Better face Mother’s pet leopard than Mother herself. She snatched up the shirt on the top of the pile and held it to her bodice, smoothing it over herself in inspection.
She grimaced. If only Valah and Halamme could see her now!
Trent sat on the veranda stairs, one knee bent to prop up his arm. He chewed a stem of grass and studied the way the sunlight glinted off the expanse of the ocean. The way the clouds stacked up on the horizon like sheep at a feeding trough. The way The Wasp and The Bee bobbed on the rising tide down at the wharf. This was a good place Lew had chosen for his outpost.
Garrett would have The Bee ready to sail by tomorrow. But he’d seen Khalifa and his men set off up the river earlier. He sighed. The man would have at least a day’s head start on him.
Behind him down the porch a door opened and closed, and soft footsteps headed his way.
He glanced at the shadow cast by the ebony tree to his left. It had been a bit more than ten minutes, but at least he hadn’t had to go in after her. Tossing aside the blade, he stood and turned to face her.
The sight of her froze him in place, and he swallowed involuntarily.
She was much smaller than he’d realized. The shirt and pants belonged to the smallest man on his crew, but she’d had to turn back the cuffs of the sleeves and the hems several times, and the waist of the pants she’d cinched tight with a makeshift rope belt. The boots she held in one hand, and an apologetic look squinted one eye as she offered them toward him.
“I’ve tried, Captain. I really have, as you can see.” She swept a hand down herself. “But I’d be much safer in my skirts than gallivanting in this getup.” She flicked the rolled-back cuff at one wrist. “And these boots…I can’t even cinch them tight enough to keep my feet from slipping around. I’ll have blisters of a surety if I wear them. Will you please tell Papa that I tried, but it simply isn’t going to work?”
Weariness weighed down her features.
His heart went out to her. She was trying. And in a tough spot, to be sure, with her father dying and her disappointment at not being able to talk the man into going back home. Well he recounted the days before his own mother passed. He’d been much younger, but he remembered the uncertainty of what the future would hold, the dread of not having her there anymore, and the sorrow of looming loss.
And RyAnne carried the extra burden of the fact that her father seemed to be the only parent who cared for her. At least his own father had been loving, even though much of their time had been spent at sea.
Now as he assessed her once more, he realized he would need to fetch a set of Dabu’s clothes, but even the lad’s boots would be too big for the dainty feet visible beneath the turned-back cuffs of her breeches.
He took the pair of boots she’d held out. “You’ll have to wear your own boots. For today those clothes will have to do, but I will bring something of a better fit tomorrow.”
“I’m so touched by your generosity, Captain!” She laid a hand over her chest and batted her eyelashes at him.
He smirked at her dripping sarcasm. “The light is fading, Miss Hunter…”
She huffed and spun back toward her doorway. “Fetching my boots will only take me a moment.”
When she returned, he was thankful to see that her boots at least rose to her ankles. They wouldn’t be as safe as the calf-height boots he’d given her, but they would have to do until he could have another pair made for her.
Giving her a nod, he slung his Henry over his shoulder and then turned and led the way up the path through the village and to the other side.
RyAnne followed the captain, doing her best to push down her discomfort at appearing in public in men’s attire. But the farther they went on the narrow path through tall grass that in most places soared above her head, the more she realized she would have constantly been fighting her hoops. And the thought of some creature crawling under her skirts sent a shiver through her that nearly jarred her teeth.
As they walked, the captain alternately talked and whacked vegetation with his machete. “When you are moving through grass like this, it is best to make as much noise as possible. Snakes will be afraid of the sound and move away from it.”
Snakes? She shuddered and glanced down the path behind her, stepping so close behind the captain that she nearly tromped on his heels.
“If you come upon a lion, or cat of any sort, never turn your back on it. They are much less likely to attack if you are facing them. And once we are on our way, no straggling off away from the main group. Lions will stalk a herd for hours, waiting for one to wander off alone so they can pick it off.”
She inched a little closer to him, tossing another check over her shoulder. Were the two of them a big enough “herd” to keep her from getting “picked off”?
With the machete, Trent whacked at a tangle of vines growing across the trail ahead of him. “The Cape buffalo, on the other hand, if you sense one getting agitated, don’t look it in the face. They will take that as a challenge, and that is a fight you don’t want to initiate!”
She frowned at his back. Weren’t buffalo just large cows? How dangerous could one be?
He gave another forceful swing of the blade. “I’ve seen a man torn in two by the horns of a Cape.”
Her eyes widened. No challenging buffaloes, of a certainty.
“Be careful of moving between taller bushes or trees without looking first. One bite from some of these spiders and there won’t be anything anyone can do for you.”
Ugh. Spiders were infinitely worse than snakes! She did tromp on his heel that time.
He stopped and faced her. “Miss Hunter. A little space, if you please.”
She allowed her raised brows to reveal her irritation. “Captain, if you want space, you would do well to cease expounding on every dangerous creature that inhabits the Continent!”
Humor ticked up one corner of his mouth. “Well, if I succeed in ingraining some caution into that pr—” All amusement faded from his expression as quickly as it had arisen.
