She nodded. “At that age no one wants to beother.”
“Oh, I mean Ilovedmy Cherokee culture. And durin’ the festivals Ididplay stickball and go to pow wows and stomp dances. It’s simply that it wasn’t part of the day-to-day, and I learned not to advertise it.”
She nodded again. “And the second reason?”
“I’ve never felt like an authority on the culture or traditions, so I’m not comfortable talkin’ about it. Mygrandmotheris an authority. And believe me, as an adult I can sit and listen to her for hours. But when I was younger?” His expression turned chagrined. “I was more interested in how to make a mountain of nachos than one-pot venison stew. More excited to talk about girls than the Cherokee creation myths.”
“Still,” she sighed, “it must be nice to belong to something bigger than yourself.”
He nodded. “Gloria Steinman once described white Americans as ‘a people without a tribe.’ I supposed, deep in all of us, there’s a need to belong to somethin’ larger, somethin’ older and more fundamental.”
Maybe that’s why Chrissy had always longed for a big family. She was trying to build her own tribe.
She was pondering this when fatigue slammed her.Hard.Like, seriously, people talked about “hitting the wall”? She felt like she’d plowed into one going seventy miles per hour.
A huge yawn stretched her mouth wide. She looked up at Wolf and warned, “I have to go to sleep now.”
He cast her a wry smile before pulling the edge of the comforter over them both. “Go on then. You deserve it after the day you’ve had.”
Her eyes were already drifting closed when she asked, “You’ll stay?”
“Nowhere I’d rather be, darlin’.”
She smiled, a feeling of warmth slipping over her.
No. On second thought, it wasn’twarmth. It was security. Contentment. She felt satisfied. At ease. Fulfilled.
She felt…loved.
Yes, that’s what it was. She feltlovedin a way she never had before. And shelikedit.
No wonder Mom kept doing this over and over again. Moments like these almost make all the pain that comes after seem worth it.
Chapter 28
3:10 PM…
One hell of a bad mood…that’s what Romeo was battling.
He was also tired, still slightly damp from the storm, and hungry. The latter of which was why he shuffled into the kitchen when he smelled someone cooking.
Let it be Bran. Let it be Bran. Let it be Bran.
Damnit!It wasn’t Bran.
Doc stood at the stove, a flowered waist apron tied around his lean hips. Since the man was six and a half feet tall, the garment hit him right below the crotch, making it look more like a tutu than a waist apron.
Romeo fought a grin, but it dissolved when the big Montanan turned to him, spatula in hand, and lifted an eyebrow. “You’re staring at me. Taking mental notes on how to be awesome?”
“You know,” Romeo mused while walking over to the cupboard to grab a coffee mug. He had to step around Meat on the way. The big, wrinkly bulldog sat beside Doc, tongue lolling, jowls drooling, waiting with rapt attention for any morsel that might fall from above like manna from heaven. “Being a smart-ass isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, sure, it means you’re smart. But it also means you’re an ass.”
“Said the preacher to the choir,” Doc countered with a grin.
Romeo ignored him and poured himself a cup of coffee from a carafe that was always warm. Just about everyone who lived on Wayfarer Island ran on caffeine. “All these years together, Doc,” he said, “and you let me think you couldn’t cook.”
“Ican’tcook. But I’ve been trying to improve myself.” Doc twirled the spatula like a baton.
“Then you should start by changing that shirt.”
