“I thought I might be able to outrun it.” He put his hand over his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Look, I didn’t want to worry you. You’ve been through a lot.”
“Should I worry?”
“A little.” He brushed back his hair and sat forward. “I guess we’d better try to make the best of it. We’ll weather it better in the back of the truck. The sand is starting to sift into the cab. I suspect it’s going to get uncomfortable in a few minutes. Come on.”
He pushed open the door. Blowing sand and grit hit him in the face. He threw his arm across his eyes and covered his nose with his hand. Tillie slid across the seat. Holding her close, he pushed her head into his shoulder and jumped with her from the cab to the desert floor. Sand bit into his cheeks and flew into his ears. It cut through the fabric of his khaki pants and stung his legs like biting ants.
Sheltering Tillie, he stumbled through ankle-deep sand to the back of the truck and flung down the tailgate. They clambered onto the corrugated steel bed; then he caught the metal gate and pulled it closed. As he tucked down the flapping canvas, Tillie fell onto the pile of blankets in a fit of coughing. He tied a handkerchief over his face.
“Tillie!” he shouted above the wind. “Put this over your nose and mouth. Breathe through it.”
He tore off his shirt and threw it to her. She clutched it to her face, breathing into it like an oxygen mask. Even in the relative sanctuary of the covered truck bed, the grit found easy entry. Sand piled up in the corners and seeped through the tiny seams of the canvas covering. Graeme rooted around in the supplies until he found a box of matches. When he struck one, their haven lit up like Ali Baba’s cave. Tillie crawled to his side and held the glass globe of the lantern while he fumbled with the wick. At last the tiny spark wobbled into flame, and she lowered the globe to keep it from blowing out.
“Hand me a blanket,” he called over the moan of the wind shuddering around and through the truck.
She helped him tie the blanket by its four corners to the steel frame over the truck bed. They worked around the inside of their shelter, layering sheets and blankets like a baklava pastry. With the insulation the sand lost most of its sting, and the wind had fewer cracks to penetrate. They stuffed bits of torn fabric into every opening.
By the time the lantern’s wick had burned to a low flame, the truck had become almost comfortable. Graeme untied the handkerchief from his face and looked around. Like some fantastic crazy-quilt tent, the inside of the truck had walls of bedding tied helter-skelter in a riot of daisies, rosebuds, tulips, and daffodils. Pink blankets, blue blankets, white sheets, and yellow-striped sheets muffled the wind and kept out the sand.
“Thank God for Mary McHugh and her sheets,” he said.
Tillie glanced up. “God again? You think maybe he took time out from ignoring his universe to provide us with some sheets?”
He smiled, glad she was still percolating. “I think maybe both of us are going to end up on our knees before this storm runs out. I should know better than to try to outguess the desert.”
“We’ll be okay. You have a Bible on you?” She read the answer in his face. “There’s something in Deuteronomy . . . something like . . . ‘In the howling waste of a wilderness, he encircled him, he cared for him, he guarded him as the pupil of his eye.’”
“Hannah taught you that?”
Her eyes softened, and he knew the African woman was never far from Tillie’s thoughts. “The Scriptures are God’s Word, she used to tell us. If you want to know him, listen to his words. We listened a lot.”
“‘The howling waste.’” He sank onto a remaining blanket beside her and tugged off his boots. He tilted one, and sand poured out. “I can’t quote the Bible, and I can’t guarantee you’re going to come out of this one okay. Sandstorms are unpredictable. I’d have made you stay in Mopti with Robert and Mary if I’d known it was coming.”
“Made me stay?” Her eyebrows rose imperiously.
He struggled with a grin. “Suggested you stay.”
“I wanted to come,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm. “Even knowing about the sandstorm wouldn’t have stopped me.”
He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. At least it was a chance to be alone with Tillie. Kind of nice actually. Enclosed, secure. Sort of a cocoon from which something beautiful might emerge.
