But his fair lady was an educated career woman with a life of her own. And she intended to get on with it.
Grant thought about his small campsite, his two tents, his old Land Rover, and his battered gas cook-stove. Instead of comforting him with their familiarity and the promise of interesting work they provided, the images sent a wave of discontent through him. No matter what Alexandra claimed about her ability to live anywhere, she wouldn’t want to spend the rest of her life on a permanent camp-out. Not many people would—which was why Grant had made up his mind to be a bachelor. Busy, contented, challenged, alone.
He looked out the train window and studied the passing scenery. Wide-open savanna grasslands stretched to the horizon. The occasional baobab tree lifted long bare limbs toward a cloudless blue sky. Scrappy acacias provided scant shade for a small herd of gazelles or a lone bull elephant. Africa. No matter how lonely he might get, Grant could never give it up for paved streets and skyscrapers.
And so he would go on back to his tents and his Land Rover. He would fall asleep to the sound of lions grunting in the darkness, and he’d wake to the patter of vervet monkeys on his canvas roof. Alexandra would fly away to New York’s glass-sided buildings and clattering subways. She would sleep with the honk of passing cars, and she’d rise with the drone of street-sweeper machines and the cries of newsboys.
Grant looked down at her sun-kissed cheeks and golden hair. The leaden stone in his stomach turned over, and he swallowed against the gritty lump that had somehow lodged in his throat. That’s how it would be. That’s how it had to be.
Sultan Hamud. Konza. Ulu. The strange names of towns hardly larger than a train platform danced in Alexandra’s head as she peeled a banana. The fresh scent of the ripe fruit was like nothing she had ever smelled in a grocery store or supermarket. And the taste—the sweet white pulp melted in her mouth like butter.
“Most of this land we’re passing through once belonged to British colonists,” Grant said. His arm around her shoulder, he leaned forward to watch the passing landscape. “Traditionally, it’s a no-man’s-land between two enemy tribes—the Wakamba and the Maasai. The British took it over at the turn of the century. They had concocted the idea of establishing huge ostrich ranches.”
“For meat?”
“Feathers. You know those fancy hats women used to wear?” He swirled his fingers around his head indicating the huge, ostrich-plumed hats favored by late-Victorian and Edwardian society. “But two things conspired against the intrepid ranchers. First, lions discovered how easy it was to raid the ostrich pens and decimate the flocks.”
“Fast food?” Alexandra said.
Grant chuckled. “Carnivore style. The second problem the ranchers faced—and what really defeated them— occurred back in Europe. The automobile was invented, and its low roof made the fancy hats impractical. So that was the end of ostrich farming.”
“Did the British pack up and leave?” Alexandra peeled a second banana. She was enjoying Grant’s tales of the African countryside. In fact, with a good rest and a little food in her stomach, she had started to feel more optimistic.
“Hardly,” Grant said. “The colonists turned to cattle ranching and dairy farming. They hired Wakamba tribesmen to guard their herds against lions and against their enemies, the Maasai. See, the Maasai believe that Engai—their name for God—originally gave their tribe all the cattle in the world. Logically then, anyone else who owns cattle must have stolen them from a Maasai.”
Alexandra laughed. “How convenient. So if a Maasai raids a Wakamba’s or an Englishman’s herd, he’s not really stealing. He’s just taking back what rightfully belongs to him.”
“Exactly. The only problem with your statement is the linguistics. One member of the Wakamba tribe is called a Mkamba. See, in Swahili, we have what we call the M-Wa class. The ‘people’ class. Wakamba is plural, Mkamba is singular.” He paused and reflected a moment. “I guess you don’t need to know that.”
Surprised at the sudden change in his tone, Alexandra glanced over at him. He was right, of course. She didn’t need to know any of it—the history, the tribal names and legends, the intricacies of the language. In Nairobi she would book a flight to New York. Within a day or two, she’d be gone.
Strange. Not too long ago she would have left this country without a second thought. In fact, she would have been thankful to see the last of it. Now, the idea of leaving sent a pang of dismay through her stomach. But it wasn’t the loss of Kenya that grieved her, even though she was learning to appreciate the spacious vistas and the eternal sunshine. What pained her was the prospect of leaving this man.
