WILD FLORIDA SON
by
Cassandra Ormand
Excerpt:
"Come on, Ally. I just need one more chance with Johnny Swamp Runner. Then I'll call Matt, I promise," Carson argued.
"This is crazy," Ally muttered.
"I'll make him listen this time," Carson swore.
Ally and Carson sat in the rental car in front of the convenience store where they had stopped for a soda and another map of the area. Last night Carson had kept Ally up until two o'clock in the morning hatching another hair-brained scheme to get John Tallman to see reason. Initially, she'd been intimidated by what had transpired in the restaurant, but she had a new idea now, and she was sure this one would work. Ally had spent the better part of the morning trying to convince her to give up on Tallman and just call her lawyer, but Carson was not so easily sidetracked. Changing Tallman's mind about the lawsuit had become a moral imperative.
In speaking with Tallman yesterday, she had learned that the Traditional Seminole camp was situated on the edge of a remote piece of property he owned. He had spoken about this property at great length, so she knew approximately where it was located. Finding it was another matter. They were far from any city, deeper in the swamp than she had imagined was possible via roadway. And he had no idea she was coming, which made the circumstances even more nerve wracking. She was certain she would not get a warm reception.
"If I can just get him talking about the college fund again," she mused aloud.
Ally took her arm and gave her a little shake. "Carson, this is serious. We came down here to convince him not to sue you. Now you're fraternizing with the enemy."
"One more chance. Just back me on this one more chance," Carson said.
Ally turned and stared over the hood of the car. "Okay, I'll give you this one more chance, but after this.... Carson, if this doesn't work, swear to me that you are going to call Matt."
"I swear," Carson squeaked, although she didn't feel much like making such a rash promise.
John Tallman was about the best looking, most charismatic thing that had ever walked into her life, which only added to his already intimidating stature, and she just didn't know if she would have what it took to face him again. What if he didn't give her the opportunity to say everything she needed to say, to explain that he was making a mistake, that he had her pegged all wrong?
"I can do this," she murmured.
Ally's only answer was to unfold the map and try and make sense of where they were. Carson was always saying I can do this, whether she could or couldn't, whether she succeeded or failed. She never stopped believing in herself. Ordinarily, Ally would have full confidence in Carson's ability to do precisely what she said she was going to do, but this time was different, and Ally had her doubts that Carson's faith would move a mountain like John Tallman.
Ally sighed heavily. "Well, since your mind is made up, we might as well go forth and charge the gates," she muttered, folding the map down to a little square that outlined an area she thought would be useful.
Carson grinned and twisted the key in the ignition. She was eager to be on the road again. Sitting still and contemplating her next meeting with Tallman was not conducive to steady nerves, and she preferred to have her mind engaged in the process, not on imminent failure. If she focused too heavily on his reaction to her sudden appearance, she would turn tail and run.
After several wrong turns and a brief, nerve-wracking ride down a narrow dirt road, wherein turning around seemed impossible without getting their rental car stuck, Carson finally managed to get on the right path. Two hours later than expected, they found John Tallman's camp.
If Carson thought the RV Park was primitive, the Traditional Seminole camp was even more so. The place was a culture shock. Her mouth gaped as she got out of the car and looked around. The camp was comprised of several open-sided rectangular structures constructed mostly of poles, plywood floors, and palmetto-frond roofs. Carson knew from her research that these structures were called chickees. Several of them were scattered around the outer perimeter, circling another long chickee in the center. If her research was correct, the big chickee was the kitchen, so to speak, where the clan met for meals and just about everything else.
A group of women sat near the big chickee, sewing long strips of colorful fabric. They had abandoned their work when they saw Carson and Ally pull up in the car, and now watched them from their table, curious but not sufficiently curious to approach. Carson felt a surge of nervousness and wondered if she were doing the wrong thing by coming here, intruding into their private life.
"They have sewing machines," Ally whispered, staring openly at the women.
"And electricity," Carson murmured back. "It's certainly not what I expected."
She wasn't sure what she had expected. Maybe primitive peoples wearing grass skirts and feather caps. Bare-breasted women nursing little brown infants. Dark-skinned warriors lurking in the woods with crudely fashioned spears. A deer roasting over the cook-fire. Or not. In truth, she hadn't really formed any preconceived notions about the Traditional Seminole. This was all new to her.
