A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  She clasped her hands together, knitting her fingers so tightly the blood stopped. “You know I’ve worked hard to do the right things, Lord,” she murmured. “But I’m so confused. I worked at my art so I wouldn’t rely on my father’s wealth and end up putting my faith in his money. I wanted to use the money for something good, and I thought you were leading me to build the design firm. But now it’s gone. Why did you take that away from me?”

  She paused, waiting in the silence of the tent. Then she went on. “I tried to trust people, Lord—and I ended up with Nick Jones. Then I tried not to trust—and I wound up with Grant.”

  She swallowed hard. “No, I haven’t wound up with Grant, have I? I think you’re asking me to let go of that money and to let go of Grant. Is that it, Father? Is that what you’re asking of me? To stop trying so hard . . . to stop wanting so much . . . and to just surrender?”

  For a long time, she listened to the wind rustling through the acacia leaves in the trees overhead. Be silent, the whispered voice drifted through her. Be silent, and know that I am God.

  As Grant stacked wood in the outdoor stone hearth, he studied the silhouette inside Alexandra’s lamp-lit tent. She was praying—on her knees. Did people really do that?

  The way her clenched hands pointed upward sent a surge of emotion through his chest. Alexandra’s shoulders slumped; her posture showed anguish that echoed his own that night in Tillie’s apartment. What was she saying? What troubled her so deeply that she had fallen to her knees to express it?

  He struck a match and lit the dried kindling beneath the logs. As the bits of grass and bark crackled into flame, he settled back on his haunches and pondered the woman inside the tent. Alexandra was praying—not just as a release of tension, not as a gesture of habit, not even as a form of meditation—but because she believed someone was listening.

  He lifted his focus to the stars overhead. Odd. In spite of his years of doubt and his reams of research, Grant had a growing sense that Alexandra was right. Someone was listening.

  Odder still, someone had actually heard Grant’s own prayer. In the old Jewish writings, that someone called himself I AM. In Christian Scripture, he was the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. He was the Creator, always present, always listening, always caring. God.

  Grant stood and gave the snapping fire a prod with his boot. Sparks shot up into the blackness. Oddest of all—every time Grant acknowledged the presence of God, that aching place inside him felt a little less empty. Not full, not healed, not even comfortable. Just a tiny bit easier.

  Pondering the significance of this realization, he walked to his tent and rummaged around for a cooking pot and some plates. Too bad Mama Hannah had decided to stay with Tillie and Graeme. Alexandra would have to make do with canned soup instead of the savory stew that was Mama Hannah’s specialty. On the other hand, Grant thought as he loaded his arms with supplies, Mama Hannah had suffered a pretty bad wound to the head. She needed to rest, and Tillie could use her help when the baby came.

  When Grant stepped out of his tent, he saw Alexandra standing beside the fire. She had pulled on a long skirt that nearly touched her ankles. Its hem fluttered in the breeze that drifted down from Mount Kilimanjaro, and she had drawn a sweater around her shoulders to keep off the chill.

  As he approached Alexandra—this woman God had somehow permitted to remain in his life—a knot like a fist lodged in Grant’s throat. Hearing his footsteps, she turned, and her skirt swirled softly at her calves. A smile lit her face.

  “The chef emerges,” she said.

  He tried to find a lighthearted response. Instead, he set the pots and cans on the ground. Then he straightened and pulled her into his arms.

  “Alexandra,” he managed. “What can I say to make you stay?”

  “Oh, Grant.” Tentatively, Alexandra’s arms slipped around the broad chest of the man who held her. She laid her head against his shoulder. “Grant, please don’t ask me to stay here. Don’t make this hard.”

  “It’s already hard.”

  “It’s impossible. We have to think of our meeting as a kind of bump in time. An event that happened to teach us something.”

  “What have you learned?” he asked, stroking her hair with his hand. “Tell me, Alexandra, because I’m more mixed-up right now than I’ve ever been in my life.”

