?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” The cast would be removed and thrown away in four to six weeks, but the child probably hadn’t thought about that.
Nia looked quickly over her shoulder, as if realizing she’d strayed too far from the person who’d brought her. “I got to go.” She returned her things to her pack.
“Are you here with your mother?”
“My daddy. My mama’s dead. She got the cancer in her stomach.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You got a mama?”
“No, not anymore.”
“Did she get the cancer?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Very much.”
“You got a daddy?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Who tucks you in at night?”
“I…” The question sent a sharp pain through Susannah’s heart. “I tuck myself in.”
“My daddy tucks me in. I got a Gran and a Nana Sipsey to help.”
“Then I’d say you’re a very lucky little girl to have so many people who love you.”
The child said goodbye and left. Susannah ordered another cup of coffee. “Anything else?” the waitress asked when she’d finished.
“No, thanks. Everything was delicious.”
“Glad you enjoyed it. Want that phone book now?”
“Yes, please.” Susannah paid for her meal, then Bitsy helped her look up numbers for places where she might stay the night. She wrote them down.
While she had the book, she flipped over to the W section and skimmed the listings.
“Do you know Ryan Whitepath, the artist? This lists only a post office address and I’d like to drop by and speak to him.”
“Sure. Everybody knows the Whitepaths. They’ve lived here all their lives. That was Ryan’s little girl you were talking to.”
“You’re kidding!”
“He usually picks her up out front when she gets off the school bus. Hurry and you might catch him.”
Susannah raced through the store and outside. She scanned the parking lot for Nia, but didn’t see her anywhere. Damn! So close to Whitepath and she’d missed him.
The one item on her Life List that had caused her the most concern was “Create something beautiful and lasting.” For months she’d pondered what that should be and the training she needed to accomplish it. A painting maybe? An exquisite photograph? A sculpture? None of those things seemed exactly right, but she couldn’t explain why. She wanted the whatever she made to be admired long after she died, but it also had to “speak” to her heart, to be part of her somehow.
While waiting in the emergency room in Fayetteville to have her wrist set, she’d wandered off in search of a rest room and wound up in the lobby for the recently completed heart center. The floor had been the most stunning mosaic she’d ever seen, hundreds of thousands of tiny pieces of tile expertly placed so that they gave the illusion of walking on a leafy forest floor in autumn. Looking at it had literally taken her breath away.
A pamphlet about the heart center credited the work to Cherokee artist Ryan Whitepath of Sitting Dog, North Carolina.
A mosaic. Perfect! They were beautiful and durable. She’d found out on the Internet that one dating back thirty-five hundred years had recently been uncovered by archaeologists and was still intact.
She believed she had the talent to learn the craft. She’d started college as an art major, planning to be a portrait painter. Her mother’s illness had killed that dream the following year, but in the last few months she’d taken up drawing again.
She possessed a sense of color and understood perspective. And it wasn’t as if she wanted to be an expert, only make a little piece of something Ryan Whitepath could insert in a larger work. If she could talk him into giving her lessons and letting her help in his studio.
That request, she felt, was best made in person rather than by telephone. So she’d rearranged her schedule and backtracked into North Carolina.
The timing was perfect. She planned to be in New York City to watch the ball drop in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. That gave her eight weeks before she had to move on.
She reentered the store and went back to the lunch counter. “I wasn’t quick enough. Can you tell me how to get to Mr. Whitepath’s studio or home?”
“Be glad to.” The waitress picked up a napkin and started drawing a map. “I hope you have four-wheel drive.”
RYAN ENJOYED the walk back, but Nia struggled to keep up. He put her on his shoulders and carried her.
“Am I heavy, Daddy?” she asked in Tsalagi.
“Yes, you’re heavy. And you squirm like a trout. I can hardly hold on to you.”
She wriggled her behind, teasing him. “There was a lady with pretty hair in the store. She tried to fly and fell down and hurt herself.”
“She tried to fly in the store?”
“No, Daddy, not in the store.” She giggled, a welcome sound.
“Was she an eagle?”
“Uh-uh.”
“A big owl?”
“No.”
“A moth?”
“No!”
“Maybe she was a goose like you, Sa Sa.”
“No, silly. She was a lady.”
They came to the possum wood trees, persimmons some people called them. He set Nia on the ground and took a sack from his jacket pocket to hold their bounty. Deer and raccoons considered the tart fruit a treat, and the many tracks in the snow told him the animals had already found the ripe ones that had fallen.
“Help me dig down and get some good ones for a pie. The cold will have turned them sweet.”