“Mungo Park was in a sandstorm once,” he said, draping his arm around her shoulders. “He’d been held captive by the Moors for more than two months. Finally, they let him go, and a sandstorm blew up. I don’t think it lasted long, but it exhausted his supplies. He wrote that rain fell for more than an hour after the storm. He quenched his thirst by wringing out and sucking on his clothes.”
She stiffened slightly. “We have enough water, don’t we?”
He reached beside him and jostled the heavy can. “We’ll be okay for a few days.”
“A few days? Graeme, are you serious?”
“This might last a while.” He listened for a moment to the sounds outside the truck. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think the storm’s hit us yet.”
She fell back against the pile of blankets. “So what’s this? Fairy dust?”
He grinned. “Come on, Tinkerbell. We might as well get this place as comfy as we can. I’ll check out the food supply. Why don’t you see what’s in those boxes Robert packed? I’m not going to worry yet. Only trouble is, I’ve heard these storms can really change the landscape. The dunes move, and they can bury stationary objects like—”
He caught himself too late.
“Like trucks.” Her voice was dull.
“We’ll check outside now and then to see how she’s holding up.”
“And if the sand is starting to bury us alive, we’ll just take our handy-dandy shovels and dig ourselves out.”
“If we had any handy-dandy shovels.”
Muttering something, she began digging through the wooden boxes stacked against one wall of the truck bed. As she counted screwdrivers, socket wrenches, and rolls of electrical wiring, Graeme opened the baskets of food Mary had packed. There were salted crackers, hard-boiled eggs, oranges, papayas, candy bars, cans of beans, and . . .
“Bananas.” He held up a bunch, his grin broad. “We’ll live, Tillie! Manna in the wilderness.”
She groaned.
They spent at least an hour sorting through and arranging things. Tillie hung the lantern from one of the metal ribs over the truck. Then she improvised a miniature table out of an upended box and put two pillows around it for seats. She covered the box with a pillowcase decorated with sprays of roses, put the bananas in the center, and set plates and tin cups around them.
Then she turned four empty crates on their sides to make shelves, and she stacked the cans and packets of food in neat rows, everything visible and handy. She created two pallets out of the remaining blankets and pillows. She used an old rag to sweep all the sand into the corners of the truck. Then she dusted off her hands and sat back on her heels.
“Home,” she said.
“Sweet home,” he finished.
Graeme had never seen anything like it. In fact, he’d been watching her work as he checked the supply of kerosene for the lantern and rigged a couple of air vents out of some tightly woven netting he’d found. Nesting, he’d heard it called. But he had never actually seen such a transformation. The truck could now claim a dining room, kitchen, and bedroom. It was downright cozy.
Again his heart turned over in his chest. Mary McHugh had said Tillie would make her home with the man she chose. He was starting to see that “home” could be anywhere, as long as things were right between the woman and the man. Did he want to be that man in Tillie’s life? Her one love? Her home? Well, something was making his chest ache and his eyes burn.
“Now what?” she asked. She sat against the side of the truck bed, her legs folded and her hands in her lap. “We wait it out?”
“Pretend you’re stuck in an elevator.”
He hunkered down beside her. If he was ever going to work things out with this woman, if he had any hope of finding out what made her tick, he had to use this time. This chance.
“Tell me everything I need to know about Tillie Thornton,” he said.
“We already did that on the steamer.”
“There’s a lot I still don’t know.”
“Anything you don’t know, I probably don’t want to talk about.”
“How about Arthur?” He jumped into the middle of it with both feet. “You planning to marry him? You’re a loyal woman. I imagine he promised you home, security, children. A future you can count on.”
“I’m not going to marry Arthur.”
Relief washed through him like rain on desert soil. “When I threw you into the Land Rover, you thought you would. What changed your mind?”
She stretched out her legs and stared at the toes of her boots for a long time. “You,” she said finally.
“You don’t sound very happy about that.”
“I’m not sure how happy I can be over all this. I know Arthur isn’t right for me. You said some things that helped me see that.”
“So, what is right?”