Carson was stunned to see a refrigerator in one corner of the big chickee. There were even a few cars haphazardly parked nearby. It was all quite surprising. The cars, the sewing machines, the refrigerator and electricity. The camp was a mesh of primitive lifeways and modern conveniences. The chickees were basically the same structures that the Seminole had been living in for eons, only now they had the added bonus of plywood floors. The main chickee with its huge cooking fire arranged like spoke wheels around a central core was the same. But the cars and the sewing machines and the electricity were imports from the very people who had stolen the past from them.
Carson caught a whiff of some pleasant aroma in the air. A pot of stew was simmering over the fire. Onions and beef, vegetables and seasonings that all smelled so delicious her stomach growled in response to it. A not-so-subtle peek revealed Sofkee brewing nearby. Sofkee was a Seminole drink she'd researched but never imagined was still in use. If it weren't for the few modern trappings, stepping into this camp would be like traveling back in time. Amazing.
"These people actually choose to live this way?" she murmured, almost to herself.
Unlike the IRA tribe with their reservation, government schools, and suburban-development style homes, these Seminole preferred to maintain as much of their tradition as was possible in this swiftly encroaching modern age. Soon they would be swallowed in civilization, but they stubbornly clung to their roots despite the threat of assimilation. It was downright inspiring, and Carson's quick eye for detail demanded that she take in everything.
Some of the women wore simple cotton shirts and traditional skirts fashioned out of colorful strips of fabric decorated with scores of rickrack, while some of the women wore blue jeans and t-shirts. Nearly all of them were barefoot. They had wide, smooth faces, long, glossy black hair pulled back into braids or buns, dark skin, and eyes that glittered with curiosity. Was there some hostility there too, or was that just wariness she saw?
Carson offered a tentative smile. The women smiled back. That was all the invitation she required.
Drawn in by her demanding writer's eye, she approached the table, her gaze on the colorful fabric. Ally was a little more reticent and followed only under duress. When Carson reached out to touch one of the skirts a woman had been working on, the woman drew it back and away.
Immediately, another woman called out something in the Hitchiti language, her voice carrying stridently over the swampy forest around them. Though her words were directed beyond them, her eyes remained on Carson, and the hands that held the fabric she had been sewing were still. All the women were still now, just staring, and waiting.
Carson felt a surge of unease. After all, she was the interloper here. She had wanted to make a good impression, but perhaps her curiosity was viewed as disrespectful. Willing to try again, she folded her hands behind her back and calmly introduced herself.
"Please forgive me, I didn't mean to pry. My name is Carson Sawyer, and I'm here to see John Tallman."
She thought she detected a slight narrowing of the older woman's eyes when she mentioned Tallman's name, but it was such a guarded and fleeting expression that Carson couldn't be certain. One of the younger women started to nod her head. She appeared to be on the verge of speaking to Carson, but the older woman stopped her with a simple, slight lift of one hand, a barely discernible flutter that was there and gone as she continued to stare impassively at Carson.
Carson's discomfort grew. This wasn't going as planned. She had always been a friendly sort, and she had always possessed the unique ability to get even the most introverted people to come out of their shells, but these women, the older woman in particular, were proving to be a tough crowd. Carson didn't quite know how to approach the situation, other than to keep talking. Maybe she could soften them a little, eventually.
"I must say, you do fine needlework. These designs are beautiful. It must take a great deal of patience to accomplish," Carson praised, her eyes on the colorful fabric the women held.
The young woman who seemed the most open to her smiled and lifted the piece of fabric she had been working on, holding it out for Carson to take a closer look. The older woman clearly disapproved, but that didn't stop the young girl from sharing with Carson. She positively brimmed with pride over her work.
Carson fondled the fabric, carefully assessing the intricacies of the girl's skill. "So many colors and such small strips of cloth. It's so lovely."
"Thank you," the girl said in perfect English, much to the disapproval of her elders.
"It is the Traditional Seminole design," another woman offered, draping her fabric out for Carson to see. "Each woman creates her own design, and every shirt or skirt is slightly different, to suit the intended."
"Like a signature," Carson mused, looking at the cloth.
The woman nodded in delight, happy that Carson understood.
"It's a beautiful piece of art that you can wear."
All of the women smiled at the compliment, all except the elder, who sat stock-still, practically scowling at all of them now.
"Thank you for sharing this with me. I love to learn about other cultures. Diversity is a wonderful thing."
Gleaming dark eyes in smiling round faces seemed to agree with her philosophy, and soon Carson was immersed in womanly chatter about the fabric and the sewing techniques they used. Even Ally was brave enough to approach for a closer look. But the friendly atmosphere was short-lived.
"What the hell are you doing here?" an angry voice roared, cutting through the chatter and causing every woman at the table to gasp in surprise and fall into silence.
