Follow the Sun (23 page)

I’m getting old and cranky
, he told himself as he ate his salad. His bad knee ached more often than it used to, and he missed his family down in North Carolina more than ever. He hadn’t been home in four years, and, homesick as he was now, still he remembered funerals and bitterness.

“The ugly ones always make trouble.”

“You think she’s ugly?”

“She’s six feet tall, for cryin’ out loud! Women that big are always insecure. They don’t feel feminine, so they end up trying to dominate men.”

James forgot his brooding and listened curiously as his dinner partners continued to whisper among themselves.

“You don’t know Ricky, or you wouldn’t say that.”

The heavyset man to James’s left snorted derisively. “The broad stole that award from me last year.”

“Stole it? Hell. She earned that construction award.”

“Well, she sure didn’t sleep with anybody to get it. Not unless one of the judges liked big-mouthed, skinny broads.”

Intrigued, James looked around for the troublesome Ricky.

“Excuse me. Thank you. Sorry I’m late.” The tall woman slipped awkwardly between nearby tables, bumping people with a scuffed brown briefcase.

She was gawky in an endearing sort of way; not clumsy, exactly, but all arms and legs, in a blue skirt and jacket that were too plain and a little too big. Her wavy, shoulder-length chestnut hair was laughably disheveled, but it reflected the overhead lights in glossy coppers and golds that held James’s rapt gaze.

No one would ever call this woman pretty, not in the soft, rounded way of most women, but no man in his right mind would call that combination of statuesque body, glorious hair, and beautifully chiseled face
ugly
.

She drew glances from many in the nearly all-male crowd, and the red dots on her cheeks told James that she was painfully uncomfortable with the attention. She scooted into a chair at a table right in front and sat there with rigid dignity. He could see her profile, and in it he read careful reserve. She was a successful woman in a profession dominated by men from the highest management to the lowest laborer, and she probably knew that she was an easy target for jealousy.

James studied the tentative, tight smile she offered her table mates. She was aware that her entrance had elicited everything from compliments to contempt. She was definitely an outsider.

You and me both, doll
, James told her silently. A tingling sense of arousal came over him, a sudden affection
and protectiveness. His body’s response didn’t surprise him, but the sentimentality did. He kept watching her in the hope she would look in his direction.

The man who’d defended her at James’s table turned around and called, “Hey, Ricky, leave the killer briefcase at the office next time.”

She swiveled, looked relieved to see a friendly face, and patted the bulky leather rectangle by her ankles. “I was out at a site, and my truck died. I took a cab. And I have to go back to the office after dinner.”

“All work and no play, Ricky,” he said teasingly.

The heavyset man snickered. “She’s not exactly a plaything. I’d rather make it with a construction crane.”

“You know,” James told him in a soft, pleasant tone, “one of the most distinguishing things about Cherokee culture has always been its respect for women. Cherokee women could fight in battle and hold positions of power on the councils. And the family structure was a matriarchy.”

The man slapped his thigh and guffawed. “The squaws were in charge while the braves lay around.”

A waiter placed a thick steak in front of James. He studied it for a moment, wondering idly how it would look flattened on his table mate’s face. “Former Redskin wallops jackass with beef. Details at eleven.” No, it would play too big in the media.

“Some of us don’t use those terms,” James explained patiently. “Squaw, brave, buck, papoose—they’re considered demeaning stereotypes.”

“Don’t tell me you people are into all that consciousness raising, affirmative-action stuff. You’re a businessman, just like me. You know that all this minority bellyaching is ruining us.”

James’s frayed patience dissolved in one blistering second of anger. The depth of that anger startled him, but he knew he had nothing to fear from it. In the old days, when he was out of control, he would have
thrown a plateful of steak in the man’s face, and probably his fist, too.

He glanced up and saw the skinny redhead gazing at him anxiously. The look in her eyes was so worried that he stared back at her, shocked that a stranger had deciphered his mood.

James was a master at returning flirtations, but this was no flirtation. This was compassion. He lost himself in her soulful green eyes.

“What about that issue, James?” the obnoxious questioner asked. “Are you people big on federal handout programs?”

