Follow the Sun (22 page)

A
WARM GUST
of April air swept over the new graves with deceptive innocence, carrying the fragrances of pine, oak, dogwood, and honeysuckle down to the magnificent spring-green valley below. The breeze lifted specks of red-tinted Georgia soil from the graves and dried the tiny spots where tears had fallen. The baked earth hinted that the summer of 1838 would be oppressively hot and tortured by drought.

To the young woman who placed white-blossomed dogwood boughs on the graves the air foretold more death, sorrow, and betrayal.

Because she was a Cherokee, she whispered sacred formulas to guard the graves of her parents and sisters. Because she had graduated only a month earlier from the Philadelphia Presbyterian Academy for Young Ladies, she added prayers.

Because she was Katherine Blue Song, a proud girl of imposing character—but mostly because someone was watching—she didn’t cry anymore.

The people of her tribe were being herded away
from their homes like animals, in preparation for removal to the Oklahoma territory. Her family had resisted, much to the delight of the unscrupulous local militia. Now she was the only Blue Song who would have to leave the ancient homeland. Her family would remain here forever.

“I’m finished, Mr. Gallatin,” she said in a tired but formal tone, and straightened rigidly inside her plain black dress. “You may do the rest now.”

The tall, rough-looking man stopped studying her with his perpetually intense gaze. Justis Gallatin touched a blunt gold spur to the side of his gray stallion. Then he tipped his wide-brimmed felt hat to her and ordered in a deep, drawling voice. “Back off, gal, so you won’t get trampled.”

She walked down the slope a few feet and stood staring into the distance, anger and grief burning inside her so terribly that she hardly saw the old blue-green mountains that were sacred to her people.

Gal
. He was so crude, this chestnut-haired young man, with his unfashionable moustache and reputation for brawling, this white man who had been her father’s partner until the government decreed that Cherokees could no longer mine gold.

Now he owned everything that had once been Blue Song property—the mine in Gold Ridge, the valley below, even the burned shells of the large frame house and barns on the hill behind her. Tears stinging her eyes, Katherine let her gaze drop to the distant creek where she had played as a child.

She tried to ignore the sound of his horse’s hooves destroying the mounds of her family’s graves.

He finally reined the big stallion to a halt and sat quietly watching her dignified profile. After a moment he offered, “None of those grave-robbin’ bastards from town’ll find ’em. You can count on it.”

“Thank you.”

Katherine was surprised by the gentleness in his voice, and she didn’t trust it. She didn’t trust him. He had money and power; he was white; the state of
Georgia had given him and other white men the right to take everything that had belonged to her family, to her.

He stepped down from his horse, went to the small mare tethered to a nearby tree, and led her to Katherine. “Up you go, gal. It’s not safe for you to stay here long.”

Katherine faced him. “Of what concern is my safety to you, sir? You’ve done your duty.”

He stared down at her with astonished gray-green eyes that slowly narrowed. “I’m not gonna let Jesse Blue Song’s daughter end up like the rest of the Cherokee women around here. If you don’t know what the militia boys are doing to them, I’ll tell you.”

Katherine’s knees went weak, and she almost choked on the pain in her throat. “Are you saying that my mother and sisters …?”

She swayed and raised a hand to her mouth. Suddenly Justis Gallatin stepped close to her and took her in his arms. Her pride failed to keep her from leaning against him.

He cursed softly under his breath. “Forgive me, gal. No. That didn’t happen to them.”

She didn’t believe him, but she was touched by his sympathetic lie. Her eyes shut, tears scalding her cheeks, she finally managed to say, “No one else cares. Why do you, Mr. Gallatin?”

He led her to a shady spot under a maple tree, and they sat down. He kept an arm around her, which offended her sense of propriety, but not enough to make her rebuke him. Her father had liked him and trusted him, which might mean that he was a good man.

But a blunt one. “I’ve got selfish reasons, gal … Miss Blue Song. You’re a beautiful woman, a woman with education and culture. I want you for my wife.”

Numbed and exhausted by grief, she gazed up at him in dull disbelief. “I won’t marry just to have a roof over my head, sir. Besides, you
can’t
marry an Indian.” Sarcasm tinged her voice. “It would scandalize
polite society—and your friends would call you a squaw man.”

“Not up north. That’s where I’m heading—gonna put some Gallatin gold into New York investments.”

“Blue Song gold,” she corrected. “Taken from Cherokee land. Stolen from people who were peaceful farmers and merchants.”

“Your pa and I went in business together. There was no stealing on my part. I did everything I could to protect him and his, but I couldn’t stop what happened. I didn’t want to see the Cherokees driven off the land, and I fought many a white man over that difference of opinion.” He paused. “Now. If you want to have a say in how the gold’s spent, come with me. We don’t have to get married until you get accustomed to me.”

“How noble of you,” she said drolly.