Did he feel the same about her? Or was she just another diversion, an interesting anomaly he could study and analyze? Did he care at all that she’d soon be gone, or was he anticipating the peace and solitude she would leave in her wake?
“You could teach me a little Swahili,” she offered, trying to gauge the response in his eyes. “Languages fascinate me.”
“We should have started you on a crash course sooner.”
“Well, I might not leave Kenya right away. For a few days, anyway. I mean, I’ll have to find a flight with empty seats.”
“You’ll find one.”
She looked away. “I guess so. I hate to let Jones run me off. After all, I had scheduled a whole excursion, and I don’t have as many sketches for my designs as I’d hoped to do.”
“Maybe you’ll come back after you get Jones put away.”
“Maybe.” She thought about the chances. Slim. She wasn’t even sure she’d have the money to make it from one month to the next, let alone to buy an expensive ticket back to Kenya.
“I guess you’ll be pretty busy,” Grant said. “Your work and all that.”
“Yeah.” She swallowed. “How about you? When will your project be finished?”
“A few months. Maybe a year.”
“So, what will you do after that? Take a vacation?”
“I might.”
“Do you ever get to the States?”
He stared at the seat in front. “Not often. Every four or five years maybe. I have to track down grants and endorsements. Usually I hit a few universities and do some speaking. Sometimes I get a magazine assignment, or I’m asked to contribute to a textbook. At that point I might need to meet with the publisher.”
“Why don’t you come to New York on your next trip?” she tossed out, as though she’d just thought of it. “I’ll show you the sights.”
He met her eyes. For a moment he said nothing, holding her gaze. Then he let out a breath. “The only sight I’d care to see in New York City is you.”
A ripple of delight ran up her spine. It was just as quickly squelched by the fact that he turned away and dropped his head back against the seat. She could see the muscle in his jaw flicker with tension.
“Grant,” she said softly. “We can always—”
“No, we can’t. You know it. I know it. Anybody with half a brain in his skull knows it. The facts just don’t add up. You’re there, I’m here. You’re big city, I’m Africa. You want money, I want freedom. You’re wrapped up in religion, I’m a doubter.”
“Yes, and you’re analyzing again.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Feel. Listen to your heart.”
“Feelings are for artists. I’m a scientist, Alexandra. I want to figure things out.”
“But that’s not what’s happening between us, Grant. It’s something in here.” She laid her open palm on his chest. “Isn’t it?”
He covered her hand with his and shut his eyes. “I don’t trust my heart.”
“Somehow,” she said, struggling to contain the emotion welling inside her as she felt his heartbeat hammering against her palm, “somehow, you taught me to trust you, Grant. At a time when people I’ve counted on have let me down, when I could so easily choose to shut the door of my heart to everybody, you walked in. Into my heart. I don’t know how you managed it, and I don’t pre
tend to understand what’s going to happen. Sure, my brain is telling me the same facts yours is telling you, and I’ll listen to it, of course. But I’m not going to shut off my heart. I can’t.”
He studied her, the gray in his eyes reflecting the turmoil inside him. “Does the human heart give honest answers, Alexandra? Can emotion ever lead to truth?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “You don’t have to understand everything, Grant. You don’t always need proof. Sometimes you just have to trust.”
As she turned back to the window and the sight of Nairobi’s approaching skyline, she heard her own heart whisper words of truth: “For I know the one in whom I trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard what I have entrusted to him until the day of his return.”
Her thoughts tumbled out in the form of a prayer. Lord, my life belongs to you. My faith and my hope lie in you. I entrust you with Grant Thornton now. Open him. Fill him. And teach me how to give you this terrible . . . unbearable . . . ache I feel inside whenever I look into his eyes.
TWELVE
“Grant!” A woman with billowing long blonde hair and a bulge the size of a baby elephant under her dress waved from the far end of the platform at the Nairobi railway station. “Hey, Grant! It’s me, Tillie!”
