long journey toward the border post. Dirk Bauer kept the formation. But as the brigade turned inland, he glanced back for an instant, his eyes locking on Cissy. Then he rounded a corner and was gone.
Cissy stifled a sob with her handkerchief. “I love him, Emma,” she said softly. “Truly, I do.”
“I know, dearest. Your heart is broken.”
“Don’t mock me, Emma! The pain is so great I can hardly bear it.”
“I’m not making light of it. I understand your suffering.”
“Impossible. Romance is as foreign to you as this sweltering continent is to me. You’ve never known real love.”
I don’t suppose I have, Emma mused, placing her hand over Cissy’s. But then, I’ve never cared a fig about men.
Emma would not fall in love—of that she was confident. Certainly she would never marry. God intended her to labor for Him as a nurse. He had called her into that glorious service, just as certainly as He had called Miss Nightingale.
Even as Emma recited the assurance she had held in her heart these two long years, her focus wandered to the pier below. Amid the dispersing crowd, the tall rancher stood watching her. He clutched his hat in one hand and hooked the thumb of the other over his belt. His weight rested on one leg, while his broad shoulders slanted in an easy slouch.
Unlike her father and the other Englishmen of her acquaintance, this American looked comfortable, perfectly at home in his body. She had never been allowed to feel so at ease with herself. Corsets, laces and petticoats were tangible reminders of the strictures that bound her.
What would such a man as Adam King be like alone, away from the crowds? Hadn’t the warmth of his hand on hers made her shiver? Hadn’t it conveyed a promise of strength and security she had never felt in her life?
“Emma, who are you staring at?” Cissy’s voice broke into her thoughts. “It’s that man on the pier, isn’t it? The one in the strange hat. Who is he?”
“His name is Adam King,” Emma murmured. “He’s an American.”
He had begun speaking with the ship’s purser now, a much shorter man with a protruding belly. As Emma made to turn her sister away from the rail, she saw the rancher lean forward, his index finger punctuating his words with regular jabs at the other man’s chest. Clearly furious, he edged the ship’s officer backward step by step.
“What could the purser have done to anger him so?” Cissy asked.
“I can hardly imagine,” Emma replied. The American looked so different now—all his dark strength surged upward into black fury. She gripped the iron rail, conscious of her heart beating in heightened rhythm with the rancher’s advance. Just as the purser backed into a low wooden box and could go no farther, Adam stopped. He appeared on the verge of throwing the hefty adversary into the harbor, when the purser whisked a long white envelope from behind his back.
The American snatched the envelope, and the purser scampered up the gangway like a hare eluding a fox. Tearing open the envelope, Adam took out a letter and scanned its contents.
Emma craned forward, anticipating the reaction. Suddenly lifting his head, Adam raised his eyes to the sky. For a moment the man stood frozen—a great tower of pulsing strength, barely leashed by rigid muscles. Then, as if a cord had been severed, the bonds broke and he snapped back to life. Ripping the letter in two, he hurled it to the ground and spun on his spurred heel.
He strode to the grove of palm trees, took his horse’s reins and mounted. The animal reared, hooves churning, then it turned away from the ship to gallop along the harbor and out of sight.
“Heavens,” Cissy exclaimed. “I should like to know what was in that letter. Shall I go down and fetch it?”
“No, Cissy.” Emma caught her sister’s arm. “That man’s business is not our affair.”
“But haven’t you the least bit of curiosity? After all, it’s not every day one sees a cowboy.”
“A cowboy?” Emma frowned. “Mr. King introduced himself as a rancher.”
“He’s American, isn’t he? With those boots and spurs, what else could he be?”
Emma watched the dust settling along the path the horse had taken. A cowboy…the sort of character she had only read about in books. Cowboys led wagon trains across the prairies and drove herds of longhorn cattle down dusty trails. What could such a man be doing in Africa?
“I hope we see him again,” Cissy said. “I should like to tell my friends at home that I talked to a real cowboy.”
“We won’t see him again,” Emma told her sister. “Mr. King must have come to Mombasa for that letter and he certainly wasn’t pleased with its news.”
“He was in a great hurry to be off.” Cissy tilted her head. “Emma, are you all right?”
Stiffening, Emma realized she was still staring after the man. “I’m fine, of course. Look, Cissy, our father’s new acquaintance is moving our way. He’ll expect an introduction.”
His top hat a burnished black in the late sunlight, Nicholas Bond held his shoulders straight and his chin up as he approached. Nothing about him echoed the casual slouch of the cowboy rancher. A sudden thought brightened Emma’s spirits. Perhaps Mr. Bond might capture her sister’s fancy and draw Cissy’s attention from poor Dirk Bauer.
“I should like you to meet Mr. Nicholas Bond,” Emma said as the man presented himself. “He’s the assistant director of the railway. Mr. Bond, my sister, Miss Priscilla Pickering.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Pickering.” He smiled, swept off his top hat and pressed his lips to Cissy’s hand. “And now your father awaits. May I direct you ladies from the ship?”
With a polished clip in his step, he escorted the sisters down the gangway behind their father.
“Your trunks are safely stowed,” Bond announced, clapping his hands to summon a trolley. As a pair of young African men pulled the wheeled vehicle to a halt, he turned to the women.
“Miss Priscilla,” he said, holding out a hand. “Take care, please. This is no English carriage.”
Cissy dipped her head in polite acknowledgment. As Nicholas and her father helped Cissy up the squeaky stair into the covered trolley, a flutter of white caught Emma’s eye. Half of Adam King’s letter tumbled toward her in the gentle breeze. After a moment’s hesitation, she snatched it up.
Roses the color of blood and wine bloomed in a tangle of green vines across the top of the paper. Watercolor florals, done in an elegant hand. The scent of perfume, heady and evocative, clung to the letter as Emma began to read.
My darling. The words swam out in flowing blue ink. How I’ve longed to be in your arms! How I’ve missed you—
The torn page stopped the words. Emma glanced up to see the men busily tucking Cissy’s skirts into the trolley. She read on.
As you know, I had planned to arrive in January, but unfortunately—
Another