They gathered enough for several pies, along with a few large pinecones Nia wanted to use for a Thanksgiving project at school. Few Indian families celebrated the holiday, but Nia, like all children in this area, went to the county school where such things were usual.
He and Nia thanked the earth for the possum wood berries and pinecones and then started back up the trail.
“We made it before the dark got us, Daddy,” Nia said as the house came into view.
“And I didn’t have to wrestle a single bear.”
Ryan didn’t stop at his place. A few years ago he’d converted the old equipment barn from his father’s defunct furniture-making business into a modern workshop with two kilns in the back and living quarters in the loft for him and Nia, but Nia most often ate in the house and sometimes slept there. Ryan did, too, unless he worked late, which was happening more often than he liked.
A vehicle he didn’t recognize was parked in the yard. “We have company.”
“Is it Uncle Joe?”
“No, not unless he’s bought a new truck.” That wasn’t likely. His youngest brother didn’t have money for luxuries. Joseph was a carpenter and furniture maker and worked hard, but employment opportunities were limited in the sparsely populated county. Most of the land was virgin forest. Only six percent was appropriate for cultivation. Except for one factory, they had no industry.
Just inside the door, he helped Nia take off her boots and coat. He followed her through the house to the kitchen.
A pretty young woman with red hair sat at the table with his mother and grandmother drinking tea. “You’re here!” Nia exclaimed. To his amazement, she rushed over and climbed into the stranger’s lap.
“Hi, sweetheart.” The woman playfully tugged on one of Nia’s long braids.
“Look, Daddy! I wrote my name on her arm.”
Nia badgered the woman into pushing up the sleeve of her sweater to reveal a cast with her signature.
Ryan couldn’t have been more stunned. The fiery hair. The broken “wing.”
His grandmother nodded to him with a satisfied smile. “Rejoice,” she said in their native tongue. “The redbird has come.”
CHAPTER THREE
RYAN WHITEPATH hadn’t moved or said a word since he arrived. He stood in the doorway holding a sack and stared at Susannah as if she had a second head. She stared back. Not that it was a hardship. On the contrary, she was having a difficult time dragging her eyes away.
The man was extraordinary looking, with black hair falling in shiny soft waves past his shoulders, and rugged, almost harsh, features. If not for the flannel shirt and jeans, he could’ve stepped out of a nineteenth-century painting by Frederic Remington, or been the model for Maynard Dixon’s warrior in The Medicine Robe.
“The woman wishes to speak to you about your art, Ryan,” his mother said. Mrs. Whitepath had offered Susannah a sweet, herbal tea and kept her entertained while they waited for her son and granddaughter to come home.
The older woman—eighty, at least, and no bigger than a twig—was the other woman’s widowed mother-in-law, Sipsey Whitepath, the “Nana Sipsey” Nia had mentioned. She spoke Cherokee and broken English, which meant she was sometimes hard to understand. She also acted as if Susannah had been expected, and that made her a bit uncomfortable.
“Hi,” Susannah said to the man. “I was at the store earlier and met Nia, but I didn’t realize she was your daughter.”
“Who did you say you are?”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve introduced myself. My name is Susannah Pelton.”
He put his sack down on the table. Instead of sitting, he chose to lean with his back against the counter and his arms crossed over an impressive set of chest muscles.
“And you’re from where?” he asked.
“Originally Waycross, Georgia, but the last year or so not from anywhere in particular. I’ve been traveling the country.” She took the hospital pamphlet out of her purse and passed it to his mother who, in turn, handed it to him. “I saw the floor you did for the hospital in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and thought it was exquisite. I was wondering if you’d consider giving me lessons in designing and creating mosaics. I have a couple of months of free time and I’m eager to learn.”
“You drove three-hundred miles to ask me that?”
“And to see more of your work, of course, if it wouldn’t be an imposition.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Pelton. If you’d called I could have saved you the trouble of a trip. I don’t give lessons.”
“Not ever?”
“Occasionally in the summer months I take on an intern from one of the universities, but right now I have too much to do and too little time to do it in. I can’t possibly work with anyone who has no prior experience.”
“I’ll gladly pay you.” She’d already calculated what she could afford, not much, but this was so important she was prepared to dip into her emergency fund.
“Money’s not the issue,” Whitepath said. “I can’t give you lessons. I’m overwhelmed with contracts and it’s going to take every free minute I have to fulfill them. In fact, I should be working right now.”
“I see.” Susannah’s hope dimmed. “Won’t you make an exception this one time? I’ve taken art classes and I have a sketchbook in my truck with examples of my work.”
“I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m too busy to train anyone. It would only put me further behind.”
“I believe I could be a help to you rather than a hindrance.”
“With a broken arm?”
