The Winter Man by Diana Palmer Read Free Book Online Page A

that would come in contact with the nails if anyone walked on the floor. It made a sound like a nightingale, a pretty sound, but it alerted the samurai inside instantly if ninja assassins were about to attack them. Ninjas were known for their stealth abilities, but the nightingale floors defeated them.”
    â€œThat’s so cool!” she exclaimed.
    He studied her with new interest. When she was excited, her face flushed and her eyes shimmered. She looked radiant.
    â€œI’ve read about Japan for years,” he continued. “But little details like that don’t usually get into travel books. You have to actually go to a place to learn about it.”
    â€œI watch those travel documentaries on TV,” she confessed. “I especially like the ones where just plain people go traipsing into the back country of exotic places. I saw one where this guy lived with the Mongols and ate roasted rat.”
    He chuckled. “I’ve had my share of those. Not to mention snake and, once, a very old and tough cat.”
    â€œA cat?” she asked, horrified. “You ate a cat?”
    He scowled. “Now, listen, when you’re starving to death, you can’t be selective! We were in a jungle, hiding from insurgents, and we’d already eaten all the snakes and bugs we could find!”
    â€œBut, a cat!” she wailed.
    He grimaced. “It was an old cat. It was on its last legs, honest. We used it for stew.” He brightened. “We threw up because it tasted so bad!”
    â€œGood!” she exclaimed, outraged.
    He rolled onto his back. “Well, the only other thing on offer was a monkey that kept pelting us with coconuts, and I’m not eating any monkeys! Even if they do taste like chicken.” He thought about that and laughed out loud.
    â€œWhat’s funny?” she wanted to know.
    He glanced at her. “Every time somebody eats something exotic, they always say, ‘It tastes just like chicken!’”
    She made a face. “I’ll bet the cat didn’t.”
    â€œYou got that right. It tasted like…” He got half the word out, flushed and backtracked. “I’d rather have had pemmican, but it’s in short supply in the rest of theworld. My great-grandmother used to make it. We visited her a couple of times when my stepfather was working in Atlanta and we lived with him. She lived in North Carolina, near the reservation,” he recalled thoughtfully. “She was amazing. She knew how to treat all sorts of physical complaints with herbs. She went out every morning, gathering leaves and roots. I wish I’d paid more attention.”
    â€œShe was Cherokee?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.
    He nodded. “Full blooded,” he added. His expression grew dark. “Like me. My mother married an Italian contractor. They didn’t like it. He was an outsider. They disowned her, everyone except my great-grandmother. She died when I was a kid, and I haven’t been back since.”
    â€œThat’s sad. You still have family there, don’t you?”
    â€œYes. An uncle and a few cousins. I heard from my uncle a couple of years ago. He said I should come home and make peace with them.”
    â€œBut you didn’t.”
    â€œMy mother had a hard life,” he said. “When my sister and I went into foster care, it was like the end of the world. Especially when they separated us.” His face went taut. “She killed herself.”
    â€œYour sister?” she asked, sad for him.
    â€œYes.” He glanced at her. “Didn’t my foster mother tell you any of this?”
    Millie flushed. The woman had told her quite a lot about Tony, but nothing really personal. She wasn’t going to admit that she’d tried to worm things out of her. She averted her eyes. “It must have been hard on you, losing your sister.”
    â€œYeah.” He stared at the ceiling. “Some