“Not the least bit. And I don’t give a damn what polite society thinks of me. Never have. But I’ll get you a chaperone—I’ll hire you a wagonload of chaperones to keep your reputation up till we say the ‘I do’s.’ How about that?”

“Mr. Gallatin, you’re very presumptuous.”

He shrugged. “You think on it, gal. You got nobody but me.” Standing, he held out a hand and helped her to her feet. He swept an experienced, predatory gaze around the woods while one hand came to rest on the pearl-handled pistol tucked in his belt. “We best get back to town. I’ve killed my share of the trash roaming these woods. Like to avoid killing any today.”

He looked down at her and spoke with another show of gentleness. “I’ll walk off a little ways. You say your farewells. Say ’em good—you probably won’t come back here.”

She watched Justis Gallatin go to the horses, her mind spinning with the idea that this white invader thought he could have her for the asking; that she’d willingly become intimate with his moustache-draped mouth and lean, hard-looking body.

She didn’t understand the strange sensation that
thought created inside her, and some warning instinct told her she was better off not contemplating it. Slowly Katherine turned and faced the valley for the last time.

She ached with sorrow. This land of glorious forests, rivers, and rolling, blue-green mountains was part of her family, pan of her blood.

As she grieved for all she’d lost she formed a silent, sacred promise to herself. Nothing must ever take this land away from her. There must come a day when the legacy of her family would live again here.

Katherine whispered a phrase in Cherokee. It meant more than a promise. It was a prophecy.

Someday
.

Tempting
the
Wolf

CHAPTER 1

W
HAT THE HELL
was he doing there? And what difference did it make?

James Tall Wolf leaned against a wall outside the opulent banquet room, one expensively loafered foot crossed over the other, big-knuckled hands shoved in the pockets of custom-tailored trousers, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth.

He asked himself the same questions every time he spoke at one of these shindigs, and lately it had been at least once a month. Was he just a curiosity, or did these business types really listen? How could he make them listen? Should he just tell them to go suck a totem pole, that Native Americans didn’t need their smug patronage?

“Mr. Tall Wolf! I’ve been looking for you!”

James glanced down the hall. The little blonde was so close that he could see her eyelashes flutter invitingly. Her gaze lingered on his face as if she’d never seen such fascinating features. He straightened and put his cigar in his shirt pocket.

“Mr. Tall Wolf,” she said sweetly, and held out a hand. “Let me show you to your table. I’m Lisa, the publicity coordinator for the developers’ association. We’re so glad to have you as a speaker. You’re such a credit to your people. “

James smiled at her, shook hands, and felt her forefingers stroke his palm.
Credit to your people
. Okay, he wouldn’t tell her how insulting that line was. He’d learned long ago that there was no tactful way to explain without coming across as arrogant and oversensitive, neither of which did the tribe’s image any good.

“Why, thank you,” he said drolly. “It’s not true that the only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

She laughed. “Oh, it’s so nice to see that you have a sense of humor about yourself.” She caressed his arm through the sleeves of his dark jacket as they walked into the ballroom of the hotel. “Do you get back to D.C often, these days?”

“Every few months. I’ve got some real-estate investments here.”

“I’m a big Redskins fan.”

In more ways than one
, James thought wryly. “Thank you.”

“I was sorry when you retired.”

“I was too. But I like to walk without limping.”

“You look very healthy. Very.” She led him between banquet tables that were quickly filling with members of the developers’ association. “Do you ever see your old teammates?”

“Occasionally. I’ve been away from pro ball for three years, though.”

“Which reservation do you live on? The one in Oklahoma or in North Carolina?”

“Neither. I’ve got a little piece of land in Virginia.”

She looked surprised. “But I thought—”

“That all Indians lived on reservations.” He smiled wickedly. “I’m a renegade.”

“Yum. I’d love to see your teepee some time.”

“It’s not called a teepee. And it’s not much to see.”

“I’m free this weekend.”

“Sorry. I’ve already accepted an invitation to a scalping party.”

“You like blond hair?” She pulled a strand of hers over one eye and winked at him. “Think of the delicious contrasts we could make.”

They reached the table on the dais and stopped. James shook her hand in farewell. Again he felt the slow, intimate movement of her fingertip in his palm. He sighed. “Lisa, I’m saving myself for marriage.”

She jabbed him with her nail. “You’re kidding!”

“Nope. There’s only so much of me to go around. I have to save my energy every chance I get.”

She studied his slitted eyes, frowned, and suddenly seemed grateful to introduce him to the association’s president, so that she could end her responsibilities.

James sat down next to the president and distractedly exchanged greetings with him and the other men at the head table. His thoughts churned. Once upon a time he would have encouraged the blonde’s attention and heartily enjoyed the result.

Now he understood that he was an exotic pet to many women; through him they could fulfill some harmless Wild West fantasies about noble savages, he guessed. He was good at giving them what they wanted, but he didn’t get enough in return anymore.