A Touch of Betrayal

by Catherine Palmer

  Alexandra gave Barb a look that betrayed her annoyance. “Would you please ask the firm to stop sending work to my home? I’ll take care of it when I go into the office.”

  “But when are you coming in? You’ve been out for weeks.”

  Alexandra rolled her eyes and pressed the intercom. “I’ll come down for the package, Robert.”

  She and Barb stepped into the elevator across the hall. How could she possibly explain all she’d been through in Africa? The physical trauma alone should warrant a long vacation. But it was much more than that. Her heart felt so sad. Almost barren of feeling. It was as though a part of her had been ripped away, and she doubted she would ever find it again.

  “The ethnic look keeps growing,” Barb said as the elevator doors slid open on the ground floor. “You seem to have a strong feeling for it.”

  Alexandra walked across the foyer to the front desk. “I had a strong feeling for Africa,” she said. “I’ll talk to you soon, Barb.”

  “Okay, honey. Catch you later.”

  Turning away, Alexandra took the small packet from the security guard. “She thinks I need a trip to the salon, Robert.”

  The man grinned. “You always look fine to me, Miss Prescott.”

  Alexandra gave him a wink. As she entered the elevator, she glanced down at the packet—a small box wrapped in brown paper. It bore no return address. Nothing but her name.

  The doors slipped shut with a whisper. Alexandra opened the little box. Tipping it over, she slid its contents into her palm.

  A silver chain. A chain created of metal links, hammered together one by one. A Maasai chain.

  “Grant?” Alexandra hammered on the buttons, begging them to work. The moment the doors opened on the fifth floor, she raced out into the corridor. Running down the carpeted hall, she clutched the chain in her fists. Oh, Father, please. Please, let him be there.

  She threw open the door to the stairwell and took the fire escape steps two at a time. Her injured chest began to ache. Her heart pounded. By the time she had scrambled down all five flights, she could hardly suck in air. She pushed open the door and raced back into the foyer.

  “Robert! Robert!”

  “Miss Prescott?” The doorman reached to dial 911 on his phone. “What’s wrong?”

  “That package. Who gave it to you?”

  “A fellow brought it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t let him in. He looked kind of . . . shaggy, you know. Like a . . .”

  “Derelict! Oh, Robert!”

  “Miss Prescott, should I call the police?”

  Alexandra ran to the front door and rammed her shoulder into the brass frame. As the heavy door swung open, she slipped outside.

  “Grant?” she called. “Grant!”

  The parking lot was empty. Barb had already gone. A light snow was beginning to fall. She watched the first streetlight come on as an early dusk set in. “Grant?” she said, more softly this time. “Grant, where are you?”

  “Got a problem?”

  She swung around. He was sitting on a concrete planter, his jeans dusted with snowflakes. A bulky winter jacket looked out of place against his tanned skin. The collar of his khaki shirt flapped in the chill breeze, and a curl of sun-gold hair danced on his forehead. He stood slowly, stiffly, as if the cold had half paralyzed him.

  “You came,” she whispered. She clutched the silver chain, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat as he approached. “Grant, you came to me.”

  “All the way.”

  “You didn’t write.”

  “I hate to write anything but research. Figured I could tell you about the rites of elderhood when I saw you.”

  “The telephone at Oloitokitok—”

  “I don’t talk much on telephones if I can help it. I prefer face-to-face. Especially when I have something important to say.” He untangled the chain from her fingers. “I want you to know what happened to me. It’s kind of a journey that started with you. A journey of surrender. On the way up Mount Kilimanjaro I gave up my disbelief and surrendered my life to Christ. Face-to-face with the man who tried to kill you, I surrendered my pride and my rage. And finally— alone in my camp—I gave up my rejection of a world I hadn’t tried to understand. Last week I phoned some people I know at NYU. When the spring semester gets under way, I’ll be teaching a couple of classes in the anthropology department. Alexandra, I’m here . . . all the way.”

  “But, Grant—”

  “Without you, my old life didn’t make much sense. I tried to keep going, but the fire had gone out.”

  Alexandra brushed back a tear, her soul rocking with disbelief at how closely his words reflected her own life. “Grant, I missed you so much.”

  “No matter how hard I tried—and I did try—I couldn’t get that fire burning again. So I packed up my tents. Moved to the house in Nairobi. Tried finding something to do there. I tried everything I knew to make things feel okay again. Make everything right.” He shook his head. “Tillie’s baby did me in. A little girl. Dimples. Mama Hannah is spoiling her to death.”

  He touched her cheek. “The baby has a dimple right here,” he went on. “And another one on the other side. Just like yours. So I came.”

  Alexandra nodded, crying openly now. In his halting speech, she understood the depth of desperation that had driven him this far. He stood like a stranger in a strange land, snowflakes gathering on his bronzed cheeks and broad shoulders. A lion in a frozen wilderness—out of time and out of place, yet ready to face whatever challenges came.

  “When a warrior gives a woman a silver chain,” Grant said, meeting her gaze, “it means he wants her to be his wife. Alexandra, I love you. Will you wear my chain?”

