by Nancy Morse
Having wriggled out of the unsecured rope, Thorpe attacked with a vengeance, sending Jonathan to the ground and pummeling him with his fists. In the melee Jonathan’s revolver was knocked out of his hand.
The two men scuffled over the ground, tearing up clots of earth, each landing solid blows. Bunching his fist into a whitened mass, Thorpe sent it crashing into Jonathan’s belly.
Jonathan grunted and managed to roll away from a follow-up blow. He staggered to his feet, his face contorted in pain.
With alarming suddenness, Thorpe dove for the weapon that had been knocked out of Jonathan’s hand. Jonathan looked up to find the revolved leveled at his chest.
A savage sense of triumph swept through Thorpe. With an evil grin playing across his face, he snarled, “Now who has the advantage?”
“Are you going to kill me?” Jonathan asked between pants.
“Perhaps I will.”
“I thought you’re not a killer.”
“There’s a first time for everything. I am curious as to how you got away. I thought you were tied up quite well. But enough small talk. Turn around. I don’t want you looking at me when I shoot you.”
Jonathan hunched his shoulders and turned slowly around. His fury and pain were written in the blood that streaked his face. His only regret was that he hadn’t been able to protect Julia.
Julia. It was fitting that his last thought should be of her. If only he had told her how much he loved her.
The sound of a shot crackled the sizzling stillness. Jonathan’s whole body tensed in anticipation of the pain that did not come.
In bewildered frenzy he whirled around. His rage and loathing turned to stunned surprise when he saw Julia standing there with Thorpe’s Webley .455 in her hand.
Startled by the shot she had fired into the air, Roger Thorpe looked over his shoulder. “Well, well, look who it is.”
“You miserable bastard,” Julia spat. “Put your gun down or I’ll shoot you.”
Thorpe chuckled. “You haven’t got it in you.”
His jibe was answered by a bullet that tore through his hand, sending the revolver flying.
Thorpe shrieked in pain and clutched his hand. Blood flew into the air, splattering all over his suit.
“That’s for what you did to me,” Julia said coldly. “And if you make one more move, the next one will be for what you did to Jonathan.”
Jonathan retrieved the revolver and hurried to Julia’s side. “Are you all right?”
“Quite,” she said. “But it looks as if I’ve ruined Mr. Thorpe’s white suit.”
“That’s the least of his worries,” Jonathan said.
“Keep that crazy bitch away from me,” Thorpe cried.
Julia raised the revolver and squinted down the barrel. “Now, now, is that any way to speak to an angry woman with a gun in her hand?” She kept the revolver trained on him as Jonathan swung him around and bound his arms behind his back.
Thorpe groaned, “My hand.”
Jonathan gave the wound a cursory examination. Tearing off the bandana from around his neck, he wrapped it around Thorpe’s bleeding hand. “We’ll get that hand looked at in Arusha, but my guess is you’ll live. The bullet went clear through. You’re lucky she’s a good shot. She might have missed and hit something vital.”
As it had been on the day he found her in the overturned Roadster when she shot the lioness, Julia’s aim today was precise, and he could not help but feel a glimmer of pride in knowing that he’d been the one to teach her how to shoot. Still, no matter how good a shot she was, if it had not been for her courage in the face of danger, the outcome would have been very different.
Night was descending when they returned to the camp. Captain Ainsworth and the Germans were long gone, Roger Thorpe was trussed up like a turkey in the back seat of the Dusenberg, and all that remained was to blow the ivory cache to kingdom come.
Jonathan left the engine running for a quick getaway, grabbed the sticks of dynamite the captain had given him, and told Julia, “Keep an eye on him while I take care of this, and if he makes a move, shoot him,” before darting off.
He placed the dynamite around the perimeter of the tent, found a box of matches, lit the wicks, and raced back to the car.
