LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes narrowed. He’d seen that look before. Like when he’d tried her patience and she sent him out to cut his own hickory switch. “The elders have done their part for the tribe. It’s time for younger blood. Time to let the Old Ones retire to their farms and—”

      “And to checkerboard games at the Mercantile.”

      Her lips pursed.

      Walker possessed the good sense to take a step back at the expression on her face. At thirty-two, he’d been too old for hickory switches for years. But on second thought, did one ever get too old for a mother to snatch a knot in her child?

      “To whom much is given, much is required, John Walker. And after what happened this week at the Center . . .”

      He shook his head. “After what happened to me in Afghanistan, I swore I’d never pick up a gun again. And for the record, the abilities I’ve been given, I don’t want.”

      Some of the fight went out of her eyes. “Here,” she made a circling motion with her finger. “Turn around and let me scrape that hair out of your face. You’re making a right mess of it.”

      He handed her the leather band and pivoted. He bent his knees to accommodate her lesser height.

      “It wasn’t your fault, son.”

      He grimaced. She wasn’t going to let this go. Her hands finger-combed the strands of his hair.

      “Maybe like the elders, I’ve done my part, too, Ma. You ever think of that? For my country. Above and beyond. Time for me to retire to my farm.”

      She grunted. “You and those trees.”

      His knees were beginning to ache. Proof he wasn’t getting any younger, either. Probably a result of the uncomfortable, crouched position he’d often assumed in carrying out his specialty within the unit. Time for a new tactic. He’d learned a little something about strategy during his two tours.

      “I’m not warrior material like Uncle Ross,” he continued. “I’ve wished my reflexes had been a second slower, my aim a trifle higher . . . Hey—ow! Stop Mom. You’re hurting me.” He squirmed, trying to loosen her stranglehold on his hair—and his scalp.

      She shoved him away. “So you could’ve been the one brought home in a body bag?”

      Walker fell against the fence before righting himself.

      Her eyes welled into pools of liquid chocolate. “You’d rather your mother buried her son? As if I didn’t practically wear out my knees the whole time you were gone, praying, begging God to spare your life. You’d prefer more of your buddies had been blown away because you failed to stop that . . . that . . . ?”

      “Better me than somebody’s child,” he whispered.

      Irene’s shoulders slumped. He pulled her into an embrace. She returned his hug and then, punched him in the arm.

      Walker smiled. That was more like the tough, never-say-die bulldog of a single mother he’d always known.

      “Speaking of the townspeople and this festival . . .”

      There was more?

      She had that look in her eye again. He might not have been cut out for army life, but his mother, the gifted Cherokee quilter and potter, would’ve made an outstanding drill sergeant.

      “The council’s decided since you’re the head of the community development club this year, you’re the perfect tribe liaison for this PR woman the committee hired to spearhead the 180th commemoration of the Trail of Tears.”

      He’d been hiding out on his farm all winter, avoiding the joint tribal and town council planning meetings, hoping, praying such an eventuality wouldn’t come his way. “Why me, Ma?”

      She held up her index finger. “One—because this is your slow time of year and you don’t get busy again till late summer after the festival’s over.”

      “Hang on a minute,” he protested. “I got plenty to do. Fertilizing. Weeding. Shaping the trees.”

      She ignored him and pushed up another finger, making a V. “Two—as gadugi leader, you know The People, especially those old-timers in the hollows who can be . . .” Irene gave a delicate cough, “. . . difficult if the notion strikes them. A united front, Cherokee and Appalachian, you and the PR lady. Not to mention it’s your civic and tribal duty,” she threw in for good measure.

      He groaned.

      “Three,” she ticked off on her fingers. “Your uncle Ross, since he returned home, is overseeing the arrangements for the Western Band Oklahoma delegation to retrace the Trail and coordinate the historic reunion from this end. I figured you’d want to spend all the time you could with Uncle Ross, since you two don’t get to see so much of each other these days.”

      He frowned. That struck below the belt. Dangling his

       favorite—okay, his only great-uncle—like a carrot in front of his nose.

      “You know what I think of this reunification scheme. It’s a bad idea to stir up those long ago resentments between the Cherokee and the Appalachians.” He made a face. “The ones waiting in the wings to seize our land—our farms—as soon as the soldiers dragged us away during the Removal.”

      She folded her arms. “A lot of those settlers helped the Eastern Band hide out in these mountains till the soldiers left.”

      Walker reached for the sneakers and gym bag he’d left at the fence before practice. “You mark my words, no good’s going to come from reliving that pain, misery, and racial prejudice. Case in point what happened at the Center this week.”

      “A lot you know, Walker Crowe, holed up from life on that mountain farm of yours. Everybody’s coming together to make this festival a success. Families, Cherokee and non-Indian alike, are excited about the Western Band coming home to the ancestral place.”

      She flipped her stick-straight hair over her shoulder. “Sorta figured with all you’ve been through, you’d have a certain understanding of that. That longing to come home.”

      On a nearby bench, Walker stuffed his feet into his Nikes. “Even after 180 years?”

      “Home is home, John Walker.”

      Walker tugged the shoelaces tighter. “No matter how far you’ve roamed?”

      “The farther you’ve traveled, the sweeter comes the end of the journey,” she countered. “Besides, no fair the Qualla Boundary up the road gets all the tourist trade with their outdoor drama and recreated Village.”

      He cocked an appraising eye her way. “Festival won’t hurt your quilt shop either, will it, Ma?”

      “Festival won’t hurt anyone’s business, Cherokee or white, in this economy, son.”

      He chuckled. “Leave it to the Almighty Dollar to bring white and red together at last.”

      She slid beside him on the bench and tucked the folds of her wraparound skirt under her bare legs. Late April at four thousand feet still packed a chill despite the midafternoon sun. “Seeing as money divided us in the first place . . .”

      He’d deflected—for the time being—her ambitions for him as well as her less-than-subtle hints to be fruitful and multiply. The festival was a battle he reckoned—in light of the others—that might be the better part of valor to concede.

      “In everybody’s financial interests, you say?”

      She nodded. A smile played across her lips. “Won’t hurt that agribusiness of yours, either. Because when you’re dealing with the tourists—”

      “The only color that matters is green.” He gave a huge sigh. “What time, Mother?”

      “Four o’clock. At Miss Marvela’s. Uncle Ross said he’d liked to ride shotgun with you.”

      “Good

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