“There are weapons in the city, jumbe,” Mosi said as we unloaded several boxes of supplies from the van and carried them into the house. “Many rifles, and gunfire, pop-pop-pop, through the night and all this morning.”
“Your families are safe?” I asked.
“For now. Except for Adhama’s cousin, who was arrested two days ago for making public speeches against the incumbents. The family doesn’t leave their houses for fear of being arrested too.”
“Do they need money to bond him out?”
“There is no bond for political crimes.”
I stared at Mosi. “When did that happen?”
He shrugged. “Who can keep up? The rules change so often now, there are no rules. And jumbe”—his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—“there is talk on the streets and in the market that the elections will be stopped.”
A chill shuddered through me. “Who would stop them?”
“Who wouldn’t? It is guns, I think, not votes, that will decide who sits in office next week.”
The incumbents who wouldn’t be challenged versus the opposition determined to be the take-all winners—there was no hint of democracy in Ushindi any longer.
“The rich have all gone on holiday. There is a steady stream of cars out of Hasa. But for those of us who have nowhere else to go or no money to build a new life there is no choice… Although, even the Congo now seems a safer home than Ushindi will be soon no matter which party takes power.”
I let that sink in. What a mockery today’s radicals were making of yesterday’s separatists who had won Ushindi out from under the rule of the oppressive DRC. Ushindi—whose very name meant victory, whose very existence meant freedom. Or at least something more akin to freedom than what the Congo provided.
“The rich are fleeing to Tanzania, Botswana and South Africa. Perhaps…perhaps, jumbe, you should, too.”
My headshake was automatic. I knew it was denial more than logic or common sense. But we each had our line in the sand and Zahur was mine. Zahur and my wild orphans. My parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had fought too hard to make this plantation the success it was. I wouldn’t abandon their dreams now. “Not until the mountain is burning.”
“You think it cannot happen?” Mosi said. “I never went to university, but I know African history is all about mountains that could never burn but did.”
“I won’t second-guess the future.”
He nodded in understanding. “At least be prepared for it, jumbe.”
That was what those workers who’d gone were doing now in the city. Preparing.
His eyes slid to Mark who was unpacking insect repellent and fresh first-aid supplies. “It looks like you have a future worth preparing for.”
“Mark? No, he’s—” What was he? More than a one-night stand, less than a boyfriend. Someone who would be gone while the rest of Ushindi rose or fell beneath its political pressures. “He’s just a now.”
Mosi grinned. “I remember when my wife was just a now. Twelve years and four children ago.”
“He’ll be heading back to the States soon.” I tried to ignore the pressure in my chest when I said that.
“He will have to find a way there first. Not just through the air, but through his heart.”
Heart? No, of course not. Mosi was making this into something it clearly wasn’t. Mark and I barely had a relationship. The only reason he was staying now was because he was grounded here with no flights out. Once the airfield was back in operation, he’d be gone.
Wouldn’t he?
After all, that was the day my world currently revolved around. The day he’d fly away.
Going to live.
Going to love.
Not staying to do either.
I didn’t share any of that with Mosi, of course. I simply said a soft “Hapana,” no, yet Mosi’s silent smile in return made me believe he knew something that 12 years and four kids had taught him that maybe I had yet to learn.
In any case, he was going too. Along with Chiku and Adhama. I would have cooked lunch for them, but the two couples who’d stayed behind to caretake the plantation showed up, the women with fresh-fried chapatti flatbread and a pot of bean curry to dip it in, and the men with kebab skewers of grilled chunks of veggies from the garden and the last of the ham from the wild boar.
We sat sharing lunch on the shaded veranda until the clouds gathering to the east over the Mountains of the Moon forced our goodbyes. Storms over the rainforest were rarely short, and the roads in Ushindi were often flooded. The men took the older pickup with them when they left. They would pass the pickup around as needed and help each other and their families out until the political tensions blew over. After that…well, it depended on where the Subs mosquitoes were migrating and how rapidly the virus was spreading as to what would happen next. No one knew—no one could know—where things would be in a week, two weeks, or a month, so waiting was all any of us could do. Wait—and help each other wait.
As the pickup rumbled off, Mark eyed the coming clouds. “More rain will mean more mosquitoes.”
They wouldn’t all be the Culex-type mosquitoes, of course, but any population increase only increased the risk to the human population.
Possibly the primate populations as well, given how fast the Subs virus had mutated. Already-endangered gorillas could yet be facing another threat.
So much to worry about. Two weeks ago, my only concern was how many migrants I’d need to hire on for the coming harvest and how much and what I’d need to stock ahead of time in the way of staples and clothing and supplies for the two bunk houses we held vacant and ready for the temporary workers.
What I wouldn’t have given to have my father’s steadying hand and practical advice right now. I felt confident with the typical challenges he had taught me to face. But would even he have known what to do in the face of disease and political uprising? Or would he have taken it day-by-day, even as I was doing now? Was there any way to better prepare for a future we couldn’t know?
I felt myself slipping, starting to lose myself in the despair that gathered close. Then strong fingers twined through mine, bolstering me with courage and resolve. Whatever else might come, I wasn’t going to have to face the next few days alone.