She rolled her lips in and pressed them together. What had he been about to say? Surely not…
He turned and resumed chopping his way through the vegetation. “I do not mean to make you fear, Miss Hunter. But a little caution goes a long ways toward safety. Something you showed a distinct lack of at the river the other day.”
Her chin lifted. “Two lives were at stake!”
“There’s where you are wrong. Three lives were at stake the minute you waded into that water.”
“I couldn’t just let them die!”
“I’m not saying you should have. I’m saying a gun and the knowledge of how to use it would have made a dangerous situation less hazardous. That’s why we are here.” He gestured ahead to a clearing under some flat-topped acacia trees. “And we’ve arrived.” He stepped from the tall grass and sheathed his machete.
Dropping his pack to the ground and unslinging the rifle from across his shoulders, he thrust it toward her. “You familiarize yourself with the weapon while I get a target set up for you.”
She started to turn the gun to examine it, but he grabbed the muzzle swinging his way and held it still. “Never aim your gun at something unless you intend to shoot it, Miss Hunter.”
She quirked one eyebrow and swung the muzzle toward him once more, not all the way, but just enough to let him know what thought had occurred to her.
He grinned outright. “You shoot me out here, and my body may never be found, but then you’d have to find your way back to the estate through all those lion-, snake-, and spider-infested grasslands. And your body will likely never be found either.”
She grinned and dropped the muzzle toward the ground. “Touché! But I would never shoot you, Captain.”
He gave a mocking bow, touching his forehead in thanks.
“Then who would I call upon the next time I needed help?”
An ironic smile flattened his lips as he straightened. “Who indeed?”
For a
long moment, he studied her with a warm gaze, his amusement slowly seeping from his features. His countenance softened, and he tucked one side of his lower lip between his teeth.
She held her breath, every muscle in her body tightening up as though ready to spring. Her mouth was suddenly as dry as Sahara sand, and she swallowed.
His gaze roamed to her upswept curls. He reached out to pluck something from her hair, stepping closer as he did so. He held up a bit of grass for her to see, twirling it in his fingers.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“My pleasure, Miss Hunter.” He flicked the grass aside and hooked his thumbs into the belt at his waist, but didn’t step back. His searching gaze roamed over her face.
She could have counted every heartbeat loudly rapping in her ears, were they not skipping by so quickly.
His focus paused on her lips. “RyAnne…”
He said it so softly that she wouldn’t have heard the word if all her attention hadn’t been focused on him.
He lifted one hand to her cheek, but his fingers had barely made contact, when a muscle bunched in his jaw and he jerked back and spun away.
A strange disappointment drained her will to keep her eyes open. She pulled in a long, slow breath and tipped her face to catch the bit of breeze coming from her left.
And she’d thought her mouth had been dry a moment ago!
What had just happened?
When she regained the will to open her eyes, the captain stood a few paces away, studying her as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.” He lifted his hand in a helpless gesture. “There are reasons why it wouldn’t be good to…” He turned his attention to the toe of his boot, methodically kicking at the dirt.
She wasn’t sure how to respond. She’d been battling a rising estimation of the man for weeks now, but prior to that she’d always thought of him as a nosy big brother.
This was twice now he’d made advances, only to pull away at the last moment.
Then there was Brayden to consider… She dare not forget about Brayden. She’d promised him she’d consider his proposal seriously this time.
So, in truth, it was better this way.
And yet there was the disappointment and hurt still coursing through her. And the rapid pounding of her pulse still beating in her ears.
After all her years with Mother, she should be used to rejection by now. But try as she might with lifted chin and thrown back shoulders, she couldn’t lessen the sting of it. “Can we just…” She raised the rifle and nodded toward the acacia trees behind him.
He cleared his throat, still studying her, but she refused to meet his perusal. Instead she turned all her attention to the gun in her hands, as though it were of utmost interest to her.
The stock was smooth, warm mahogany snugged tight between a brass magazine and a curved brass shoulder plate. She ran one finger over a dark indentation in the wood and rubbed her palm over the brass. If he and Papa wanted her to learn to shoot, she would show them she could do the job well.
When she looked back up, Trent— She gritted her teeth. Captain Dawson! Captain Dawson was digging through the pack he’d set down earlier.
He pulled out a canteen and offered it toward her. “Thirsty?”
She took it. “Thank you.”
While she drank, he pulled out a large section of canvas and nailed it to one of the acacia trunks. Using a small chunk of red clay from the base of the towering anthill nearby, he drew a circle in the center of the material and filled it in with swift strokes. Then he paced off ten long strides and dug a line in the dirt with the heel of his boot. “We’ll start right here.”
Wiping her mouth with the back of one hand, she handed the canteen to him.
He took several long drinks and then set it down on a rock and met her gaze. He took the rifle from her but didn’t step away. “RyAnne, I didn’t mean to—”
“Captain Dawson, I am here to learn to shoot, and nothing more.”
With a blink, he stepped back. “Yes. Good.”
Pushing down the urge to apologize, she folded her arms and waited.