“The break isn’t severe.”
“How did you do it?”
Nia piped up, “She tried to fly, Daddy. I told you.”
“Did you try to fly?” he asked.
“I jumped off a bridge using a parachute,” Susannah explained. “It feels a bit like flying. My landing was off, though, and I hit some rocks.”
He grunted and she could hear censure in it. He thought her a fool for doing something so ridiculous.
“I’m sorry you came this far for nothing, but I can’t help you.” He pushed away from the counter. Apparently he’d decided his discussion with Susannah was over. “Nia, do you have homework?”
“I got to read aloud. And I got to look up ten words in my dictionary.”
“Let’s do it before it’s too late. Go wash your hands so you won’t get the book dirty.”
“Can I read to the pretty lady?” She cocked her head and exchanged smiles with Susannah. Again, Whitepath’s gaze seemed puzzled, as if Susannah had said or done something peculiar.
“We’ll see. Go wash your hands, goosey. Be a good girl. Find a book you’d like to try.”
His expression softened when he spoke to his child, making him look different. Susannah wouldn’t say handsome because it didn’t fit. Less severe was more accurate.
Nia scooted off Susannah’s lap. When she’d left the room, the older woman mumbled a few words in Cherokee. That prompted a quick response from Whitepath. Judging by his scowl, his grandmother had clearly said something he didn’t want to hear.
“Ryan, don’t be rude,” his mother admonished. She turned to Susannah. “Forgive my son. He forgets not all people speak Tsalagi.”
“Sorry, Miss Pelton. I didn’t mean to exclude you.”
“Call me Susannah, please.”
“Susannah.”
She’d never liked her name, but it sounded…appealing coming from his lips. Pleasurable, like the brush of silk against her skin.
“Don’t apologize,” she told him. “I love listening to your language being spoken. I wish I’d bought some books so I could learn a few basic phrases. Tsalagi.” Susannah pronounced it slowly. “I assume that means Cherokee?”
“Yes, the word refers to our language and is one of only a few common to Cherokee here and out west.”
“I don’t understand. You speak a different language from other Cherokees?”
“A different dialect.”
His mother jumped in and explained. “The Eastern Band is a separate entity from the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma. Most Cherokee here in North Carolina and surrounding states speak Atali and those in Oklahoma Kituhwa. We in Sitting Dog, however, have a mixed dialect that’s not really used on the nearby reservation. I’m afraid a book of phrases would do you little good. You must hear the language spoken, the subtleties of it, to truly understand the meaning of the words.”
“Why is there a difference in dialects if the reservation is so close?”
“We’ve been isolated from each other until recent years because of the mountains. Traditions and lifestyles have evolved differently, as well. Like Qualla Boundary, we have a few mixed-race families because we’ve lived among our white neighbors for many years, but most of our residents are full-blooded. English is our second language rather than our first. We speak mostly Kituhwa, as our ancestors did centuries ago. The dialect is similar to that once spoken by the Cherokee who were relocated to Oklahoma, but with colloquial differences. We borrow from both the Eastern and Western dialects.”
“Well, it’s lovely. Very musical.”
“Yes, a good description. That’s why we so often express ourselves through song.”
“Is Nia fluent in Tsalagi and English?”
“She speaks both and is learning to read and write both. She’s been brought up to learn and respect the language and customs of both races. Her mother was white.”
Susannah had thought so. The child’s skin was light, not dark like her father’s. Her hair was a warm brown rather than black. She could pass for white or Native American.
“Nia mentioned that her mother had passed away. I’m very sorry.”
Whitepath made a strangled sound. He straightened, taking several steps toward her. “She told you that?”
“She said her mother died of cancer.”
He and his mother stared at her strangely again. His grandmother only nodded, as if she wasn’t surprised.
“I’m sorry,” Susannah said. “Was talking to her about it a mistake? If I did something wrong, I apologize.”
“No, no,” Mrs. Whitepath said. “You did nothing wrong. We’re only amazed that Nia confided in anyone. She’s rarely so open with strangers, and she never speaks about her mother. She seems to have taken a great liking to you, though. That’s what Ryan and his grandmother were discussing.”
“I see,” Susannah said, but she suspected there was more to it than that. There was some kind of conflict between the man and the old woman. Sipsey Whitepath seemed pleased, but Ryan looked downright unhappy.
AT HIS MOTHER’S insistence and to Susannah’s delight, Ryan Whitepath agreed to take her on a quick tour of his studio.
“I’ll help Nia with her words while you’re gone,” his mother told him, ushering them out the front door with their coats.