  She closed her eyes, trembling at the sensations rocketing through her. Just to be in his arms . . . to hear his voice against her ear . . . to know the touch of his fingertips . . . How could she blithely fly away and pretend she had felt nothing for this man?

  “I’m confused, too,” she admitted.

  “Then stay. Stay until we’ve worked it out.”

  “What are you asking from me, Grant? You know I can’t live at this camp with you in some sort of indefinite relationship. I won’t walk away from the moral standards I follow— no matter how tempted I might feel.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking from you, Alexandra. I don’t want you that way.” He swallowed hard. “That’s a lie. I do want you—in every way a man can want a woman. But I haven’t had time to examine and define how we can make this thing between us work. I don’t yet know how we can blend our lives, our jobs, our beliefs. I’m just asking you to stay until I figure it out.”

  “Until you have us analyzed?” She fingered the curl that drifted against his forehead. “Scientific deduction won’t help you on this problem, Grant. There’s too much separating us. I’ve done a lot of thinking about this, and I’ve come to realize it’s not really our jobs or our backgrounds that put such a space between us. It’s the heart stuff.”

  “I don’t know that I’d agree with you. My heart has been feeling pretty active these days.”

  She smiled and touched his chest. “I knew you had one in there someplace.”

  “I’ve been trying to listen to it.”

  “I listen to mine all the time, and, Grant, the truth I hear is so clear I can’t deny it no matter how much I might want to.” She took a deep breath, praying she could speak with grace the words she knew had to be said. “My heart doesn’t belong to me, Grant. I gave it to Christ a long time ago. I’m not a paragon of faith by any means, but I do know that I can never be happy with a man who doesn’t choose to walk the same path I travel. You can’t be happy that way either, trust me.”

  Before her emotions could spin out of control, Alexandra stepped away from Grant and picked up one of the cooking pots. She opened a can of soup and poured out the contents. After adding water from the jug he had set out, she placed the pot on a flat, hot hearthstone. Then she knelt by the fire and began to stir.

  “Tillie warned me about this,” Grant said finally. “She told me the religion thing would hold you back.”

  “She understands.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t.” He flipped a twig into the fire, and a tiny tongue of flame flared up. “What is it with this Jesus Christ, anyway? I wish somebody would explain it to me because the whole thing makes no sense. No sense at all.”

  Alexandra stirred the soup, her focus on the flames licking the sides of the metal pot. No, it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be analyzed or figured out or proved. Understanding Jesus Christ took faith—and she didn’t have a clue how to explain that to Dr. Grant Thornton.

  FOURTEEN

  Alexandra woke to the thump of monkeys playing tag on the canvas roof of her tent. In the early sunlight, she watched their scampering silhouettes as they chased and leapfrogged and danced around each other. A soft green light filtered across the tent floor and cast an emerald glow on Alexandra’s satchel and sandals.

  Oz, she thought. This is my emerald city. Somehow I’ve landed in Oz, where everything is different. The essence of wickedness is after me, and it’s going to take more than a bucket of water to defeat him. I’ve met a man with a brain—a man who’s badly in need of a softer heart. But where’s the yellow-brick road? And how will I ever figure out how to click my heels and find my way back home
?

  “Alexandra?” Grant’s shadow fell across the tent wall. “You okay in there?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sleep all right?”

  “Not really.” She had stayed up sketching by the fire for hours after they ate, and later in the tent her thoughts had been too tormented to permit much sleep. “How about you?”

  “No.” He was silent for a moment. “Listen, I’m going to walk over to the kraal in a few minutes. I don’t want to leave you here alone. Will you come with me?”

  She considered his request. Fear of the possibility that Jones still lurked warned her to stay close to Grant and the protection he offered. Fear of Grant—and the effect he was having on her heart—cautioned her to steer clear of the man. The itinerary in her purse gave her one day before the start of her scheduled walking climb of Mount Kilimanjaro. Should she hide for twenty-four hours in her green cocoon? Or should she venture out into Grant’s world?

