The Maverick's Bride

by Catherine Palmer

  “Emma, come here.” Adam patted a blanket he had spread near the fire. Too numb to resist, Emma collapsed into the cradle of his arms. He tilted her head and wiped her cheeks with a soft handkerchief…and suddenly it was as though she were a little girl again—a child cradled in a different man’s arms while he dried her tears with his big white hankie.

  “My…my father used to—” Emma bit off the sentence and convulsed into sobs.

  “Tell me about your father.” Adam’s voice was low but firm.

  “It was different before.” Hoping to calm herself, Emma put the mug to her lips and sipped the hot tea. “We were a family once…before my mother died. Before the duke. My mother met him on holiday on the Continent. They were staying at a spa in Bavaria, and…”

  Adam dabbed the handkerchief across Emma’s cheeks again. “And your mother fell in love with the duke.”

  “She swore she never meant to care for him. She begged my father to release her, but he refused. So she ran away.”

  “Where were you and Cissy?”

  “With Aunt Prue during the worst of it. My father went to find my mother, and he…he shot the duke in a duel and brought my mother home.”

  The words poured out, their release easing her pent-up emotion. The pain over her mother’s subsequent death had tormented Emma, yet she had never told anyone the whole story. “After that my mother grew ill, very ill. She lay in her bed at our country home—saying nothing, eating and drinking nothing—until she died.”

  “And from then on, your father was—”

  “Angry.” Emma took another sip of tea. “He feared that Cissy and I would do what our mother had done. There was justification in his worry. Men adore Cissy. She’s forever threatening to run off with one or another of them. Father was irate all the time, and she longed to escape. I was to keep watch over Cissy, but I never did it well. Now look.”

  Emma’s tears welled again. Adam took the mug from her hand and set it on the ground. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek. “Your father was angry at himself for not treating your mother right. Maybe he didn’t treasure her love for him the way a man should.”

  Adam’s voice lulled her as he went on. “He wanted you to protect Cissy—and yourself—and when you failed, he saw himself failing all over again. That’s why he hurt you, Emma. He was angry with himself, more than with you. And still hurting over your mother.”

  Emma swallowed. She had never looked at it that way before. All she had known was the brunt of her father’s fury and she couldn’t see beyond it. Even now her mind felt fogged and befuddled. Cissy’s face kept emerging in the flickering flames of the campfire.

  “I’ve lost my sister forever,” she whispered. “This country is too big and I have no way to find her.”

  “I talked to Burkstaller,” Adam said quietly, his breath warming the hair around Emma’s ear. “Bauer deserted his battalion the night they left Mombasa. He was unhappy, got into a brawl with his commanding officer. No one saw him go, but Burkstaller told me everyone thinks he left to find the woman he had been seen with on the ship…the Englishwoman.”

  Emma went rigid in Adam’s arms. “How did you find out?”

  “I paid Burkstaller to tell me,” he answered. “With your money.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You paid Burkstaller?” Emma was incredulous. “But I gave you a check.”

  “There was money in your little bag.”

  “That’s my property. You stole my money.” She pushed her way out of Adam’s arms. “You robbed me. Nicholas said you would. I didn’t believe him, but now I see it must be true.”

  “Emma, did you hear what I just said?” Adam stood beside her. “Dirk Bauer never made it to the border. The battalion was marching down the coast, and he slipped away the night before Cissy thought she heard him calling.”

  “Could he have made it to Tsavo station by the following night?” Emma’s heart beat louder, throbbing in her ears.

  “If he were on horseback, he might have done it. There are a lot of villages along the coast. He could have found a horse.”

  Emma held her breath and closed her eyes. Dirk could have found a horse. He could have ridden to Tsavo by the next night. He could have been calling Cissy’s name outside the railcar.

  “Then she must be alive!” Emma exclaimed. “She’s with Dirk. I knew it!”

  “Now, Emma, don’t be too hasty.”

  “Cissy!” Emma hugged herself.