They stood on the steps to appreciate the beauty of the landscape. The old house and its outbuildings sat about halfway up a mountain in a small clearing bordered by hardwoods and evergreens. A panorama of hills and valleys stretched out before them. Dusk had arrived, turning the trees to dark figures and streaking the sky with multiple shades of orange and pink. The scene was breathtaking.
“My God,” Susannah said with a long sigh. “Everything seems too beautiful to be real.”
“The sunrises are just as spectacular. And when a storm rolls through…it’s like nothing else you can imagine.”
“Have you always lived here, Mr. Whitepath? In these mountains, I mean.”
“Call me Ryan. And yes, I’ve lived in the mountains and, for the most part, in this house all my life, except for the years I was away at school. I was born in one of the back rooms. So were my father, uncle, two younger brothers and my sister. My grandmother delivered all of us.”
“Do your siblings live in Sitting Dog?”
“Joseph does. Charlie’s in Winston-Salem and Anita’s a sophomore at the University of North Carolina at Asheville.”
“Is that where you went to school, UNC?”
“I did my undergraduate studies there in painting, but I was lucky enough to get a couple of corporate grants that allowed me to do graduate work in Ravenna, Italy, at The School of Mosaic Restoration.”
“I’m impressed.”
“For my family it was a very big deal, since I was the first Whitepath to ever go to college—actually, the first to even graduate from high school.”
“Really? But your mother seems so well educated.”
“Because she works hard to improve herself. She’s become an expert on the history of our people. She’s also one of the founders of a national project to make sure every child has the opportunity to learn his or her native language.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“But important. Fewer than 150 native languages in the U.S. have survived out of several thousand, and we’ve already lost a major dialect of Cherokee called Elati. She’s determined not to let that happen again.”
“I admire her for preserving your heritage.”
“I do, too. Because of her, I know who my ancestors are. That’s important to me, to my understanding of who I am.”
“What about your father? Is he Cherokee?”
“Yes. His great-great-great-grandparents hid out in these mountains and eluded the soldiers who came in 1838 to relocate them. Their son was born later that year. They named him Numma hi tsune ga, Whitepath, after a chief of the same name from North Georgia who was a half-blood brother to Sequoyah. Chief Whitepath tried to warn against the government’s treachery. But he wasn’t successful at rousing the tribal elders to take a stand and was among those rounded up and marched west. Old and sick, he was one of the four thousand who died.”
“The Trail of Tears. I remember reading about it in my American History classes.”
“My family carries Chief Whitepath’s name in remembrance of what he tried to do. We adopted it around 1900 as a surname.”
“Does it mean anything?”
“To an Indian, everything has a meaning. The white path is the path of happiness in the Green Corn Dance ceremony our ancestors practiced. For a Cherokee of the old time to say he was white meant he was taking the path of happiness, of peace.”
“So where does Ryan come from? That’s obviously not Cherokee.”
“Ryan MacDougal was a childhood friend of my mother’s who died in a fall. She named me for him. These mountains are full of families with Scottish and Irish heritage. You’ll notice the cross-influences in the languages. Our legends are similar, too. Ever heard of the Little People from Irish folktales?”
“Of course. They’re leprechauns. When I was little, I believed they lived in our den.”
“The Cherokee also know of the Little People, the good and bad spirits who inhabit the forest. The Little People are said to take things or move them. Sometimes they’ll leave you a gift, and you’re expected to reciprocate. My father used to swear they were constantly moving his tools.”
“What does your father do?”
“He used to run a shop here on the property with my grandfather and uncle. They made furniture. For the past fifteen years, he’s lived in a little town called Lineville and worked for a trucking company. He and my mother are divorced.”
“Sorry,” she said with a grimace. “I assumed your dad was at work. Am I being too nosy? I find your family fascinating.”
“No, no problem. The breakup was economic more than anything. The business wasn’t profitable anymore, so after Granddaddy died, my dad wanted to move to the city. My mother didn’t. At first he was pretty good about coming home on weekends and holidays, and they tried to keep the marriage going. But over time the visits got more infrequent and then stopped. I haven’t seen him in three or four years.”
“That has to be tough.”
“Everyone took it hard when he moved out, especially my brother Joe who was only seven and particularly close to him.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen. I’m the oldest.”
“So that made you the man of the house?”
He shrugged as if it were no big deal, but Susannah didn’t believe that. Fifteen—thrust into adulthood… The situation must’ve been difficult for him.
He walked down the steps and motioned for her to follow.
“Get your sketchbook and I’ll look at it,” he said, striding over to her truck.
“You mean you might reconsider teaching me?”
“No, but if you want my opinion on your work, I’ll give it.”