James turned slowly to the man. “We’re big on anything that helps us keep what’s left of our land and culture.” He tossed his napkin on the table and told the association president, “Come get me when you need me. I’ll be in the hall.”

He stood and walked out of the room. Even in his anger it seemed to James that he could feel the redhead’s eyes on him as he left.

T
HERE HAD TO
be a bond between people with Cherokee blood, Erica thought. Why else would James Tall Wolf have returned her gaze so intensely and with such gratitude?

She could barely eat. Where had he gone? What had that jerk, Harold Brumby, said to him? Harold, a hulking Archie Bunker type, as sensitive as a log, was constantly in trouble with some union or other.

James Tall Wolf. The moment she’d learned that he was the guest speaker at the association’s spring meeting she’d rearranged her schedule so she could attend. For years she’d heard of the Cherokee Indian who played defense for the Washington Redskins.

The press always made a big joke out of the coincidence—an Indian Redskin—but, not being a football fan, she’d never paid much attention. And after all, James Tall Wolf had left professional football three years ago, owing to a knee problem.

From now on, she’d pay attention.

She tuned in to the conversation at her table.

“He’s off the juice, you can tell. I bet he’s dropped thirty pounds since he retired.”

“You know that stuff turns ’em into monsters. It makes ’em big and mean.”

“Wolfman was one of the meanest. I swear, I think his own teammates were afraid of him sometimes. But he was great.”

“The coaches like that, when the guys are half crazy. It’s a big macho thing. Everybody thought it was funny when the Wolfman used to tear up benches with his bare hands.”

The men chuckled among themselves. Erica sat there feeling a little stunned. “What’s juice?” she asked. “Alcohol?”

“Steroids,” one of the men explained. “Growth hormones.” He growled comically. “Testosterone.”

“Ah.” James Tall Wolf didn’t look as though he needed any extra of that. “Aren’t steroids dangerous?”

“Sure. But a lot of the guys in pro football take them. Makes ’em play better.”

“Defensive linemen are animals anyway,” someone added. “Gorillas in helmets.”

Erica poked nervously at her food. She’d made eye contact with a dangerous man, then. Funny, he’d looked gentle. There was something exciting about being noticed by a man who tore up benches with his bare hands.

She waited anxiously for him to come back into the room; finally, during dessert, he did. Erica had hoped to study every fascinating detail of him, but as soon as he appeared his gaze went straight to hers.

She clutched the napkin in her lap. What had she done to deserve this scrutiny? Frowning, she turned her attention to a piece of runny lime pie and ate as if it were delicious.

But every time she glanced up, he was still watching her. Her stomach twisted. She knew she’d made a
gawky entrance. That must be it—Harold Brumby had probably made fun of her, as she knew he’d done frequently since she’d won the construction award away from him.

Perhaps Harold had told some disgusting lie, and it had made James Tall Wolf find her fascinating, like a bizarre story in a grocery-store tabloid.

“Martian Disguised as Female Housebuilder. Two-Headed Hammers Discovered!”

She made certain her pie lasted until the association’s president got up and welcomed James as the guest speaker. Erica kept her attention on the last crumbs as she listened carefully to the introduction. Honors and awards as a star player for North Carolina State—the Wolfman had played for the N.C. State Wolfpack (hah-hah)—then many more as a defensive lineman for the Redskins (hah-hah); and now James Tall Wolf was a successful entrepreneur, with varied investments in real estate.

And to top it all off, as the president pointed out, James was a full-blooded Cherokee, who devoted much of his spare time to telling his inspirational story to groups all over the country.

Give ’em hell Tall Wolf
she thought proudly. As everyone applauded. Erica lifted her gaze to the podium and clapped vigorously.

The Wolfman was looking directly at her.

Erica’s hands hesitated in midair. She could do nothing but gaze back at him and wait to see what he’d do next. What he did was start talking in a deep, melodic voice faintly touched by a Southern drawl; a voice so rich that it made her think of chocolate.

Finally he drew his gaze away from her to look at his audience. Erica sagged as if a puppeteer had let go of her strings.

Tall Wolf was perfection molded from bronze, his hair the color of sable, his eyes like dark mahogany. His features were classic—the high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, wide mouth, and blunt nose of a beautiful American original.