Plunging the gearshift into first, he took off in a screech of tires, sending dirt and dust flying into the air. They had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when the explosion rocked the ground. Jonathan jammed his foot down on the brake pedal and turned around to look. The night sky over the campsite was illuminated. Satisfied that no one would profit from the trade of the ivory cache, he smiled deviously, turned back around and drove away.
After dropping Thorpe off in Arusha with an officer seconded from a British Army regiment, they were on the road again.
“That was quite a stunt you pulled today,” Jonathan said as he steered the Dusenberg along the dry, rough road that led back to the protectorate. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”
Julia brushed back a lock of hair that the wind blew across her eyes. “But I didn’t.” I’m glad my lucky shot stopped him.”
With one arm draped over the back of the seat behind her, he gave her neck a gentle squeeze. “Luck had nothing to do with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you aim for his hand?”
“Yes, but I never expected to hit it. I’m just glad I didn’t accidentally kill him.”
“You hit what you aimed for. I wasn’t kidding when I told him you’re a good shot. It was me who taught you how to shoot like that.”
His confession when they’d been lashed to the tree came flooding back to her. They’d been lovers. Hadn’t she somehow known? The day she climbed the hill and found him digging an irrigation ditch, hadn’t she felt an unexplained attraction beyond the bare chest and taut muscles? When he kissed her in the kitchen, hadn’t the feelings felt familiar? When they kissed on the veranda, hadn’t she sensed something more between them than just the need of two lonely people? When they made love in the tent, hadn’t she felt an inexplicable sense of coming home to the safety of his arms?
She wanted to believe in those feelings, to trust them to guide her back to the man she once told she loved. There was no question but that she had developed strong feelings for him these past few weeks, but somehow, she could not form a connection between what she felt for him then and what she felt for him now.
He felt her silence strung like a live wire in the air between them and pulled the Dusenberg over to the side of the road. Turning in the seat to face her, he said, “It’s a lot to digest, but believe me, Julia, I never would have unloaded all that stuff on you if I didn’t think we were going to die.”
She answered him with a slap across the face.
Stunned, he exclaimed, “What was that for?”
“For knowing things about me that I don’t know and for keeping it from me. And what if we weren’t about to die? Would you have bothered to tell me about our past…” She didn’t know what to call it. “…association?”
All of a sudden she wanted to cry, to weep for herself and memories lost. “What do you know about it?” she snapped. “You haven’t lost anything. All you care about are elephants and those damned coffee plants. Well, the elephants are a little safer now that Roger Thorpe is out of the picture, and the money I’m paying you should keep your farm going. That should make you happy.”
“Happy?” he echoed. “Do you seriously think I’m happy about any of this?”
“At least you know who you are,” she tossed back. “You don’t have to depend on someone else telling you things about yourself. Like shooting. I didn’t know I even knew how to hold a gun, much less shoot one.”
He reached out to touch her, but she jerked away. Pressing her hands to her temples, she said, “Everything you told me about us, I remember none of it. Do you have any idea how helpless that makes me feel?” She slumped back against the seat an
d turned her head away from the bleak look on his face. After everything he’d told her, this could not be easy for him either. “I’m sorry,” she said in a flat voice. “After all you’ve done for me I have no right to take my frustrations out on you.”
“You know, Julia,” he said softly, “I may have taught you how to shoot, but you didn’t get your courage from me. Where do you suppose that came from? From what you told me, you come from a long line of indomitable Rowans. If my memory is correct, all the way back to Matthew de Rowenne who believed the red glass carried a curse.”
The anger drained out of her, leaving a sort of resigned calm. “And before that to Fia who was rescued from the siege of Paris by Rowan, a nobleman who wanted to be a weapon-smith.”
“It seems to me,” said Jonathan, “that you inherited from them more than just an heirloom of red glass.”