Somehow, the simple thought that I was not alone made all the difference.
CHAPTER 19
MARK
We fed and corralled Tamu and Nyota early that evening as wind clouds scudded overhead. Kayla pointed to a metal shed near their lean-to shelter. “There’s a supply of hay in there if the rain gets too heavy to let them out to graze.”
“What’s heavy?” I asked as I considered why these mountain jungles were called rainforests.
“The weather center says maybe 20 to 22 centimeters over the next few days. The system should be out of here by next week.”
I did the calculations to American measures and wished I hadn’t when I realized that converted to 8 to 9 inches. Rainforest I had to remind myself.
Kayla kissed baby rhino and okapi noses while Jengo followed after giving them gorilla hugs goodnight. Funny how ordinary that all seemed now. Gus whined as the first spatters of rain hit our heads. I moved in to pat Tamu and Nyota goodnight, but gave in to temptation at the last moment. I could feel Kayla’s smile beaming over me as I planted a tentative kiss first on the okapi, narrowly avoiding the long blue tongue that snaked out to return the gesture, then on the rhino’s chubby cheeks.
Kissing wild orphans.
Only in Africa.
An Africa that was more and more feeling like…home.
Jengo’s insistent hand found its way into mine, his other hand holding tight to Kayla’s. With Jengo swinging between us and Gus trailing behind, Kayla and I reached the shelter of the house right as the heavens broke open and the rain came pouring down.
There was something sensuous about the rain as it beat against the roof and washed against the windows, unable to penetrate while Kayla and I ate a sl
ow dinner of chicken stew and matooke, a banana/plantain mash surprisingly better-tasting than it looked, all sipped down with a sweet red wine imported from Australia. We spent another hour on Kayla’s phone and laptop, surfing through updates on the families who’d left, the progress of the Subs virus, and the state of Ushindi in general. I briefly pulled up trending news in the U.S., but Senate hearings and hurricane watches for the Gulf Coast didn’t carry the same urgency as what was happening locally.
“The Democrats seem to be recruiting troops from the DRC,” Kayla said. “If that’s true, then the DRC is in breach of our treaty.”
“And if the DRC’s involved—”
“Ushindi as a nation won’t stand a chance. Everything our ancestors won will be subsumed back into the darkness and depression that’s the DRC.”
“The UN won’t let that happen. Everything I’m reading says they’re aware of the situation here.”
“I’m sure they’re aware of the Subs virus here too, but that’s not stopping it, is it?” She checked the bitterness in her tone. “There are hundreds of ‘situations’ the world over. Bigger countries with more people and more political pull. Why would the UN throw more than just token help Ushindi’s way when their resources are overwhelmed already?”
“The UN was created to curb big aggressors like the DRC from using aggression to expand into weaker territories.”
“What it was created to do and what it actually has the power and resources to do are usually at odds here in Africa. Maybe not in the countries well north of the equator, but anything on or south of it usually gets pretty short shrift. If the DRC decides to move in on Ushindi, by the time the UN made any sort of decision about whether to get involved, Ushindi as a nation would be gone. The DRC is a sleeping dragon that drowses awake every few years to grab a bit more territory and influence. Why would the UN poke that dragon fully awake now when so many other turbulent regions are demanding the UN’s attention? Ushindi has no American or European ties or allies to support it or to be outraged on its behalf. We are a gnat on the maps. Flick us, and we’re gone.”
Gone. In that same way the sensuous feel of the rain and wind and closeness of the evening had evaporated. It was a feeling I wanted back. “Then what’s your plan? What can you do other than what you’re already doing—waiting and watching?”
“Nothing,” she admitted, and her frustration over that was clear.
“Will that change overnight?”
“No.”
“Then leave your anger till the morning.” I closed the lid on the laptop. “Distract yourself. I vote we make tonight later.”
“Lat—? Oh.” I watched her expression change as the full implication of what I was suggesting dawned. “Oh.”
I retrieved the bottle of wine from the fridge and refilled our glasses. Then I led her from the hard-backed kitchen chair to the sofa in the living room where we could sip our wine more comfortably. She didn’t object, leaving her phone on the table by the laptop.
Objective one had been accomplished. Détente had been achieved.
Even Jengo seemed to understand we needed privacy. Instead of wedging himself between us, he rolled into the easy chair beside us, spinning a toy pinwheel to amuse himself.
And when I led Kayla down the hallway, the little gorilla followed behind obediently and went into his room without a fuss.
More importantly, Kayla also went into her room without a fuss, neither when she entered before me nor when I followed. This time I was determined we’d make it all the way to the bed.
With a flick, she pulled back the deep purple comforter and the lilac top sheet. It was an older mattress with a shallow indentation in the side nearest the door. A faint impression of her. The intimacy of it was acute. This wasn’t the back seat of an SUV or some anonymous hotel room. There was nothing neutral about our meeting ground. It was her room, her bed, the long dresser against the wall filled with her clothes, the upright wardrobe no doubt hung with her skirts and dresses and lined at its bottom with her shoes.