WITH HER SKETCHBOOK under her arm, Susannah fell in next to him, trying to keep up with his long strides as they made their way down the driveway. She thought he’d head to a cabin on the right, but instead he turned left toward a long barn.
“My studio’s over there,” he said.
The air was crisp and smelled of sawdust, and in the fading light she could see piles of the stuff rotting behind the building. Snow had begun to fall again.
“This used to be my dad’s workshop,” Ryan explained. The long structure had double barn doors in the middle and a regular door to the left, with an opening below for a pet to go in and out. He opened the smaller door and they went inside. “I needed a large space nearby so I closed in the sides, added plumbing and a floor and made a workshop and apartment.”
Susannah had expected something rustic and dark, considering the exterior, but when he flipped on the lights, she couldn’t hold back her surprise. The interior was spacious and airy, as modern as any dwelling in a big city.
“Wow! This is wonderful.”
“It works well for the business and for me personally. I’m close enough to take care of my mother and grandmother and for them to help me with Nia, but I have my own space and privacy. At least, I feel the illusion of privacy.”
The main floor was his workshop. Long plywood tables made an L along one side and across the back, holding projects in various states of completion. Sketches and vibrant paintings covered the walls. The stairs on the left led to a loft where he lived.
He showed her around the main floor. Shelves under the tables held glass jars filled with tiny tiles of every conceivable color and hue. Larger tiles were stacked in bins along the right wall.
“Do you use commercial tiles or make your own?” she asked, as they walked through the kiln room.
“Both. It depends on the project and what I’m trying to accomplish. If I can’t get the color, texture or durability I’m looking for, I’ll make my own. A good part of my business is restoration, which involves hand-making or painting tiles to match older or antique ones. I often have to experiment with pigments, glazes, bisques and firing techniques.”
“You do all the work here?”
“Mostly. I create manageable sections of tile by attaching it to a special backing I designed myself. When the whole piece is done, I ship, reconstruct and install. I prefer to work from scratch on-site, but that’s not practical because of the time and expense involved.”
They came back to the main room and he showed her his office, in the corner area by the stairs. Papers were strewn haphazardly on his desk, as well as the light table. Everywhere, actually. The whole office needed a good tidying.
A white Persian cat lay stretched out on top of a tall bookcase, and it watched Susannah with eyes like gold jewels, expression haughty.
“Hello,” Susannah called up. “What’s your name?”
“That’s Abigail,” Ryan supplied. “I thought it would be good for Nia to learn responsibility for taking care of a living thing, but I have a suspicion Abigail owns us and we’re her pets rather than the other way around.”
“Cats can be a bit independent. She’s so beautiful.”
“She knows it, too.”
He took Susannah’s jacket and flung it over a chair, then shed his own. Grabbing a rubber band out of his desk drawer, he drew his dark hair off his face, into a ponytail.
“Do you wear your hair long because you’re Native American?” Susannah asked.
“I prefer Indian.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’m not offended by Native American. The term is just a little too politically correct for me. Others like it, and that’s fine. And to answer your question, no, I don’t wear my hair long to appear more Indian. It’s vanity. With short hair I look about twelve.”
She smiled at his honesty.
“I thought maybe you were trying to look authentic.”
“To do that, I’d have to cut it to stand up in a ridge along the back of my head down to my neck, and then shave the rest.”
She wrinkled her nose but didn’t say anything.
“That was the style for Cherokee men before about 1800, except for the Long Hair or Twister Clan.”
“I don’t think you’d look too good bald.”
“Neither do I.”
“I’m envious of how long and glossy your hair is. And the color’s gorgeous.”
“I was just thinking the same thing about yours.”
He reached out and picked up a strand, gently rubbing it between his fingertips. She hardly breathed.
“To tsu hwa,” he said softly.
“What?”
“Redbird.” He must have realized he was still touching her, because he suddenly let the hair drop, thrusting both hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“Your grandmother called me that earlier.”
“Consider it an honor. The cardinal, or redbird, plays an important role in our legends.”
“How so?”
“It’s revered by my people. There’s a story behind how the bird got its color.”
She waited, but he didn’t go on. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“I can’t tell the story like my grandmother can.”
“Your grandmother’s not here. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”
Finally he acquiesced.
“Years ago the redbird wasn’t red. He was plain and brown. One day, while gathering food for his family, he came upon a hurt wolf lying on a riverbank. The wolf had chased a raccoon up a tree and the raccoon had sneaked up on him while he was exhausted and plastered his eyes shut with mud. Thankful for the bird’s compassion in helping him remove the mud, the wolf broke open a paint rock, a geode left from a volcanic eruption, and used it to give the bird a bright red coat. When the redbird flew home, his mate was so excited by his new color, she wanted some for herself. But she was afraid to leave their babies too long so she went and got only a little bit of the paint for herself. She was a good mother and hurried back to the nest. Today redbirds are symbols of beauty, kindness, compassion and dedication to family.”