  Spotting Soapy near the fire, she danced over and gave him a warm hug. “My sister!” she cried. “Cissy is alive!”

  “Ma’am, we ain’t found her yet.” Soapy reached for his hat as it began to slip from his head. “We still got all of Africa to look for her in, remember.”

  The words penetrated Emma’s joy. She sobered as she realized they hadn’t found Cissy and they had no idea where to look.

  Nicholas’s caution echoed again. Believe me, if your sister was abducted by Germans, you can be certain your so-called protector knows about it. She could almost hear him add, “King will say the German army told him Dirk Bauer deserted. It’s a ruse.”

  She stared across the plain toward the military compound. Was Dirk there after all? Was Cissy there, too, or being hidden somewhere else? Did Adam know where she was even now? He had taken her money and given it to his German friend. What else might he do?

  “Adam?” Her voice tinkled like a thin, broken bell.

  He touched her elbow. “You’ll do better with a meal and a good night’s sleep.”

  As he spoke, the men were gathering around the fire. Soapy dished out bowls of stew and everyone ate. Before long, Emma lay in her customary place between Adam and Soapy. She had no opportunity to question Adam again, but her thoughts whirled. Although she did not expect to sleep at all, sometime in the night she stirred a little and realized she was curled in Adam’s arms.

  The sun’s rays had just slipped over the horizon to cast a pink tinge on the snow of Kilimanjaro when Emma woke to the sound of low voices. She raised on one elbow and studied two figures standing behind a wagon. She recognized the deep timbre of Adam’s voice. The other man was Burkstaller.

  A shiver raced through Emma as she got to her knees, gathered her skirts and ran in a crouch across the dewy grass. When she reached the side of the wagon, she dropped to the ground and gripped the wooden wheel.

  “And what did they say?” Adam asked.

  “Nothing,” Burkstaller answered in English. He was smoking a small cigar that smelled dreadful. “They said they had found no sign of the woman.”

  “And the soldier—Bauer?”

  “The same. They know nothing of his whereabouts.”

  Emma swallowed. Who was the German talking about?

  “Anything else?” Adam asked.

  “You are followed.”

  “Bond?”

  The German nodded. “He left Mombasa two days ago.”

  Adam muttered something under his breath, then reached into his back pocket. “Here’s the rest of the money. Keep the information quiet for a while, will you?”

  “Of course, my friend.” The German dropped his cigar onto the ground. “Good luck with your search.”

  “Ma’am?” The word was spoken loudly behind Emma. Gasping, she turned to find Soapy standing with a lantern. In a moment, Adam was beside him and the German had vanished.

  “Emma?” Adam’s voice was harsh. “What are you doing out here?”

  “What are you doing?” she snapped back. “I heard every word you said to that German, Adam King. I know it all.”

  “Good. Then I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  He started to walk away, but she caught his arm. “Stop right there and tell me what you were talking about.”

  “I thought you heard it all.” He shrugged. “I had Burkstaller telegraph Delamere in Mombasa—a message to keep an eye on the search for your sister.”

  “You’re trying to get the Crown involved, aren�
�t you? You mean to incite trouble in the protectorate.”

  “What are you talking about?” Adam crossed his arms over his chest. “Burkstaller came this morning to tell me about the telegraphed answer from Delamere. He said the British haven’t found any sign of Cissy. Nothing. I took that as good news. She might still be alive. Delamere said no one has seen anything of Dirk Bauer, either. That means we have two missing people who just might be together.”

  “And you paid him for this news?” Emma asked. “You paid Burkstaller?”

  He clamped a hand on her shoulder and dropped his voice. “You don’t get a German officer to give you information about his battalion and telegraph the British government in the middle of the night for free.”

  Adam glared at her until Emma looked away. “What about Nicholas?”

  “You heard what Burkstaller told me. Bond is following us.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he wants you. Hasn’t he told you that enough times himself? He thinks I’m a no-good skunk out to steal you blind and he wants to save your poor helpless little—”

  “Boss.” Soapy stepped forward and laid a hand on Adam’s arm. He gave him a cup of steaming coffee. “We ain’t gonna profit none by stirrin’ things up with Nick Bond. You told me that yourself.”

