“A terrible waste of hunk-hood,” Rachel exclaimed.
Breanna grinned. She knew her brother was considered a hunk by most of the women in Cherokee Corners, but he was positively possessed by his work as a crime scene technician.
“It’s so sad that Savannah and her husband seemed to have such a wonderful marriage and then he got killed in that car accident last year.” Rachel grabbed the sliced ham from the refrigerator and continued. “And it isn’t your fault that Kurt turned out to be a selfish little boy who wasn’t prepared to take on the role of husband and father.”
“Sometimes it feels like my fault,” Breanna replied. “I should have seen the signs, I shouldn’t have married him so soon after meeting him.”
“And I should have seen the signs that Michael was a possessive, obsessive, brutal man, but I didn’t until it was too late.” Rachel touched her cheek, where a small scar puckered the skin. “I had no idea what he was capable of.”
“At least he’s behind bars where he belongs,” Breanna said. “Unfortunately they don’t put immature men in jail.”
Rachel grinned. “If they did, they’d definitely need to build more jails.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Breanna agreed.
Later that afternoon, as Breanna dressed for the family barbecue, she thought about her brother and sister and how sad it was that none of the James siblings had been successful in their quest for happy marriages.
Savannah had come the closest, having been married to Jimmy Tallfeather for just a little over a year before tragedy had ended their marriage. The entire family had been worried about her because she still clung to her grief as jealously, as deeply as she had on the day she’d learned her husband had been stolen from her.
Maybe Adam Spencer was the man to bring Savannah back to life. Maybe that had been her mother’s ultimate hope. This thought made Breanna less tense about spending any time at all in the handsome newcomer’s company.
She would suffer the short drive from her own home to her parents’, then introduce him to Savannah and hope for an instant love connection between the two.
At exactly quarter to three, Adam stepped out on his front porch and looked at the house next door. She was a cop, not a prostitute and the knowledge filled Adam with relief. When he’d met Breanna’s mother that morning, one of the first things she’d shared with him was the fact that her family was comprised of law enforcement officials.
It would certainly be easier to tell Uncle Edward and Aunt Anita that the mother of their grandchild was a vice cop rather than a prostitute.
He was interested in learning more about the James family, who would forever be bound to him by the existence of a little girl. He wanted to see that Breanna and her daughter were okay, set up a trust fund for Kurt’s daughter, then go on with his own life knowing he had cleaned up Kurt’s final mess.
He sat down on the porch stoop, wondering if she would be one of those women who were perpetually late for everything. He looked down the street, breathing in the sweet scent of spring that filled the air.
Cherokee Corners had been a surprise. He’d expected a dusty little town and instead had discovered a bustling metropolis. The downtown area was built on a square, with the city buildings in the center, and unique shops and familiar chain stores surrounding them.
He’d found Breanna’s home on the west side of town, only a few miles from the Cherokee Cultural Center that included a replica of a village and Cherokee life a hundred years before.
Rita Birdsong James had indicated that she spent a lot of time at the center and was actively involved in the running of the educational tourist attraction.
And he’d told her he was an artist…a painter, for crying out loud. He swiped a hand through his curly hair and sighed. He’d regretted the words the minute they had left his lips, but she’d surprised him by asking what had brought him to Cherokee Corners and what he did for a living.
Painting had sprung into his head because he’d found a half-completed paint-by-number of a Native American on horseback in the kitchen when he’d moved in. Telling Rita Birdsong James that he was an artist leaped to his lips before he’d had an opportunity to think it through.
Of course, an artist was certainly more exciting, more exotic than his real job as the owner of a small, but successful accounting firm. And he had a feeling that telling Rita that he was interested in Cherokee culture had granted him instant access to their family gathering that afternoon.
At that moment Breanna’s front door opened and a little girl danced outside, followed by Breanna. Adam stood and his heart jumped into his throat as his gaze was captured by the child.
Kurt. Her long, curly brown hair was all Kurt’s, as was the slender oval of her facial structure. As she smiled up at her mother, another arrow pierced through Adam as he saw the dimple that danced in one cheek…just like the dimple that had made Kurt’s smile so infectious.
Breanna saw him and waved him over as she opened the driver door to her car. “Good afternoon,” she said as he approached. “This is my daughter, Maggie. Maggie, this is Mr. Spencer. He’s going with us to Grandma’s house.”
“Hi, Maggie.” Adam fought the impulse to lean down and grab the child to his chest. He hadn’t expected the emotions that now rolled around inside him as he continued to gaze at Kurt’s child. “Mr. Spencer is kind of a mouthful. You can call me Adam.”
“Okay,” Maggie agreed with a bright smile. Even her eyes were all Kurt’s…dark gray and sparking with life. “You want to see my horse?” She held out a necklace, where a plastic charm in the shape of a horse dangled. “His name is Thunder.”
“That’s a fine name for a horse,” Adam replied.
“Maggie, get inside and buckle up. We need to hit the road.”
As Adam got into the passenger seat, Breanna watched as her daughter buckled into the back seat, then she got in behind the steering wheel.
The shock of seeing Maggie wore off somewhat and he became conscious of Breanna’s scent…a mixture of wildflowers and patchouli, slightly exotic and definitely appealing.
Her appearance was just as appealing. Her coral-colored T-shirt was a perfect foil for the darkness of her hair and her white shorts set off the rich, bronze tones of long, shapely legs.
Last night her features had been almost garish with heavy makeup. Today her face had a freshly scrubbed kind of beauty.
“Tell the truth, Adam.” Kurt’s voice filled his head. “You’ve always been jealous of my life and you’ve always wanted my women.” Adam frowned and consciously shoved his cousin’s voice out of his head.
“Thank you for letting me ride with you,” he said, trying not to dwell on the fact that today her hair was down, loose and flowing and more beautiful than he’d imagined. “It was so nice of your mother to invite me.”
She flashed him a quick smile as she backed out of the driveway. “If my mother had her way, all of Cherokee Corners would come to their barbecues. She loves people.”
“That was obvious in the brief time I spoke with her.”
“She tells me you’re a painter. Would I have seen any of your work anywhere?”
Again Adam regretted his impulsive claim. “Only if you rummage through trash cans on a regular basis,” he replied dryly. She laughed and a wave of pleasant heat swept through him at the sound of her melodic amusement.
“If that’s the case, I hope you don’t paint for a living,” she replied.
“No. Actually I’m an accountant by trade. That’s