Julia’s hand went up to caress the artifact around her neck. She rubbed her thumb over the words etched into the glass and heaved a beleaguered sigh. “It certainly seems I’ve been going in circles for the last two years, so I guess that part of the palindrome has come true for me, in my way, as it did for all the Rowans in theirs. But I can’t figure out what significance the second part of the palindrome holds for me. And are consumed by fire.” She shrugged fatalistically. “Maybe I’ll never know.”
He cast a slow, measured look over her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t entirely true, but it would have to do.
“Then let’s go home.”
She turned to look at him then. “Home?”
He was as surprised at his choice of words as she was. “I meant back to the farm.” He thrust the gearshift into first, and they got back on the road that led to the Ngong hills.
Chapter Twenty-Two
From where he sat on the veranda sipping coffee and listening to the strains of Beethoven from the gramophone, Jonathan had a clear view of the countryside. This was Africa. His Africa. This sweltering inferno belonged to him, not to the American millionaires who came to shoot zebra and lion, nor to the Boer War veterans who migrated from South Africa, nor to the white men who fought their wars across the savannahs and through the jungles, each without a thought to the soul of the land. Whatever happened, however big the newly established colony grew, Africa would always be home.
A gray, early-morning mist lay upon the hills. Overhead, the sky was brightening, with not a rain cloud in sight. The tiny lines etched around the corners of Jonathan’s eyes deepened when he frowned.
Julia was wrong when she said he hadn’t lost anything. He’d already lost half his crop to the drought, and the remaining plants would not last much longer without rain despite the efforts of the Kikuyu workers who labored to keep them alive. His victory over Roger Thorpe left a hollow feeling in the pit of his belly, for he knew that one poacher driven out of business would not stop others. And then there was Julia herself. Although she hadn’t come right out and said so, it seemed like a foregone conclusion that she would be leaving.
From over the rim of his china cup he saw a hazy figure coming up the road that led to the house. He recognized the stiff walk of the Masai, the motion of one foot placed in front of the other, the familiar sparseness of body, the supple movement of arms and long wrists. The figure neared, becoming more distinct. It was easy now to see the smooth, high cheekbones, the proud bearing in the unlined face, the hair long and braided into a single pigtail hanging over one shoulder, the thin leather strap around his forehead, the red shuka wrapped around the tall, lean body, the strands of brightly colored beads around his neck, the simple sandals on his feet, and the ball-ended club carried in his hand.
Kibbi climbed the steps to the veranda and sat down in the white wicker rocker.
Jonathan looked at his friend. “It never ceases to amaze me that you show no signs of aging.”
The Masai smiled slyly. “My wives keep me young.”
“And here I thought it was all that milk and blood you drink.”
“That, too.” Nodding toward the scarlet Dusenberg parked beneath a tree, Kibbi asked, “Where did that come from?”
“You mean who did it come from. Roger Thorpe.”
“You got him?”
“I did. The Commissioner of Police and Prisons in Dar Es Salaam can determine his fate. I’ll take that thing to Nairobi and let the governor decide what to do with it.”
“When did you return?” Kibbi asked.
“Yesterday.”
“The woman is with you?”
“She’s inside, packing I suppose. I’ve lost her again, Kibbi. Just like I’m going to lose the farm. And there’s not a blasted thing I can do about it.”
“However much it rains on you, no wild banana tree will grow on your head.”
Jonathan gave his friend an unappreciative look. “Thanks for those words of Masai wisdom, whatever it means.”
“It means, Jonathan, that no matter how much rain falls in your life, you will always be you. You have fought droughts, poachers, lions, even yourself. But the Jonathan I know does not give up so easily. As my people say, a zebra carries his strips everywhere. You cannot change who you are. The rains will come when they are ready, Jonathan. There is nothing you can do about that. If you lose this crop, you can plant a new one. But the woman, do you want her?”
“More than I’ve ever wanted anything,” Jonathan admitted. “I’m tired of being alone. I need someone in my life. I need her. You should have seen her, Kibbi. She was so brave. She’s magnificent.”