Tillie? Grant stopped stock-still and stared. This beautiful, vivacious, and incredibly maternal-looking woman was his scrawny little sister? And who was the big guy beside her? Not the renegade who’d taken her on a wild-goose chase up the Niger River and then married her. Not him . . . Tillie’s husband . . .
Every protective big-brother instinct surged to the forefront of Grant’s being as the woman who claimed to be his sister hurried toward him as fast as her swaying gait would take her. The guy had better be good to Tillie. He’d better be faithful. He’d better be employed and hardworking and—
“Grant!” Tillie threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Grant, it’s so good to see you! You look great. Such a handsome devil!” She detached herself and whirled away. “Mama Hannah!” she exclaimed, clasping the older woman. “I heard what happened to you. Oh, let me see your head.”
With the women chattering to one side, Grant sized up his approaching brother-in-law. At least the guy wasn’t some knock-kneed kid. His hair was too long. Too black. He looked like a rugby player or something.
“Dr. Thornton?” the man said, extending a hand. “I’m Graeme McLeod. Tillie’s husband.”
Grant gave the man’s hand a firm shake. Not a bad grip, anyway. “Call me Grant.”
“Oh, Grant and Graeme!” Tillie swung around. “I’m so glad you two are finally meeting. Graeme’s a writer, too, Grant. He’s working on a biography of the explorer Joseph Thomson, so it worked out great for us to fly over to Nairobi so he can do research and I can have the baby. Perfect timing, huh? And now you’re here! I was afraid you’d be dug in with your Maasai.” She turned to Alexandra. “And is this your . . . ?”
“This is Alexandra Prescott,” Grant said. Alexandra had hung back by the luggage during the greetings. Now she walked forward and shook Tillie’s hand.
“When Grant phoned us this morning to say he was coming, he told me you’d had quite a time in Kenya.” Tillie’s bright eyes registered concern. “Then Graeme showed me an article in the newspaper. Some lunatic attacked you while you were staying at the lodge in Amboseli? And then he tried to push you out a window at Fort Jesus?”
Alexandra nodded. “That’s it so far. Your brother’s been very helpful.”
“Grant?” Tillie turned to him in mock surprise. “Helpful?”
“What’s the big deal?” Grant said, squaring his shoulders. “I can be helpful.”
“My big brother has never been helpful a day in his life,” Tillie confided, linking arms with Alexandra. “He’s a pest. He used to con Fiona and Jessie and me into doing his chores for him. He always talked us into sewing on his buttons and hemming his jeans. When Mama Hannah told us it was time to put away our toys and clean up our rooms, Grant would suddenly vanish. Half an hour later we’d find him up the pepper tree in our front yard.”
“Lies,” Grant barked. “All lies. Alexandra, don’t listen to a word she says.”
“Ha! I bet your place looks like a shrine to bachelorhood, Grant Thornton—no food in the fridge, dishes in the sink, clothes piled on chairs. Am I right, Alexandra?”
“He lives in a tent,” she said.
“A tent!” Tillie crossed her arms over her bulging stomach. “Oh, Grant, that’s pathetic. It really is. What about that house you bought in Nairobi? Do you ever even visit it?”
“You own a house, Grant?” Alexandra asked.
“I guess so.” He rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. He felt about as uncomfortable as he had the day a pair of charging rhinos chased him up a tree. “I bought some property a few years ago. I had extra money from a book contract, and I didn’t want to put it in the bank. Inflation can eat you up in Kenya. So, I bought a house. At least, I think I did,” he concluded, winking at Graeme.
Tillie rolled her eyes at Alexandra. “I bet he never even looked at the place before he put down his money,” she said. “My brother is the most wonderful, loyal, good-hearted man in the world. But he’s in bad need of a good woman.”
Grant groaned. “Tillie, give it a rest.”
“Don’t you agree, Mama Hannah?” Tillie asked.
The older woman nodded. “For his dinner, your brother eats chocolate candy bars.”
“Kit Kat bars, I bet,” Tillie said. “Something has to be done about this. Mama Hannah, are you with me? And, Alexandra, how about you? Are you willing to tackle my big brother’s case of bacheloritis?”
“I’ve been working on it already,” Alexandra said, and Grant caught the unmistakable sparkle in her blue eyes. “I don’t know, though. He’s pretty set in his ways.”