Flinching, Carson turned to see John Tallman standing in the clearing, his accusing gaze pinning her where she stood. She resisted the overwhelming need to retreat. Feeling like the worst sort of Custer, she swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to pretend indifference to his fierce scowl.
He barked something in Hitchiti that sent all the women scurrying away. Carson frowned after them as they disappeared from sight.
"What did you say to them?" she demanded. "Why did they leave?"
"How the hell did you find me here?" he countered, looking every bit the Seminole warrior despite his blue jeans and deck shoes.
"I'm a writer, remember? I'm used to doing research."
He didn't bother to dignify that with a response, and his glare, unfortunately, did not shift from its target. Carson fought the urge to show any sign of cracking under that stare. She was not going to let him intimidate her.
"Actually, it was easy to find you. I just asked around until someone told me what I wanted to know," she defiantly stated.
His eyes narrowed in disapproval.
"Frankly, I expected to see more men here," she said, unable to resist tweaking him. "Or are you the only one? Maybe you just have your own harem that you call the Traditional Seminole."
John Tallman's face darkened, and he looked positively furious. Carson scored one for herself. She'd struck a nerve. Good! He needed to know how it felt to be wrongly accused. Maybe it would help put things in perspective for him.
"A bundle of wives for the warrior," she purred. The thought gave her pause. She'd never stopped to consider if he was married or not. For some odd reason the idea of another woman claiming him seemed to irritate her. Strange. Why should she care if he was married or not? She was supposed to hate him.
"The men are at work. We do have jobs, you know," he snapped.
John Tallman was so angry that he felt like his veins would pop and pour a torrent of hot lava all over the little redheaded upstart who defied him so casually. He'd never known a more disrespectful, audacious woman. And the impish way she kept inserting herself into his life both perplexed and angered him. Dammit, didn't she get it? He was suing her. They weren't supposed to be fraternizing.
"Jobs? You mean, real jobs with real employers out there in the big city?" she asked. Not out of a desire to tweak him any further but out of real curiosity. The Traditional Seminole going out and getting regular jobs had never occurred to her. It was just one more thing she hadn't expected, a discovery, and Carson was always delighted by discovery.
Apparently, John Tallman misunderstood her interest. Maybe she hadn't been careful enough about the wording of her question. Maybe it sounded like another dig, even though she hadn't intended it to be.
"You're not welcome here," he said. "Poking into people's lives, making it public." Before she could respond, he was in motion, walking back in the direction he'd come as if that was all he needed to do to get her to leave. Indignant, Carson followed him, ready to make her argument, and angry that he wasn't giving her the opportunity.
"I did not poke into anyone's life and make it public," she defended. "I'd never even heard of you before I wrote my book...." She trailed off with a frown. "Well, maybe I had heard of you. Sort of."
He stopped abruptly and spun around to face her. "Is that an admission of guilt?"
"Hell no! Mister, I'm the author of twelve novels. I don't need your life story to inspire me. I have plenty of my own ideas."
A silence fell between them, a silence so deep that she wondered if the world had fallen away and left the two of them alone to fight it out like two gods at Olympus, with all the fury of heaven and hell backing them. A quick glance around let her know that Ally had retreated to a safer distance and was waiting by the car. Carson was almost glad for the privacy. Getting bawled out was hard enough without an audience, although she was positive she had seen a few glittering eyes peering from the nearby chickees. Curious onlookers.
Admittedly, John Tallman was not an unknown. While doing research for her book, she had run across a very brief article about him, but that had not been the basis of her book. It had only enhanced her storyline a smidgen. She'd already been nearly halfway finished with her book before she'd even found the article. It was all just coincidence, but she didn't know how to convince him of that.
Tallman started walking again, forcing Carson to follow. But she became so intrigued by the sleeping-chickees she passed that she almost forgot why she was there in the first place. Being the writer she was, Carson was often distracted by sights, sounds, and people. And despite the gravity of the situation she was in, today was no different. This place was just too interesting not to explore.
A glimpse here, a glimpse there. All the sights were too intriguing to pass up, and she couldn't help cataloging everything she saw. Inside the private chickees, clothes and personal belongings were stored in baskets and cloth pouches suspended from the rafters. It was an efficient use of such a small space. Carson noted that the chickees were protected from pests by screens. She absently wondered how the ancient Seminole had managed to avoid the pesky mosquitoes that dominated the swamp and the outlying areas.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Carson jerked her chin up to find John Tallman had stopped pacing and was now glaring at her even more ferociously than before. He clearly didn't approve of her perusal of the nearby chickee.