“Then you must do something about it.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried? I kept my silence to protect her emotional wellbeing, and she had no memory of me. I told her about how it was between us the first time she was here, and she still has no memory of me. Memory isn’t like the rains, Kibbi. What if it never comes?”
“Then you will build from this moment on. You must discuss this with her. A house that is not discussed cannot be built.”
“Will you stop with the proverbs?” Jonathan complained. “This is my life we’re talking about.”
“The lion killed one of my cattle the other night,” Kibbi said, abruptly changing the subject.
Jonathan expelled a frustrated sigh. “Black and Tan, yeah, I still have to deal with him. It shouldn’t be too difficult picking up his trail now that I know he’s in the area.”
The rocker creaked when Kibbi got up. “I am hungry. Where is that mean-tempered cook?”
“Raj Singh is in the kitchen,” Jonathan replied. “With her, most likely. He’s taken a shine to her. You should have seen him yesterday when we returned. He came running outside calling her Memsahib as if she’s the lady of the house. And Molo made a bloody fool of himself over her.”
Kibbi left Jonathan muttering to himself on the veranda. In the kitchen he found Raj Singh standing over a pot on the stove and Julia seated at the table snapping the ends off beans in a bowl.
At the sight of the Masai, Julia gave him a warm smile and greeted him in his language. “Jambo.”
“It is good to see you again,” Kibbi said. “But I hear you are leaving.”
“Well…” she hedged.
“Jonathan is outside. I am sure he will want to hear whatever you have to say.” At her hesitation, he added, “It takes courage to speak from the heart, but I also hear you are a brave woman.”
“Kibbi, I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Then do not do so.”
“I can’t give him what he wants.”
“What a man wants and what he needs are not always the same thing. How do you know what he wants until you ask him?”
Unable to argue with such logic, she pushed the bowl of beans aside and rose. “Asante sana,” she said, smiling.
Raj Singh turned from the stove and gave Kibbi a scowling look. “You have her thanking you in Swahili,” he griped. “What will you have her do next, wear animal skins?”
“Better than a turban,” the other tossed back.
Julia left them squabbling with each other. She opened the door to the veranda and stopped just shy of stepping outside. Jonathan sat in a wicker chair gazing out upon the expanse of land that stretched beyond the house toward the hills with Molo asleep at his feet. For several long moments she stood in the doorway studying him. His profile was etched against the panorama of earth and sky. Sunlight radiance fell across his rugged, weather-tanned face, accentuating the sweep of black lashes over his blue eyes and the strong line of his jaw. An early-morning wind tossed sandy brown locks across his forehead.
Her heart thumped with a wildness like that of Africa itself. Instantly, the intimacies they had shared rushed back to her, reddening her cheeks and spreading heat throughout her body. She could still feel his hands sliding over her naked flesh, the rasp of calluses and probing fingers, the memory bringing a surge of pleasure and a longing so intense it made her shudder.
There were so many things she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted him to understand, but the impact of seeing him there like that caused her to waver. She was about to step quietly back into the house when he looked up and saw her.
“I like to sit out here and watch the sun rise,” he said. He placed the coffee cup aside, his eyes pinning her to her spot.
She felt tiny pinpricks of his power all over her skin. She felt safe with him and yet in danger of losing herself. Coming slowly forward, she sat down in the chair beside him.
“Did I hear rain last night?” she asked.
“The wind in the maize fields sounds like rain.”
She glanced skyward. “Any sign of it?”
“I thought I smelled it on the wind before dawn, but…” He shook his head. “No. No rain.”
She heard the disillusionment in his voice and felt a stab of guilt for the part she played in it. “Kibbi thought we might have things to discuss.”
He gave a short laugh. “Did he spout Masai proverbs for you?”
“No. But he’s right.” And recalling the Masai’s words, she screwed up her courage and asked, “What do you want for yourself, Jonathan?”