  Adam snorted in disgust. “What else, Emma? Can we get on with this day now?”

  She stared at him in silence. The rising sun had lit his blue eyes with a fiery glow that seemed to mirror the anger in his heart. What had passed between him and Nicholas? she wondered for the hundredth time. Who was the man to trust, if either?

  “Burkstaller,” she said at last. “How do you know him?”

  “I met him in Mombasa five years ago.” Adam took a sip of coffee. “He had just arrived from Germany. He left a woman behind—his wife, I think. He was drunk and rowdy.”

  “The boss took him back to Seastar and—”

  “That’s enough, Soapy. Burkstaller and I got to know each other.”

  “I see.” Emma longed to ask him all the questions in her heart. Had she misread the conversation as badly as Adam would have her think?

  Never mind, she thought. The truth would come out with time. Either they would find Cissy and Dirk, or they would not. The British government might step forward and accuse the Germans of duplicity, or it might not. Nothing could be certain until it happened.

  The camp had begun to rouse, and Emma could see men loading the wagons. Soapy wandered over to the fire, stirred it and started pulling out pots and pans. She knelt and began rolling up her blankets.

  “I thought we would head for my ranch.”

  Emma squinted into the sun to find Adam standing behind her. “What about my sister?”

  “We’ll look along the way. Stopping in villages, talking to people.”

  She nodded. What else could they do? If Adam was telling her the truth, there was little point in returning to Tsavo or to Mombasa. Delamere had reported no news of Cissy or Dirk. They would learn nothing else from the Germans. Continuing searching the trackless plains was the only option. At least Adam’s ranch gave them a destination.

  The days and nights blurred into one another as the wagon train rolled away from Kilimanjaro across the burning plains of the protectorate. Adam spoke with the people of every scattered village they passed. No one had seen or heard of a white woman in the area.

  For Emma’s benefit, Soapy told the story of his arrival in Africa. He related how happy he had felt to get the letter asking him to come, how seasick he had been on the ship, how good it was to sit by the campfire with his friend. The little cook talked about the King family in Texas, and he repeated the story of how the Kings took in all the brothers and sisters when their father died.

  Soapy didn’t mention the painful moment when Adam had left his parents’ home in Texas. Adam’s father had always said that a man needed to be free. But when he chose not to take over the family ranch but to make his own way in life, his father had been disappointed.

  “Let him go, Ma,” Adam heard him say. “Just let the good-for-nothing go. Don’t ever let anybody get ahold of your heart. They’re sure to fail you—even your own son.”

  The words had hurt, and they were seared on Adam’s mind like a brand on a calf. Long ago, he had let Clarissa into his heart, but his father’s warning had proven true. So he had stifled the feeling that anyone could matter to him. Until Emma.

  From the moment Adam met her on the wharf in Mombasa, Emma Pickering had beguiled and fascinated him. The day the carriage axle broke and she tumbled onto the sand, he understood how much she meant to him. The thought of losing Emma was a torment that led him to accept her belief that God loved and cared for His creation. Now Adam prayed daily, hourly for her protection.

  And his own release. He begged God to excise the woman from the place she had taken in his heart. His inability to detach from Emma—his certainty he could never do so—caused a palpable ache he could not dispel.

  Every evening Soapy would stretch out by the fire, shake his head and groan, “I’m afraid we’re almost back to civilization.” Adam would nod and answer, “Nearly.”

  Finally one morning he looked at his compass and pointed toward a small knobbed hill in the distance. A familiar grove of acacias grew beyond it at the base of another low rise. In the shimmering sunlight he made out a faint area of glistening white.

  “King Farm,” he told Emma. “My place.”

  At mid-afternoon they rode up to the fence enclosing the cluster of whitewashed buildings. Soapy swung down from his horse and lifted the wire that secured the gate. One by one the wagons rolled into the farm.