Instead of admitting to having pried, she tried instead to diffuse his anger. She was more interested in his culture now. "So, you basically bought a piece of property and moved your people onto it so they wouldn't be constantly shuffled aside and moved from place to place by the encroaching industry and land developments."
"It's my land. No one can throw us off it," he snapped, as if challenging her to argue with him.
"Money awarded by another lawsuit, no doubt," she retorted, twisting the verbal blade a little, just because she could. Dammit, she had tried being nice to him, but he made it so difficult.
Her snide remark made him even angrier, which was evident by the sudden change in his skin tone and the way his jaw worked as if he wanted to scream something at her but he was having difficulty finding the right words. Or maybe he was trying to hold himself back.
Carson couldn't resist pushing the envelope. "Just curious, do you ever lighten up? Do you ever smile? Or laugh?"
"Get off my land!" he said.
As if he needed to get away from her before he did or said something worse, he spun on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction. Carson hurried to catch up.
"I'm serious. People like you have heart attacks at a young age. If you don't slow down and lighten up, you could be a candidate."
He stopped so abruptly that she smacked into the back of him and bounced off. Rubbing her bruised nose, she retreated two steps.
He swung round to face her, his teeth bared in agitation as he seethed, "Is there a point to all this, or have you just made it your mission to hound me?"
"I'm not hounding you," she defended. "I came here to talk business. But you never give me the chance to say what I need to say."
"You pretend that you want to talk business," he emphasized. "But you really only use that as an excuse to get near me."
She frowned. She didn't like the sound of that. He made it sound like she was some kind of weirdo, or a groupie trying to get to her idol. Well, he was no idol. That was for damn sure.
He got right in her face when he said it, so that his meaning was crystal clear. "If I have to put a restraining order on you to keep you away from me, I will."
"Mr. Tallman, I'm not a stalker."
"If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck," he snapped.
"Just give me a chance to say my piece, and then after you've heard everything, I'll go away and leave you alone."
He scowled down at her.
"Please, just give me a chance," she pleaded. "Anyone in my position would be just as passionate about defending themselves."
"Most people defend themselves in court," he charged.
She shrugged. "Maybe I'm not most people."
"No, you are definitely in a class all by yourself," he said, his voice charged with sarcasm.
She frowned. He was doing it again, making her sound like a whacko. "Well, maybe I prefer to avoid all that ugliness. Some things can be resolved without dragging the justice system into it, and the media."
"What's the matter, Ms. Sawyer? Worried about your private life being exposed?" he taunted.
"But you really are targeting me personally. I didn't do that to you, even though you claim I did."
"You did."
She frowned. John Tallman was a man of few words, and none of them very flattering or helpful.
"I haven't exposed your private life," she argued. "I was writing about a character, a fictional character. I don't even know if half of what I wrote in the book about the Seminole tradition is accurate."
He didn't respond to that.
"Look, Mr. Tallman. This is my career you're attacking. My livelihood. Writing is my whole life. It's part of me. I'd die without it. Your lawsuit is threatening my very existence."
"You should have thought about that before you wrote that book."
"It's fiction," she argued. "Pure fiction. Even you cannot deny that we'd never met before yesterday."
His scowl softened somewhat. She had him there.
"You said before that the Seminole take lying very seriously. Well, so do I. And I'm not lying when I tell you that any similarities between you and my book are just coincidence. Nothing more. I did a little research in the library and conjured a character out of thin air. I only read one article about you, but that was long after I had developed the character. I have to admit that I did wonder about the coincidence myself. But just because you're the chief of these Traditional Seminole doesn't mean that I was writing about you."
"Miss Sawyer, you are trespassing," he ground out. "If you don't get off my land, I will have you arrested."
Carson gasped. "You...you wouldn't."
"I most certainly would."
"But—"
"You're not welcome here," he said, then turned on his heel and started to walk away.
Carson skipped after him. "Wait! You haven't let me finish, and I'm not leaving until I've said my piece."
"Make it quick. I'm still walking," he growled.
"I'll put up $50,000 to start the college fund, and I'll personally embark on a fund-raising campaign to add more money to the pot if you will agree to drop the lawsuit," she blurted out.
John Tallman stopped dead in his tracks, bringing Carson up short, but he did not turn to look at her. Instead, he stood staring at the ground, his face an impassive mask. Carson silently scored one for herself. She knew he was struggling to make the decision she'd slapped him with, and she knew it was a difficult one for him. She'd hit him where it had the most effect, right in the tribe, and she already knew John Tallman well enough to know that he would lean toward doing what was best for his people.