The depth of her in this room—from the wisps of lilac sheers that scarfed the wide windows to the lilac sheets, uncovered and waiting—impressed on me with the same weight that had dented the bed.
I had never felt the stranger or intruder as keenly anywhere else as that open bed made me feel. Maybe if I’d had more experiences, had been invited into more bedrooms, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Maybe I wouldn’t have been guilted into feeling the enormity of what we were here to do. Why that should be so after this morning’s indulgences, I didn’t know. Maybe because our earlier encounter could have happened anywhere—in an alley, under a bridge, in a friend’s bathroom during a party. Not just because of the way we’d had sex, but because it had been more physical than emotional. A slaking of desire governed by hormones and instinct.
Intuitively, I knew tonight would be different. I felt different. Not that I wasn’t still a slave to physical desire, but something more than testosterone surged through me here in Kayla’s room, surrounded by her. Something I had felt in the kitchen preparing breakfast, and more strongly in our forest Eden feeding the orphans and drowsing side-by-side.
A sense of togetherness. Of belonging. Of family.
A sense at war with the stranger I felt in her room.
Tonight wouldn’t be about making Kayla mine, although parts of me were readying to make a good run at that goal. It was going to be about making this room and that bed mine. Not in the sense of owning, but in the sense of belonging. It was about losing my strangerness.
Kayla sat on the edge of the bed and patted the sheet beside me. “Which are you?” she asked. “The spider or the fly?”
With a smile, I sat next to her, and the dipping of the mattress threw our hips together. She smelled faintly of coconut shampoo, and I knew enough psychology to know she’d imprinted that fragrance in my brain so that forever after I’d always associate it with her. Six months from now, lonely for her and for Zahur, I could see myself stockpiling dozens of bottles of coconut shampoo, keeping her memory alive in my shower every night and in the smell of my own hair.
“The fly,” I told her readily. “Wrapped in your web and waiting for you to have your way with me.” I leaned forward, inviting her lips on mine.
“I think there’s a scorpion lurking under that helpless fly guise of yours. But as long as you’re willing to play…”
Her lips on mine were warm and sweet, establishing the mood—long and slow, unlike the morning’s frantic pace. On the single nightstand beside the bed, a jarred candle stood. She opened the drawer, drew out a lighter and lit the wick. A faint scent of vanilla wafted in the smoke. She dug further into the drawer, stood, then dropped something into my lap as she crossed to turn off the overhead light.
My hand closed around the familiar feel of the small packet. As efficient as she was in anticipating everyone else’s needs, it didn’t surprise me to find a condom—‘ribbed for her pleasure, lubricated for his’—suddenly in my lap.
Lights out, backlit by candle flame, Kayla stood before me, swaying slightly to some music I couldn’t hear. My hands ached to strip her blouse and shorts off so I could see the rhythm in her breasts and hips. Was I going to regret professing to be the fly and giving her permission to lead tonight? Slow had its attraction certainly, to a point. Just how slow was she planning to go?
“Come here,” I encouraged her.
She leaned in close, hands on my bare knees, the jut of her butt still swaying behind her. The smile on her lips now was anything but sweet. It was that of a hungry spider eyeing its helpless prey. A primal expression that I responded to, from the primal leap of my cock to the primal growl in my throat.
Encouraged, her eyes never leaving mine, she unbuttoned my shirt and stripped it off, moving in close to pull it off my arms. Her eyes were beautiful, mesmerizing, but I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity of another mesmerizing sight. I dropped my gaze to the deep cleavage that taunted just in front of my face, grav
ity dropping the front of her shirt just enough for a good tease.
The moment my arms were free, my hands were at her shirt front, eagerly unbuttoning her. When the sides of her shirt fell away, I moved my hands toward those luscious breasts, but she danced away before I could reach them.
Disappointment hit me like a slap, but then she was swaying again, bending her elbows and lifting her arms, and the opening of her shirt flirted with glimpses of her darkly nippled breasts. I would be holding them soon, if not soon enough, I reminded myself. Right now, she was my personal show to enjoy. A feast first for my eyes, and then my hands, and then my cock. In that order. I had only to be patient and let each stage of anticipation and reward build.
Straightening her arms and lowering them behind her back, she shrugged one shoulder, then her other shoulder, and suddenly her shirt was waterfalling over her breasts and down her arms. She caught an open sleeve in her right hand and tossed the shirt on to the dresser top. I only caught that action from the corner of my eye, though, as my focus was glued to her chest.
She was perfectly proportioned—her breasts neither too large nor too small for the size of her rib cage and sized equally perfectly for the palms of my hands, as I so well remembered. Why they should enthrall me so was a mystery. I wasn’t some teen seeing his first glimpse of real flesh outside of the magazines stashed under his mattress or the Google searches in the middle of the night that served up any variety of breast and body types imaginable. I was a doctor, who’d seen hundreds of breasts already in my short career, most of them average, some disgusting, many of them augmented, and a handful as natural and exquisite as Kayla’s. None of them, though, had been teased out of their shirt in candlelight.
Noble Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 3) Page 11