“Stodgy.” Tillie nodded, throwing an arm around Mama Hannah’s shoulders. “I know exactly what you mean. Come on, ladies, let’s head over to the apartment for a cup of tea. Maybe we could talk Jessie into flying up from Zanzibar for a few days. And then there’s Fiona. Nah, she’s as bad as Grant is. But with a little work . . .”
Grant stood by the luggage cart and studied the three musketeers who had made it their quest to reform him. They could not be an odder bunch. Tall, lithe Alexandra strolled arm in arm with waddling Tillie, who had her other arm around tiny, wizened Mama Hannah.
“A formidable trio,” Graeme said, coming to stand by him. “Are you sure you’re up to the fray?”
Grant couldn’t hide his grin. “I’d say the odds are against me.”
“Would you like an ally in the battle for male freedom?”
“Looks like you surrendered a long time ago, pal.”
“And glad of it. Tillie’s great.” Graeme rubbed his chin. “On the other hand, I waged my own war against the civilizing forces of the female gender for a good many years. I’d hate to see a fine soldier like you fall into one of their snares. Unless, of course, it was worth it.” He hooked Alexandra’s flowered tapestry cosmetics bag with a forefinger and dangled it in front of Grant. “Would it be worth it?”
Grant smiled. “It might be, you know. It just might be.”
The two-bedroom apartment Tillie and Graeme had rented in the Westlands area of Nairobi was exactly what Grant would have expected of his sister. Tidy and clean, it contained little furniture and about a hundred plants. Clay pots sprouting green vegetation lined up along the windowsills. More pots hung suspended by twine from the curtain rods. Still others nestled in the corners of the living room and marched down the kitchen counters.
“How long have you been living here, anyway?” Grant asked, peering between the leaves of a philodendron at the city lights outside.
“A couple of months.” Tillie sprawled Buddha-like on the sofa and peered over her stomach as the others cleared the evening meal. “I’ve been collecting every plant I can get my hands on. I’m going to take them back to Mali and find out if they
’ll grow. You should fly up and take a look at my experimental substation, Grant. The government finally awarded me a big stretch of land up north near the desert around Timbuktu. It’s been rough, but my trees are hanging on.”
“Mama Hannah said the tribes-people up there gave you a hard time,” Grant said, joining his sister on the sofa. “Some warrior chieftain kidnapped you?”
“Actually, Graeme kidnapped me.” Tillie laughed at his expression. “Don’t get your feathers ruffled, big brother. It worked out, didn’t it?”
“Did it?” Grant eyed the dark-haired man in the kitchen; then he studied his sister. “Are you happy, Tillie-Willie?”
She smiled at his use of her childhood nickname. “I’m more than happy,” she said softly. “I’m blessed. Graeme and I have seen God’s hand in our lives in such a powerful way. We’ve both grown so much.”
“I can see that,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at her stomach.
“That’s not what I meant, doofus.” She flicked him on the shoulder. “Give me your hand. Come on, now. Put it right there on the baby. Wait a minute. Wait . . . wait . . .”
Surprised at the firmness of her stomach, Grant held his breath and stared at the solid mound. Suddenly something moved under his palm—like a marble rolling under a sheet. He jerked his hand away. “Wow, what was that?”
Tillie gave a deep laugh. “That was your nephew’s elbow. Or your niece’s big toe.”
“No kidding?” He placed his hand on her stomach again. “When are you due?”
“Another month—and I’m about to go nuts waiting. Graeme’s been wonderful, though. He’s as excited as I am about the whole thing.” She giggled as Grant laid his ear against her belly. “You’re not going to hear anything but my stomach gurgling.”
“Whoa! He kicked me!”
“Tell me about it. The kid’s going to make a great soccer player one of these days.” She feathered her fingers through her brother’s hair. “How about you, Grant? Don’t you want to be a daddy someday? Aren’t you curious about all this stuff ? I mean, family. The Thornton kids didn’t exactly grow up in the normal way, you know. Don’t you want to try it out for yourself ?”
A Touch of Betrayal Page 16