With cold eyes, he turned and faced her. "Your offer sounds curiously like a bribe."
Carson blinked in surprise. A bribe? Good Lord, now he thought she was trying to buy him off. In a way, she supposed she was. But bribery? Why did he have to put such an ugly spin on her proposal?
"This isn't about money, Ms. Sawyer. It's the principle of the matter. You intruded into our lives."
"You never let me explain. I've never met you before. I've never been here before. So, how can I have intruded into your lives," she argued.
He shrugged. "The book you wrote is the only real evidence I need. Besides, I can pad the college fund with the money I get from the lawsuit."
"If you win," she pointed out. "It's not so easy to win a lawsuit like this one. You have to prove that I had malicious intent."
She thought she saw a muscle twitch in his face, but his expression was so stony that she wondered if she had been mistaken.
"And you won't win enough to make it worth your while. On the other hand, I can raise quite a bundle with a fund-raising event."
John Tallman's eyes glittered as he stared back at her, but still there was no sign of emotion in those fathomless orbs. He never said a word. He just turned and walked away. Carson wisely decided not to follow. She had given Mr. Tallman something to think about. Now all she could do was let him stew in his juices.
John couldn't wait to get away from Carson Sawyer and the curious eyes of the other women. Eyes that had been following his every move through the camp, and ears that had heard every word of his argument with Ms. Sawyer. Desperately needing a moment of peace, he stepped away from the clearing and merged with the swamp beyond. The swamp, where he always went to recharge. It was his place.
Damn, he was frustrated. The last person he'd expected to see out here in the woods was that uppity little romance writer. Who the hell did she think she was, coming out here, trespassing on private property, prying into the private lives of the clan? Didn't she understand that she had already done enough prying? Why couldn't he get her to stay away from him?
By the water's edge, he pulled off his shoes and stepped down into the narrow skiff that awaited him near the steep bank. He peeled off his shirt, rolled it into a bundle, and then placed it next to his shoes in the bow of the skiff. Picking up his pole, he carefully maneuvered the little boat away from land. Minutes later, he was skimming along the surface of the canal, heading out into the wild, into freedom and solitude, where he could commune with nature and forget about the concrete jungle that was threatening his world.
The River of Grass. No place was more serene. Out here, he was Hawk, a Seminole warrior at one with his land and his people. Out here, he was a force, man and spirit. He could forget the new ways and relax back into the familiar cradle of ancient beliefs and lifeways.
Sighing, he lifted his face and closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feel of Sun touching his skin and Wind dancing through his hair. Maybe he would offer up a prayer today, ask the spirits to guide him in this new decision Carson Sawyer had thrown in his face.
He opened his eyes and squinted out over the river. The thought of Ms. Sawyer put a crimp in his newfound peace. She really stuck in his craw. She set his teeth on edge, made him want to break something. But, by the spirits, she had spunk and tenacity. She didn't appear to be daunted by anything, not even his fierce scowl. He couldn't help but admire that. John had never met anyone who wasn't intimidated by him. Too bad he was suing her. She was beautiful, even when she was being a little snot, or perhaps especially when she was being such a snot.
For the umpteenth time since meeting Carson Sawyer, he wondered if he was doing the right thing by suing her. Over luncheon yesterday, when they'd been speaking about a college fund, she had seemed so sincere. She'd been passionate about the prospect of a fund. He sensed it as clearly as he could see the wind on the water, the saw grass bending to its gentle touch. There was no mistaking her real interest in his culture. That was demonstrated when she'd been following him around the compound. But she needed to learn respect. She needed to learn that she should wait for an invitation to look and learn rather than just barging in and asking questions.
He shook his head. He was doing it again, thinking about her as though she were not his enemy. He frowned. Enemy. He didn't like the sound of that. She didn't look like an enemy. She didn't look like she had a mean bone in her body. Quite the opposite. She seemed caring, involved, interested.
He didn't know what he had expected Carson Sawyer to be. Maybe he'd never really thought about it. But one thing was certain. He had never expected her to be so beautiful, so impish. Frustrating, yes. Bull-headed, yes. But not soft and round and beautiful.
He grinned, then just as quickly replaced it with a frown. He was not going to think about the blue of her eyes, the fire in her hair, or the way her face crinkled when she smiled. He wasn't going to think about how cute she was when she was angry, or how mischievous she looked when she was curiously studying something. He wasn't going to think about her at all. The next time he expected to encounter Ms. Sawyer would be in a court of law. When she was staring down the wrong end of a gavel, maybe then she would realize that he meant business. Maybe then she would respect him and his people. And maybe then he could put her out of his mind.