Fay Robinson - Christmas On Snowbird Mountain

“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.

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.

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.

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

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.