  “Still in there?” he called, tapping on the tent wall.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Okay. Ten minutes.”

  In New York ten minutes would barely have given Alexandra time to start her morning routine—treadmill, shower, blow-dry, dress, makeup, breakfast, train. Inside her emerald Oz, she dressed in a loose skirt, tank top, and sandals, ran a brush through her hair, and was ready to go in seven minutes flat. Grant was waiting with a pair of bananas and a tall glass of water.

  “You really ought to get a refrigerator,” Alexandra said, taking one of the bananas and the lukewarm water. “In this heat, ice cubes would be a big plus.”

  “Electricity’s a little tough to come by out here.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Yep.” Falling silent, he started in the direction of the kraal. Alexandra walked along beside him, chewing a bite of banana as she tried to absorb the textures of Grant’s life in the bush. He had given up things like electricity and running water in exchange for acacia trees, windswept savanna grasslands, herds of zebra and wildebeest, and his precious work. Was the trade-off worth the sacrifice?

  Grant strode purposefully, as if oblivious to his companion. The early-morning sunlight cast golden glints in his hair and turned his skin a deep bronze. The mountain breeze blew open his collar, tugged at the sleeves of his loose cotton shirt, and played in his long, loose curls. As a contented expression settled at the corners of his mouth, he drank in a deep breath.

  This was sacrifice? No, Grant Thornton didn’t need a refrigerator, Alexandra admitted. He was as much a part of this natural land as the baobab trees and the graceful giraffe. Here, in the wild bush country, his roots grew deep. No refrigerator or house—or woman—could ever bind him more firmly.

  “I found your sketch pad by the fire this morning. I brought it along,” he said, indicating the backpack slung over one shoulder. “Thought you might like to draw.”

  “Thanks.” His thoughtfulness touched her. “My creativity’s been a little blocked lately.”

  “Really? I think your designs are good. You captured the country better than I figured you would.”

  “The country captured me.”

  He glanced over at her, the blue in his eyes intense. “Has it?”

  “More than I thought possible.”

  She could see the kraal in the distance. Two half-naked little boys were leading a herd of goats through the opening in the thorn fence. A spear glinted in the sun. The sound of singing drifted across the open countryside.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Grant said.

  “But I’m not comfortable here in the same way you are. It feels foreign to me. This morning in my tent, I thought of myself as Dorothy in Oz. I’m out of place and out of time. Nothing makes much sense to me. Take the kraal, for example. I mean, the houses are made out of cow dung, Grant. The people drink blood. They ream huge holes in their ears. It’s all so . . . weird.”

  He nodded. “And they think we’re weird. Our women teeter around on high heels, we chew gum for hours on end without swallowing it or filling our stomachs, and we erect multistoried office buildings out of breakable glass.”

  “Well, I guess—”

  “Plus, they think we stink.”

  “Stink! But we bathe.”

  “With flowery soap and spicy shampoos. You should hear what they say about that. You wouldn’t be flattered.” He shrugged. “It’s all a matter of perspective.”

  “If they think we’re so strange, then why do they accept you?”

  “We trust each other.” He lifted a hand in greeting as Kakombe and three other warriors emerged through the kraal entrance. “Trust goes a long way toward building bridges, you know. You might give it a try sometime.”

  He left her and strode forward to meet his friends. Alexandra’s urge to respond to his comment subsided as she watched Grant lay a hand on Kakombe’s shoulder and begin to chat with the men.

  Then the truth in his words swept over her and was followed immediately by a wave of remorse. Instead of building bridges, she had built an island—with herself at its protected center. Distrust, wariness, even vanity filled the moat that kept people at a safe distance.

  But it was frightening to reach out. She had been warned against it, and experience had taught her the dangers. Even Grant, who had promised her his protection, somehow had become a threat. He wanted to build a bridge across the moat and enter the island she had created for herself. He wanted her in every way that a man wants a woman. How easy it would be to surrender. But if she gave in to her own desires, the results would be disastrous.