Susannah was thrilled to be compared to the little bird. She’d always hated her hair color, but he’d made her see it in a whole new way.
“That was so lovely. How do you say ‘redbird’ again? To-tso…”
“To tsu hwa.”
“To tsu hwa,” she repeated several times until she’d memorized it. “Thank you for the story. I feel like…like I’ve been given a gift.”
“You’re welcome.” He stared at her a moment longer than was healthy for her heart, then looked away. “I need to check my messages and return my calls. Do you mind?”
“No, go ahead. I’ll wander about, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. On that table is a mosaic I’m repairing for a 1930s era pool, and over there’s a ceiling I’m designing in conjunction with another company in California. The rest are…I don’t know…different jobs and separate pieces for a museum show. Look all you want.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, after reviewing his work and overhearing his telephone conversations, Susannah had decided that Ryan Whitepath was the most gifted person she’d ever met, but also the most disorganized.
She supposed his problem was a right brain, left brain thing, or that his overabundance of creativity had been offset by his lack of order.
His mosaics were brilliant, the colors earthy and the designs so stunning that Susannah felt spiritually changed just looking at them. But from a business standpoint, the man was hopeless.
He had no system for organizing his quotes and keeping up with correspondence, and apparently hadn’t sent out invoices for work he’d completed weeks ago. The clutter on his desk made her cringe.
He tried to pull up a letter he’d typed on his computer to discuss with someone on the phone, but he couldn’t find it. After several failed attempts, a lot of grumbling under his breath and the accidental deletion of a file, Susannah walked toward him.
“Here,” she said, leaning over his shoulder. “Let me help before you do something you can’t repair. What’s the customer’s name?”
“Health Systems of North Carolina.” He spoke into the phone receiver. “Hold on a minute longer, Mr. Baker. We’ve almost got it.”
She couldn’t find a folder that resembled the name so she did a search and came up with one document called healthnc.doc.
“That’s it,” he said. He read off the figures to his customer and promised him an invoice within the week. When he’d ended the call, he asked Susannah how to print it, since he couldn’t remember the procedure.
“You can go into your File menu and down to Print, hit Control-P on your keyboard, or click on this icon on the toolbar. See how it looks like a little printer?”
He tried to print, but got an error message. “What the—? I did what you said.”
She reached over and pushed a switch. “It helps if you turn on the printer.”
“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.”
She printed two copies. He seemed surprised when they actually came out into the tray. After, she used a utility program to retrieve the file he’d deleted and restore it to its original folder.
“Thanks for the help. I bought the computer expecting it to save me time. But I forget from one day to the next how to use it. Pretty stupid, huh?”
“Success takes practice.”
“Nia’s better at it than I am. It’s downright embarrassing to have to ask a six-year-old for help when I do something wrong.”
She cleared off a spot on the corner of his desk so she could sit.
“May I make a suggestion? You’d be able to find things more easily if you kept your quotes, correspondence and billing linked in this one program. It would also reduce your aggravation, especially at tax time.”
“I don’t know how to do all that. Typing a letter takes me two hours as it is, and then I can never find where I saved them—if I remember to save them.”
“I could set up a billing system and teach you how to use it and your computer in exchange for a few mosaic lessons. Until I quit my job to travel, I ran an office for twenty-three attorneys. I’m proficient in all the software programs you have here, and I’m available for the next eight weeks. I could really have you rolling on this thing by Christmas. And I know that being more organized would save you a lot of time.”
“Thanks for the offer, Susannah, but like I said earlier, I’m overwhelmed with contracts and I don’t have time to train anyone. Or to learn anything new myself. On three separate occasions I’ve tried hiring office staff, but nobody worked out. Having someone nearby asking questions all the time proved to be too distracting. I couldn’t concentrate.”
Dispirited, she nonetheless couldn’t blame him. “I understand.”
“But let’s take a look at your work. Maybe I can recommend someone else who can give you lessons.”
He reached for the sketchbook she’d left propped against the chair holding her jacket, but she jumped up and grabbed it first. She clutched it to her chest. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m embarrassed. Your work is so incredible and mine, I realize now, is amateurish.”
“With your enthusiasm, I doubt that. Where did you study?”
“I didn’t, not really. I had a year of basic drawing classes at Auburn University and grand dreams of being a portrait artist, but then…well, something happened in my personal life that forced me to return home. I ended up getting a two-year business degree at a community college.”