“If I knew that I’d tell you.”
“What about me and you?”
She looked up at the swaying oil lantern with its wobbly flame. “I feel like that lamp sometimes. Like I’m just a tiny flame, a flicker of spirit in a great big desert. In spite of my concerns, I’ve loved the thrills of this adventure up the Niger. But I know I’m not strong enough to go on waging a crusade the way you do.”
“I’m on a crusade?”
Her eyes clouded. “We’re not on the same team.”
“I didn’t know you saw this as a game.”
“It’s not that. I’m talking about bigger things.” She ran her fingers through the sand that had sifted into the corner of the truck. “When I have a chance to stop running and I look at my life, I realize it’s not the Tuareg or the amulet or the treasure that matter. They’re insignificant.”
“What matters, Tillie?” he asked, but he already knew her answer.
“Our hearts. What we believe in. What we’re devoted to.” He could tell as she spoke the words what they cost her. Her voice was low, heavy, as though weighed down with an enormous weight. She raised her eyes to meet his, and the pain he saw there startled him. “You’re not a believer, Graeme. I am. That makes us as different as sand and water. Even when you mix those two, very little can grow. Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s barren and miserable. When the sun beats down, the water evaporates just like that. When the wind hits, the sand blows everywhere. In the end, there’s nothing left.”
He sat back, looking away from her, staring at the side of the truck. “Sounds desolate.”
“It would be. Eventually.”
He could feel her looking at him. Waiting.
He had nothing to say.
If he did what he wanted—took her in his arms, held her, kissed her—he might make her believe anything was possible. He might even convince her she was wrong. Paint dreams of a future she couldn’t resist. Teach her to betray her heart.
But he had lived too long in the desert she’d described. He was sand. Empty. Barren. If she came to him, he would drink her dry. Use her up. Leave her nothing but a mist. He wouldn’t do it on purpose. It would just happen because of who he was. And who she was.
She was a believer. She had faith in an almighty God. Hope. Love. She bathed in these things. Everything in her life was washed in the water of her beliefs. And she held that living water out to him like the Holy Grail. Beckoning, beckoning. Just one taste. Just a sip and he’d be washed, too. Clean of his past. A new man.
He closed his eyes, regret sharp and bitter. Could he believe it? He had done so many things. So much wrong. He was sand. Could that possibly change? “I guess you think I’m a lost cause.”
“Anyone who’s lost can be found. Anyone who’s blind can see. Anyone who’s willing to let his old self die can be born again. All it takes is surrender.”
“It takes faith. I’ve never believed in anything I couldn’t see or touch, Tillie. Even if God didn’t abandon the world, he’s still just some ephemeral spirit floating around.”
“A spirit who was made human in the body of Jesus Christ.”
“A guy who died on a cross.” He shook his head. “Even if you buy the idea that Jesus came to life again, you’re still dealing with a spirit—not with somebody you can touch.”
“He touches me, Graeme. His Spirit lives inside me. Even when I’m struggling—and believe me, I do—I have no doubt his power is real. I can feel that. I can rely on it. My faith is based on what I see and feel in my own life.”
“I see it in you, Tillie.” His chest felt tight. “But I don’t see it in me.”
She brushed a finger under her eye. “Sand and water. They don’t belong together.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Bedtime, then?” Her voice sounded small, trembling. Had his stoniness made her cry?
She was crawling over to her pallet. It was all he could do to keep from stopping her and taking her in his arms. Did she hurt the way he did? Did she care more than she could admit?
He slid onto his own bed. “If I could change things, I would,” he said into the darkness. “But I can’t change my past. I can’t change who I am.”
“Graeme . . .” Her voice cracked, as though her throat were dry from overuse. “Graeme, you—”
Before she could finish what she’d started to say, a blast of wind slammed the truck like an iron fist. The lantern rocked and its tiny flame blew out, plunging them into darkness. The truck shivered, rocked, swayed.
“Graeme!”
Clearly disoriented, Tillie flailed out. He caught her hand and pulled her across the gap between them.