Telltale irritation bunched the muscles of his jaw, but he lifted the rifle. “This”—he tapped the back of the stock—“goes in tight against your shoulder.” He illustrated. “Good and tight, because there will be recoil, and it will be painful if you hold it too loose.” He lifted his right hand in the air. “Right hand goes to the trigger, like so. Left hand supports the rifle here under the brass. Don’t hold the barrel, or you’ll get burnt.”
She sighed. So he was back to business. She smirked at her own wavering emotions. She’d just told him she was only here to learn to shoot, but she’d hoped he might have something more to say on the subject, she supposed.
He didn’t miss a beat. “Your cheek goes here against the smooth part of the stock, and you sight down the barrel, lining up the two pins on your target. Jerking on the trigger pulls off your aim. Instead, take a deep breath. Let it out, and slowly squeeze the trigger.”
He fired, and the sound was so loud she cringed, covering her ears. But a black dot now marred the center of the red clay circle he’d drawn earlier.
He looked over at her. “You’ll get used to the sound. Here.” Handing her the weapon, he motioned for her to step into his place.
And she was suddenly all thumbs. She gritted her teeth. She could do this. But the gun was much heavier than she’d anticipated, and the barrel wavered.
“Steady.”
She adjusted her stance and put more effort into holding the barrel still. Biting her tongue between her teeth, she squinted along the sights, trying to form a line between them and her target. She held her breath, eased it out, and then put pressure on the trigger. The loud bang and the jolt to her shoulder happened almost simultaneously. She staggered back, rubbing at the pain but grinning from ear to ear because a second black hole now pierced the canvas. Not as close to center as his had been, but she’d managed to nick the red circle.
He nodded his approval but only said, “This time make sure the butt is tighter against your shoulder. Try again.”
RyAnne changed back into her dress as soon as they returned, and had never been happier to put on a set of hoops in her entire life. Now she relished the feel of the material swishing about her legs as she hurried down the porch to check on Nyanja before dinner.
Both her arms ached terribly—the left from supporting the rifle and the right from taking the brunt of the recoil so often, but Captain Dawson hadn’t let her quit until they’d shot all fifteen cartridges the rifle held, and his pistol several times after that.
A maid sat by Nyanja’s bed when she quietly pushed the door open, and with a start RyAnne realized it was the same woman they’d spoken to in the village the other night.
She smiled at the maid and spoke in Kiswahili. “Hello again. What is your name?”
The woman stood and dipped her head deferentially. “Commodore Cornwall calls me June.”
“June, I am RyAnne.” She lifted the blankets to examine the stub of the leg. “How is she?”
“Her fever rises, madam.”
“Yes. I expected that.” RyAnne touched the patient’s forehead. Warm, but not overly so.
The woman stirred and moaned in her sleep.
RyAnne looked at the maid. “I will mix her a tonic for the fever. Has she complained of pain? It has been a while since I gave her aught for it.”
“Yes, madam.”
“I will put some opiate in too, then. The bandage looks good. When did you last change it?”
“Only an hour ago.”
“That’s good. Thank you.” RyAnne mixed the draught and then leaned over the patient, encouraging her to wake and drink.
Nyanja opened her eyes but rolled her head from side to side and moaned audibly.
“I’m sorry—I know you must be hurting. This will help with the pain and let you rest easier.” She held the cup to the woman’s lips.
The maid said something
to Nyanja in a language RyAnne didn’t recognize, but it seemed to penetrate the woman’s fever-numbed senses, for she finally opened her mouth and drank the draught. RyAnne was just pulling away when the woman clutched at her arm.
“Zikomo.” She whispered the word and then slumped back against the pillow, already sound asleep.
RyAnne lifted a questioning gaze to the maid.
“She says thank you, madam. I told her how you saved her from the crocodile and then purchased them from Khalifa this morning.”
RyAnne smiled. “Captain Dawson did the buying, but when she wakes, you tell her she is most welcome. You speak her language, then?”
The maid nodded. “We are of the Chewa. Our tribe lives on the shores of the great Lake Nyasa.”
RyAnne’s smile widened. “More good news for her then. You can also tell her that we are just waiting for her to regain some of her strength, and then we are headed to that very lake. Captain Dawson has granted her freedom. She can go home.”
The maid looked stricken. “You are going to Lake Nyasa? There is much turmoil and danger there. Many tribes quarreling and selling each other into slavery. Much death.”
RyAnne’s smile faded. “Yes. We’ve heard. But nevertheless, we go. Papa wants to start a mission there.” She capped the powders and put them in a neat row on the table. “I will be back to check on her after dinner. You will stay with her until then?”
The maid dipped her knees. “Yes, madam.”
RyAnne lifted her skirts and hastened to the dining room, fearing she was late. And when she arrived it was indeed to find all the men waiting for her arrival in the parlor. To a man, they rose when she entered.
“I’m terribly sorry. I needed to check on the patient before dinner and—”
Commodore Cornwall waved away her apology. “Think nothing of it, dear girl. You’re here now, and all is well.” He thrust out his arm, crooked at the elbow. “May I escort you to the dining room?”
Lay Down Your Heart: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 2) Page 7