“How many years ago were those drawing classes?”
“Nine, unfortunately.”
“That’s a lot of time. Have you been drawing or painting since then?”
“Only sporadically. Recently I’ve started back in earnest, though.”
“Let me see.” He held out his hand. “I won’t sugarcoat my opinion, but I’m rarely brutal.”
With nervousness, Susannah gave up her art pad. He sat down in the office chair again while she reclaimed her former position on the edge of the desk.
He took his time examining each drawing, without making a comment about any of them. He’d flip a page, study for a minute or so, and then flip again.
Most of the drawings were of people she’d met in the past few months. Some were of her mother as she’d been before her illness, when she still remembered how to laugh and her eyes weren’t clouded by confusion.
A piece of loose yellow paper fluttered from the pad to the floor when he turned a page, and Susannah realized with horror that it was her Life List.
Ryan picked it up, gave it a cursory look and stuck it in the back of the pad. He went on to the next drawing.
Thank you, God. She’d never intended anyone to ever see her desires so blatantly scribbled.
He closed the sketchbook and handed it to her. “Your drawings aren’t bad. I wouldn’t call them good, but considering that you haven’t had a chance to develop your skills, you’ve done okay.”
“So do I have any talent?”
“I see evidence of it. You probably won’t ever be a professional artist, but with some practice you could develop into a gifted amateur.”
“I’d be happy with that,” she told him, pleased. “I’m really only drawing for myself. I don’t expect to make a living at it.”
“Then keep doing it. Draw what you like and do it often. You’ll see a big improvement fairly soon.”
“And what about mosaics and tile-making? Do you think I could learn the techniques?”
“I think so, although I warn you that crafting people in tile is extremely hard and that’s the subject you seem to like drawing the most.”
“Oh, I don’t care what kind of design I do. A leaf or a cloud would satisfy me as long as whatever I make will be around for a long time.”
He pulled out an address book, jotted down the names of teachers in the southeast and included phone numbers.
“Try some of these people.” He passed her the list. “Tell them I recommended you.”
“I will. Thanks for your help. And your honest opinion. It means a lot to me.”
They put on their jackets. Outside, the temperature had dropped dramatically with the coming of the dark, but yard lights guided their way. The snow was now ice in the low spots of the gravel driveway. Walking was difficult; twice she slipped and nearly fell. Only Ryan’s quick action saved her.
“You need real boots,” he said, supporting her under her good arm. “Those designer things are worthless up here.”
“I have sturdy boots in the truck, but I didn’t expect to be hiking through a blizzard when I got dressed this morning.”
“If you think this is a blizzard, you’ve never been in one.”
When, for the third time, she nearly went down on her backside, Ryan cursed. He picked her up and kept walking as though she didn’t weigh anything.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping you from breaking another bone.”
Susannah should have protested, but he was warm, his arms were strong and, oh boy, he smelled good. The scent was masculine, woodsy.
“Do you usually carry your guests?”
“Only the klutzy ones,” he answered playfully. He smiled, and the transformation truly shocked her.
She’d been wrong before. The man was handsome as hell.
CHAPTER FOUR
“‘…AND…mouse…and…’ What’s this word?” Nia asked.
“Cricket,” the woman told her.
“‘Cricket…carr-ie-d…’”
“Carried.”
“‘Carried…the pea…to…get…her. To-get… Together’!”
“Very good. You’re an excellent reader.”
Ryan watched the exchange from the other side of the kitchen table. After he and Susannah had returned to the house, he’d been put to work peeling potatoes for supper, penance ordered by his grandmother for sassing her earlier.
Nana Sipsey had threatened to take a hickory switch to his backside if he didn’t watch his tongue. She’d do it, too, no matter that he was a grown man and outweighed her by seventy pounds.
He hadn’t meant to be disrespectful, but he didn’t share his grandmother’s quick acceptance of this woman. Susannah. The name fit her. He’d never seen skin so creamy. Her eyes were as blue as a robin’s egg.
She seemed nice, friendly. He’d enjoyed talking to her at his workshop. Still, she was a stranger, a drifter who had no more regard for her own safety than to throw herself off a bridge.
Going by the quick look he’d gotten at that list of hers, she had a skewed perspective on what was important in life, too. And Nia didn’t need to get attached to someone who would inevitably leave.
Regardless of his grandmother’s insistence that Susannah had been sent to heal his daughter, he was not allowing her to stay. She could be bad for Nia, and a distraction for him, as well.
They were alone in the kitchen except for Nia. His mother and grandmother had suspiciously disappeared to the second floor. Susannah looked up and her smile turned his insides liquid.
