Excerpt:
The object of my attention–a man–was several yards away, kneeling by the stream and staring off into the distance. This was very unlike me, but I found myself curiously studying his profile.
Though he was kneeling, I could tell he was tall because of his long, jean-clad legs. His straight, raven-black hair fell down well past his shoulders. The sleeves of the blue flannel shirt he wore were rolled up above his elbows, revealing the taunt, muscular flesh of his arms and biceps. Like all of the native Cherokee, he was fair skinned, which was one of the first things that struck me about the Cherokee, compared to the darker complexions of other Indian tribes.
I continued to observe him, taking in everything from his black western boots and broken-in jeans to the slightly faded gray western hat partially shading what I guessed to be a pleasant face. The way he wore that hat intensified the raw masculinity that seemed to radiate from him.
Deciding I had gawked long enough, I finally pulled my eyes away from him and moved forward, only to be rendered momentarily breathless by the scene before me. Never in my life had I ever seen such incredible beauty. On the other side of the stream was a field of wildflowers growing in tall grass. There was another cluster of trees on the other side of the field. There were various sizes of rocks in different shapes situated on either side of the stream. The rippling water reflected the brilliant blue of the sky, which cast a surreal glow over the whole scene.
Gazing back down into the woods, it suddenly dawned on me that the mountain on which I now stood was the same one that I looked at from my bedroom window each morning. I had fallen in love with the view, and I had begun to think of it as my mountain, never dreaming that I would be standing on top of it one day or that anyone else would ever come here either.
Suddenly remembering I wasn't alone, I turned and was surprised to find the man's eyes fixed on me. Stumped as to what to say, I raised my hand and waved. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"You aren't intruding," he called back to me, and his voice was rich and deep. Then he stood.
Yes, he was tall–maybe six-three or six-four. As I watched him slowly walk toward me, I decided there was only one word to describe him: magnificent. There was a slight swagger in his masculine gait; his physique was perfect in every way. As he came nearer, the thought came to me that I should be afraid. After all, I was standing out in the middle of nowhere with a strange man approaching me. But I wasn't afraid, not even a little. I couldn't say why. I just wasn't.
The object of my attention–a man–was several yards away, kneeling by the stream and staring off into the distance. This was very unlike me, but I found myself curiously studying his profile.
Though he was kneeling, I could tell he was tall because of his long, jean-clad legs. His straight, raven-black hair fell down well past his shoulders. The sleeves of the blue flannel shirt he wore were rolled up above his elbows, revealing the taunt, muscular flesh of his arms and biceps. Like all of the native Cherokee, he was fair skinned, which was one of the first things that struck me about the Cherokee, compared to the darker complexions of other Indian tribes.
I continued to observe him, taking in everything from his black western boots and broken-in jeans to the slightly faded gray western hat partially shading what I guessed to be a pleasant face. The way he wore that hat intensified the raw masculinity that seemed to radiate from him.
Deciding I had gawked long enough, I finally pulled my eyes away from him and moved forward, only to be rendered momentarily breathless by the scene before me. Never in my life had I ever seen such incredible beauty. On the other side of the stream was a field of wildflowers growing in tall grass. There was another cluster of trees on the other side of the field. There were various sizes of rocks in different shapes situated on either side of the stream. The rippling water reflected the brilliant blue of the sky, which cast a surreal glow over the whole scene.
Gazing back down into the woods, it suddenly dawned on me that the mountain on which I now stood was the same one that I looked at from my bedroom window each morning. I had fallen in love with the view, and I had begun to think of it as my mountain, never dreaming that I would be standing on top of it one day or that anyone else would ever come here either.
Suddenly remembering I wasn't alone, I turned and was surprised to find the man's eyes fixed on me. Stumped as to what to say, I raised my hand and waved. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"You aren't intruding," he called back to me, and his voice was rich and deep. Then he stood.
Yes, he was tall–maybe six-three or six-four. As I watched him slowly walk toward me, I decided there was only one word to describe him: magnificent. There was a slight swagger in his masculine gait; his physique was perfect in every way. As he came nearer, the thought came to me that I should be afraid. After all, I was standing out in the middle of nowhere with a strange man approaching me. But I wasn't afraid, not even a little. I couldn't say why. I just wasn't.