  Smiling amid her tears, she took the chain and slipped it over her head. Then his arms wrapped around her, enfolding her in the warmth of his love. She clung to him, hardly able to believe he had sacrificed so much.

  “Yes, my love,” she whispered. “I will be your wife.”

  “Thank you, Lord.”

  She shook her head, wonder filling her at the passion that suffused his expression of gratitude. “Grant, I’m so glad you’re a believer.”

  “Even the demons believe. I am surrendered.”

  The rough brush of his coat against her cheek filled Alexandra with a rush of memories. The smiling people. The burning plains. The crisp mountain winds. The sweet, musky grasses. The animals.

  “Grant, I want you to take me home,” she whispered.

  Still holding her close, he started for the glass-fronted building. But she stopped him. Lifting her head, she gazed into the gray blue of his beloved eyes.

  “No,” she said. “Take me home, Grant. Home to Africa.”

  Epilogue

  The first droplets of a warm rain greeted Grant and Alexandra the morning they arrived in Kenya. Then it began to pour. Soaked to the skin, Alexandra helped load her fiancé’s Land Rover with tents and supplies. They had decided to use the Nairobi house as their city base—a place where they could come to write, design, and rest—but the plains of Maasailand would be home.

  Crammed to the windows, the Land Rover rattled down the streets of Nairobi. Tillie and Graeme McLeod, baby Khatty, and Mama Hannah followed close behind in their car. After them rolled a third car carrying Grant’s sister Jessica McTaggart, her husband, Rick, and their son, Splinter, all of whom had flown up from Zanzibar Island for the celebration.

  When the three vehicles finally arrived at Grant’s old base camp, the Maasai warriors gathered to greet them. A massive raising of four tents was followed by feasting around a campfire. Everyone passed Khatty around until the baby finally fell asleep in Mama Hannah’s arms. Splinter joined in the group singing, and then he, too, fell asleep at the old African woman’s side.

  Alexandra had never known such joy. She and Mama Hannah occupied one of the tents. Around midnight, Tillie and Jessica crept over to join them. The women stayed up late into the nig
ht, talking and giggling—trading stories about their childhoods, exchanging family news, and welcoming Alexandra fully into the family.

  For the next four days, Alexandra had little chance to talk with the man who was to become her husband. He spent every waking hour in the kraal, observing and recording the details of the Eunoto. Grant also participated in the feasting and dancing along with the other warriors, who now considered him a full-fledged member of their group. Several times Alexandra joined in the celebration, and she found that the people greeted her as a beloved friend.

  Kakombe was chosen Alaunoni—the leader—of his age-group. He, Loomali, and the other warriors submitted to the trauma of having their heads shaved of their coveted long locks. Several men wept or fell into frenzies, shaking and foaming at the mouth over this culmination of the highest period of their manhood. Mama Hannah was escorted to the kraal, and she shaved Grant’s head as he submitted to the rite along with his brothers.

  Early on the morning after the final day of the Eunoto, Sambeke Ole Kereya and the other elders walked out to Grant’s camp and instructed Alexandra to accompany them to the kraal. Followed by the whole Thornton clan, she walked slowly toward the future that beckoned.

  Grant stood at the gate of the village enclosure. Taking Alexandra’s hand, he led her inside. There, the Maasai women surrounded her, slipping beaded collars around her neck and tying green grass onto her sandals and clothing. Then Sambeke Ole Kereya stepped forward.

  Speaking first in Maasai and then in English, he addressed the gathering. “This Grant Thornton is the son of our people, the brother of the brave warriors who have now passed into elderhood. As an elder, Grant has the right to marry. He has chosen wisely. Alinkanda of the long legs wears his silver chain.”

  The Maasai murmured in affirmation of this excellent choice. Alexandra glanced at Grant. Tall, as nervous as any bridegroom, he gave her a grin.

  “We bless you both with the peace and joy of God the Father, Jesus Christ the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Sambeke said. He dipped his hand into a gourd of fresh milk and brushed the traditional Maasai blessing on the skin of the couple. “We pray upon you great prosperity. Strong cattle. Healthy goats. And many children.”

  Alexandra laughed with delight as the Maasai crowded around her, offering her gifts of beads, baby goats, and even a calf. Though a church ceremony would follow late that evening in Nairobi, to her this was the true moment of marriage.

  “Alexandra.” Grant stepped over a little brown goat and took her in his arms. His sisters and their families cheered as he placed a kiss on his bride’s lips.

  “I love you,” he murmured against her ear.

  She slipped her arms around him and held him close. In the distance the clouds rolled back and the snows of Kilimanjaro gleamed in the early-morning sun. God’s gift filled her heart—a treasure more precious than pearls—the union of two souls.

  About the Author

  Catherine Palmer lives in Missouri with her husband, Tim, and sons, Geoffrey and Andrei. She is a graduate of Southwest Baptist University and holds a master’s degree in English from Baylor University. Her first book was published in 1988. Since then she has published over forty novels and won numerous awards for her writing, including the Christy Award—the highest honor in Christian fiction—in 2001 for A Touch of Betrayal. In 2004, she was given the Career Achievement Award for Inspirational Romance by Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine. More than 2 million copies of Catherine’s novels are currently in print.