Pretty. Too pretty. He’d never get any work done if she was around.
“You’ve done a great job teaching Nia to read,” she said. “You should be proud.”
“The praise belongs to her. She learns quickly.”
Nia touched Susannah’s necklace. “Why is your ring here?”
“Because I outgrew it. My mother gave it to me when I was a little girl about your age. When it wouldn’t fit anymore I put it on this chain so I could still wear it.”
“The blue rock is pretty.”
“That’s a sapphire, my birthstone. I used to believe the ring was magic and would give me courage.”
Nia wanted to slip it on, but Ryan told her she couldn’t. He was afraid she’d break the slender chain.
“Can we read another book?” she asked Susannah.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I need to be going. I enjoyed having you read this one to me, though. I don’t think I’ve ever met a little girl who reads as well as you do.”
“When will you be back?”
“Well…” She appealed to Ryan for help explaining.
“Susannah has to go home, Nia,” he told his daughter. “She won’t be back because she doesn’t live around here.”
Nia wrinkled up her face, confused. “Where do you live?”
“I used to have a house in a state called Georgia, right below this one, but I don’t anymore. I sold it because I wanted to sleep in different places, to travel and see new things.”
“Sleep here.”
“No, I can’t do that.”
“Daddy can tuck you in. You said you don’t got nobody to tuck you in.”
His gaze met Susannah’s and her pale complexion flushed slightly.
“I can’t stay, Nia.”
“He gets the covers just right and everything. Please, please?”
“Nia,” Ryan warned. “Don’t pester Susannah. She’s already told you she has to go.”
“But I don’t want her to.” She slammed the book on the table, crossed her arms in defiance and stuck out her bottom lip. Her eyes narrowed.
“Nia,” Ryan warned in a low voice.
Instead of apologizing, she knocked the book to the floor.
He ordered her to go to her room until she could behave better. She climbed off Susannah’s lap and stomped down the hall in her socks, smacking her fist loudly against the wall because she couldn’t make any noise with her feet. He made her come back and return the book to the table.
“Don’t leave that room until I tell you to, young lady.”
“You don’t love me,” she spat.
He knew she didn’t believe it, but the words still broke his heart.
“I love you more than anything in this world, but I don’t like being around you when you act like this. Tell Susannah goodbye and that you’re sorry for being so naughty.”
He wasn’t sure she’d do it, but she finally whispered it through her tears. She ran off to her bedroom.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “She’s had a rough time lately. Normally she’s a great kid.”
“Did your wife die recently?”
“Carla wasn’t my wife, only Nia’s mother,” he felt compelled to explain for some reason. “She died in March, not long after being diagnosed.”
“Stomach cancer? I believe that’s what Nia said.”
“Actually it was her pancreas, but Nia calls it stomach. She’s had trouble dealing with her mother’s death, although Carla lived abroad and never had custody of her.”
“I lost my mother last year, so I know some of what she’s feeling. Healing takes time.” Her expression turned sad. “I don’t think it’s possible for a child, regardless of age, to ever completely get over losing a parent.”
“Was your mother’s death from illness or accident?”
“Complications from Alzheimer’s.”
“I’ve heard that’s really hard on a family. Emotionally. Financially. Physically.”
“Hard doesn’t even begin to describe it. Luckily my dad had done well in the plumbing business, and he and my mom invested wisely. Money wasn’t a problem until the last couple of years of her life. The physical part, though, was very difficult.”
“And the emotional part?”
“Devastating.”
“How long was she ill?”
“Nine years.”
“Damn! How did you deal with it?”
“Not easily, and probably not with much grace, but when you’re in that kind of situation you do what you have to and hope it’s enough. By the end of her life, my mother no longer knew who I was and had become abusive. That was really hard. She’d been a gentle, lovely person before, and the disease changed her.”
“Is that the personal problem you mentioned, the one that caused you to leave school?”
“Yes. She needed me at home. I was all she had.”
“Where was your dad?”
“Dad died of a heart attack when I was four. All I remember about him was that he had a loud laugh and kept butterscotch candies in his pockets for me. Growing up, it was just me and Mom.”
“No brothers or sisters?”
She shook her head. “My parents didn’t think they could have children. They’d tried for nearly twenty years without success and were resigned to being childless, and then, surprise! When my mom was forty-two and my dad forty-eight, she suddenly found herself pregnant.”
“Were you and your mom close?”
“Very close.” Her voice trembled. “She was my best friend. Watching her slowly die was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
He’d judged her too quickly. He’d assumed her to be flighty and irresponsible, but that didn’t mesh with the portrait now forming—a daughter who had loved her mother and been willing to give up her dreams to take care of her.
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