He had to be six-feet-four, at least, and his post-football body was big but lean. He knew how to dress and obviously had the money to dress well; he wore a black sports coat, blue-gray pants, a crisp white shirt with a broadly spaced blue stripe, and a blue tie. A thick gold watch gleamed on his wrist.

“I took my grandfather to New York,” he was telling the audience, “and we stood on Fifth Avenue during the rush hour. We watched all the people for a while, and finally Grandfather turned to me and said, ‘James, I don’t think they’re leaving.’ ”

The joke brought warm laughter and a smattering of applause. Erica felt a twinge of dismay. How could he make fun of such a sad subject? His people had lost so much over the years. She paused, thinking of the cousins she’d met two days before.
Our
people, she corrected herself, feeling proud.

“We have a popular bumper sticker down on the reservation,” James said. “It reads, ‘I’m glad Columbus was looking for India instead of Turkey.’ ”

People guffawed and thumped the tables. Erica drummed her fingers and tried not to bite her tongue.

“We’ve made a great living at being mascots and advertising symbols,” James told the audience. “Sports writers love us. ‘Washington Redskins Scalp Opponents.’ ‘Cleveland Indians Go on Warpath.’ Folks, we do take time out to pose in front of cigar stores, you know.”

Erica couldn’t stand it. She stood up quickly. “Mr. Tall Wolf, could you tell us a little about some of the fine Indian leaders the Cherokees have had? Men like Sequoyah, who invented the Cherokee syllabary, and John Ross, who sued the federal government in an attempt to save the southern homelands?”

An awkward silence settled in the room. He stared at her for only a second. Then, an exasperated look on his face, he shot back, “I think you just told us.”

Erica gritted her teeth as the audience chuckled at his quick reply. She didn’t want to annoy him; she wanted to help. She kept her tone pleasant and sincere.
“Do you feel that humor is an effective weapon against prejudice? Are the Cherokee people able to laugh about their problems the way you can?”

He bristled. “I’m not laughing at these problems.”

“As their spokesman—”

“I’m just a businessman who happens to be Cherokee. I’m not the tribe’s official representative.”

“But you’re treated that way. Is it a burden? Do you resent it?”

“This is a surprise,” he said with a strained smile. “When I got here tonight I didn’t notice the cameras from
Sixty Minutes.
” Everyone laughed. “And you don’t look like Mike Wallace.”

Harold Brumby lolled back in his chair and said in a stage whisper, “Mike wears better suits.”

No one dared laugh at that, but there were a lot of satisfied smiles. Erica felt a dull, sinking feeling at the center of her dignity, but she grinned cheerfully at Harold. “And Mike’s a lot shorter.”

Now the laughter was on her side. She glanced toward the podium and was surprised to see James Tall Wolf eyeing Harold with disgust. Slowly James swiveled his gaze to her.

“When you make people laugh
with
you about a problem, you gain their attention and respect,” he told her. “I think you just proved that.”

“Ah. Yes.” She sat down, undone more by his subtle compliment than she would ever be by Harold’s less-than-subtle insults.

He continued with his speech, but now he cast wary looks at her each time the audience laughed. Erica forced herself to smile and nod, but questions kept sticking in her throat. He wasn’t addressing the issues.

At an opportune moment she vaulted to her feet. “Mr. Tall Wolf. Excuse me again.”

The cuff of her jacket caught a spoon and sent it clattering loudly into her neighbor’s coffee cup, splashing him. Erica grabbed the spoon and thunked it back into place, her face hot.

“In the old days we named people according to
their personalities,” James Tall Wolf said in just the right tone of patronizing amusement. “I think I’ll call you She-Who-Makes-Noise. “ He paused. “Okay, Noise, what is it now?”

Erica cleared her throat and waited for the chuckles to end. Damn him, he knew how to work a crowd. “Mr. Tall Wolf, what are you and other prominent Cherokees doing to solve the economic and social problems facing the tribe today? What are you doing about poor housing, unemployment, lack of adequate educational opportunities, and the disintegration of traditional Cherokee culture? Besides telling jokes, that is.”

The lethal tightening of his facial muscles warned that she’d finally gone too far. Erica stared up at him stoically. The issues were too important to ignore.