“It’s okay, Tillie,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
TWELVE
Sand and wind continued to buffet the truck, making it rock like a toy boat in a bathtub. Tillie lay stiff in Graeme’s arms. The storm was more frightening to her than the amenoukal and his broadsword, she realized. In that arena she had been a player; now she was nothing but a prop. She felt vulnerable. Fragile. Anything could happen to her.
Dear Lord . . .
Her prayer ran out of words. Instead her heart groaned its message. Fear. Turmoil. The storm. Graeme. Graeme more than anything. Why did she have to reject him? She wanted him. Lord, she wanted him.
“Tillie, can you hear me?” His voice in her ear was low.
“Yes,” she whispered. She looked over her shoulder at the smooth line of his bare shoulder.
“I’m going to try to light the lantern.”
The muscles moved under his skin as he rose to a crouch. She sat up and watched the outline of his hand move out across the darkness and strike a match. Turning his back to her, he lifted the glass chimney and lit the wick. She let her focus wander over his tousled mane of hair as it fell down his neck and lay softly forward over the curve of his ear. His profile was lit by the gentle yellow glow that cast deep shadows in the hollow of his cheek and beneath the razor-straight line of his jaw.
He adjusted the wick to a low, steady flame. She studied his broad back with its long ridge that ran into the curved waist of his khaki trousers. She traced the lean, hard lines of his legs that tapered into the leather boots he always wore. Her eyes felt full of him.
This man, this Graeme, was the man she loved. He was the one she wanted forever.
She loved him for his strength, his bravery, his sense of adventure. She loved him for that silly grin, and those flashing blue-green eyes, and that ready tease. She loved him for his quick mind, his gentle nature, his easy laughter. And she loved him for the pain he had known, pain that had given him sensitivity and depth. He was impulsive, unpredictable. She felt that these few days with Graeme had been packed with more excitement than she’d known in her whole life.
Graeme knelt beside
Tillie again and slipped his arm around her shoulders. She saw that his eyes had gone deep and soft.
“You can relax,” he said. “We’ll be all right.”
“It sounds so angry.”
“Be glad you’re not a Targui. They’re weathering this thing in their tents.” The air inside the truck was close, but their insulation held. “It’s good to hold you, Tillie. I’ve missed you. When I’m with you, my life feels complete. And that scares me. I don’t have a lot of security to offer you. My life’s not stable. I doubt it ever will be. I don’t want it to be. I want the life I’m living right now. The adventure, the peaks of excitement, are what make life worthwhile.”
“The Mungo Park life.”
“That’s right.”
“Mungo Park left Ailie back in Scotland.”
“I never thought a woman would be a part of my life. When you grow up like I did, with the kind of father I had, you doubt your ability to build a family.”
“Even though it’s what you want most in the world.”
He was silent a long time. She imagined him taking her words, weighing them.
“Even if it’s what I want most in the world.” He shook his head. “I know I’m not a prize catch, but these days I can’t imagine myself going on without having you around.”
“Partners in adventure.”
“More than that.” He turned her to face him and gripped her shoulders. “The only security I can promise is myself. I’ll be with you, Tillie. As long as you’ll have me, I won’t leave you.”
She closed her eyes. His commitment had not come easily; his vow was no idle promise. This was a man who had distanced himself from people for many years. His pledge to her would not be broken.
Graeme opened his eyes and stared into the blackness. Breathing hard, his hands clammy, he fought away his dream of the Tuareg amenoukal. The man had been dragging Tillie behind him across a dune, her limp feet making two parallel lines like Land Rover tracks. He had run after them, following the tracks, but the sand had begun to billow and blow and erase the path faster than he could run. He was losing her. Losing her.
He raked his fingers through his damp hair. Never had he seen such total absence of light. Was he awake or asleep? Still dreaming? Tillie’s arm lay curled on her lap, her fingers resting against his hand. He touched their tips—soft, warm, real.
A Kiss of Adventure Page 20