  “She stretches north and south,” Adam explained, his eye on the rambling white cottage atop the rise. “Twenty thousand acres of prime grassland. Water’s scarce here, but I’ve brought two pumps and I’m collecting rainwater in my tanks. I plan to build a dairy when the railway comes through here on its way to Nairobi station.”

  He studied the fine lines of Emma’s profile as he spoke. Her eyes were trancelike, as if she were seeing things he couldn’t.

  “I drive my cattle to the coast now,” he told her. “But one day I’ll have a station right down there.” He pointed to a level spot in the distance. “The cattle will go by train. I’m counting on that railway.”

  Adam looked at Emma and wondered if she knew what he was really saying. Why would he stir up trouble for the protectorate when his very existence depended on the British railway? Why would he work with Germans against the English?

  “This is my home,” he declared. “I will defend her with my life.”

  Like other homes in this equatorial land, Adam’s had a shiny tin roof, whitewashed walls and a wide verandah. But he had built his house of stone—to last forever.

  He dismounted and lifted his hands to Emma. She slid into his arms. For one moment they stood together, their eyes taking in the lines of the home, their arms entwined. Then around the corner of the verandah bounded two huge Irish wolfhounds, their feet sliding out from under them as they raced toward their master. Barking in excitement, they barreled down the steps and leaped on Adam.

  “Hey! Whoa, there, Theseus!” He stumbled backward, laughing. The larger of the dogs jumped up to lick his cheek, and his hat tumbled onto the ground. “Emma, meet Theseus. And this one’s Hercules.”

  “We just call ’em Seus and Herc, ma’am,” Soapy confided. “Another one of them foreign languages the boss picked up somewheres. Named his dogs some heathen tongue.”

  The little cowboy ambled off, leading the horses toward the stables behind the house.

  Adam spotted two Africans waiting for him on the verandah. One wore a floor-length white cotton caftan and a red fez. The other was dressed in skins. His hair was plaited and ochered and he carried a long, leaf-bladed spear in his right hand.

  Taking Emma’s elbow, Adam escorted her up the path. She bent and petted the fawning wolfhounds before ascending to the verandah
.

  “Emma, I want you to meet my top men.” He gestured toward the skin-clad warrior. “This is Lenana, the ranch foreman. He’s a Samburu, a close relative of the Maasai tribe. They live to the west. Most of the villagers to the east are Wakamba, like Jackson here.”

  “Jackson?” She sounded surprised.

  “He worked for missionaries in the interior for a couple of years. He took that name when he was baptized. Jackson runs the house, takes care of the cooking and cleaning and all that.”

  “Jambo,” Emma said, using the Swahili greeting.

  “Jambo, memsahib,” Jackson replied. “Welcome.”

  “He learned English from the missionaries,” Adam explained. “Jackson will show you your room. When you’re ready, there’s someone I want you to take a look at.”

  “Tolito?”

  Adam nodded, wondering how she learned the name. But Jackson was already leading her into the house. So he signaled to Lenana, and the two men strode down the verandah steps toward the wagons at the base of the hill.

  “This way, please,” Jackson said. Emma followed the sweeping white caftan through the house. The design of the home was spectacular—a flagstone entryway, smooth wooden floors, white walls, fireplaces in every room. Most rooms opened onto a verandah, and each verandah framed a magnificent view of Africa. Every detail of the dwelling had been thought out and executed to perfection…yet, unlike Adam’s house at Seastar, this one had almost no furnishings.

  The rooms were bare save a few wooden chairs, a table, a straw mat and an old lamp. The bedrooms Emma passed as she accompanied Jackson down the long hallway stood empty. But when they came to a large room near the back of the house, Jackson pushed open the door as if showing Emma an inner temple.

  “The room of Bwana King,” he said in a hushed voice.

  Emma peered around the door at the enormous bed stationed against one wall. A writing desk stood beside the door. Boxes of books lay scattered about on the floor. Several volumes were stacked on the desk beside sheets of writing paper.