  Lord, she prayed as she approached the group of men, how can I love people as you want me to? Show me how to trust the way Grant trusts. Teach me to let down my barriers. And most of all—protect me, Father! Protect my heart!

  “The elders have asked to talk to me,” Grant said. “Kakombe thinks they want to try to initiate me during the Eunoto ceremony even though I’m not a part of the warrior age set.”

  Alexandra smiled at the image. “I’d call you a warrior. Or maybe a crusader.”

  “I haven’t killed any lions or raided any villages lately.”

  You’ve raided my stronghold, she wanted to say. You’ve robbed my peace. You’ve stormed through my life in a way no other man could. But she looked away.

  “I guess I’ll see if I can find Sambeke Ole Kereya,” she said. “At least I can talk to him in English.”

  Grant dug her sketch pad out of his bag. “Use this to communicate. You won’t need words.” He handed it to her along with her pencil case. “But don’t draw the people. The Maasai hate being photographed, and a sketch wouldn’t be much better.”

  Alexandra tucked the pad and pencils under her arm. As she entered the opening in the thorny fence, the earthy odor of cow dung hit her like an ocean wave. Flies settled on her arms and darted around her mouth and eyes. Wood smoke, thick and cloying, drifted into her nostrils. She nearly choked.

  A group of children scampered toward her. Half of them were clad in nothing more than a beaded string around the waist, and the other half wore loose, mud-colored togas. Most of the children had runny noses. Flies seeking moisture rimmed their eyes and mouths. A festering wound dribbled pus down one boy’s leg.

  Dear God, I can’t do this, Alexandra thought, glancing behind her for a way of escape. I’m sorry. I have to get out of here.

  “Um, excuse me,” she muttered, swinging around. Determined to make a beeline for the gate, she was stopped by a firm tug on her skirt. When she turned, the boy who had saved her from the wild dogs was gazing up at her with liquid brown eyes.

  “Alinkanda,” he said, giving her a shy smile.

  She swallowed. “Mayani. How are you?”

  “Hawayoo,” he repeated.

  “I’m fine.”

  Mayani squared his shoulders. “Amfine.”

  The other children giggled. “Amfine, amfine!” they shouted until Mayani scolded them and gave them a set of severe instructions in the Maasai langua
ge.

  Then one by one the children obediently presented themselves to Alexandra, heads bowed to receive the blessing of her hand’s touch. As she laid her palm on each round, walnut-brown head, the child murmured, “Na kitok.”

  Hoping she wouldn’t arouse more laughter, Alexandra tried the greeting she remembered. “Iko.”

  The children made their way through the line in respectful submission. But the moment the formal greeting was complete, they rushed to begin a bold exploration of her clothing. They pulled out and snapped the knit fabric of her tank top. They lifted her skirt to peer at her calves. They poked the belt buckle around her waist. One child reached up to touch the ends of her hair. Another prodded a small freckle on her arm. A third counted her toes.

  “I’m just a regular person,” she said. “Like your mother or your sister.”

  Mayani gaped at her, clearly not understanding a word she’d said. Wishing she had a translator, Alexandra searched for old Sambeke. She discovered him amid the group of elders clustered around Grant. There would be no help from that quarter, she realized.

  “I-lotu, Alinkanda,” Mayani said, taking her hand and pulling her toward one of the low plastered huts. In the scant shade of a scraggly acacia tree sat a group of Maasai women, their legs stretched straight out in front of them, bare feet crossed at the ankles. While stitching intricate patterns of beads onto leather, they chatted, laughed, and kept a watchful eye on their children. Alexandra tried to remember the proper greeting from one woman to another, but nothing came.

  “Mungu akubariki,” she said finally.

  The women laughed in delight, and Alexandra found herself grinning widely. She had spoken in Swahili, but they understood! Feeling as victorious as she had the day she’d sold her first line of fabric designs, she seated herself among the women in a space they created for her.