Noble Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 3) (17 page)

All of which would have to stay behind. We didn’t have the time or the room or manpower to move the more massive pieces or to protect the more delicate ones. Ironically, faced with having to leave so much behind, I chose to leave even more. Chairs and lamps and ornamental tables I could have carried but that had no practical use in the African jungle or a typical tribal home I ruthlessly cut from my mental list of takeables.

Instead, I headed for the storage room where we kept roll-away cots for overflow guests, along with a camp stove, 2-man tent and portable generator. Which reminded me that we’d need to move the outside petrol tank somehow or find enough containers to fill with all the petrol we could.

Damn it! That would take time. Everything we needed to do would take time. In the rain and mud. With no shower at the end.

I took a deep breath, switched off all emotion, and began to load in camping supplies, blankets, clothes and valuables like my mother’s jewelry. I stuffed the laptop and all the business records and receipts and property deeds—most of which were already collected in a small, fire-proof box—behind the van’s front seats. Two rifles and all the ammunition I could find joined the electronics and paperwork and jewelry in the cab.

In the end, beyond necessities, there was remarkably little I chose to take. I made an exception for a small porcelain elephant my parents had given me for my eighth birthday. “You are old enough now for fine and beautiful things,” Mama had told me. “When you keep the things you love safe, they will bring you joy for years to come.” Twenty-one years later, that little elephant remained a childhood milestone, a symbol of my parents’ trust. Of all my keepsakes, that beloved elephant still brought me the most joy. Tucking it securely inside a roll of clothes, it joined the growing stack of bags and boxes in the cargo hold.

Mark had worked quickly, and I helped him load the last of the kitchen into the van. He nodded toward the things I’d stacked inside. “Is that all you’re bringing?”

From the outside, the van didn’t seem particularly large. Inside, though, while we’d worked an hour to fill it, our efforts took up maybe a quarter of the interior. Had I been too frugal?

No.

“I’m coming back,” I told him. “This is my home.”

“But—”

“Whatever’s left I’ll use to rebuild.”

“What if there’s nothing left?” he asked, and his voice was gentle.

“Let them steal and smash and burn. There are two things they can’t destroy—my memories and my resolve.”

There, in the back of the van with the drum of the rain beating around us, Mark swept me into his arms and took my lips in his. An impulsive kiss. One that was all promise and reward and respect, with no hint of wanton desire to taint it. A kiss that expected nothing in return.

It was an extraordinary kiss.

A kiss of bonding, of understanding.

A kiss that frightened me to my core.

It was the type of kiss that claimed there was more between us than simple lust. That took us one step more toward the future.

A future that now more than ever could never—would never—be.

I had kissed my share of women, starting with Patty Malone in third grade. Along the way I’d learned there wasn’t just one type of kiss but several. The kiss of discovery, of thanks, of short goodbyes, of long goodbyes and of lust.

The kiss I’d just shared with Kayla was none of those. It was of a type that before today I hadn’t known about, having never had a reason to employ it. It was a kiss of unconditional support. The funny thing was, I didn’t even agree with her decision, but instead responded to her strength and courage in making it.

How screwed up was that?

And yet, I had no regrets for that kiss—not while we were kissing and not after when I saw the sharp glint of determination in her normally warm, soft eyes. I felt something then I’d felt of myself countless times without realizing I could feel it on behalf of another. I was proud, not
of
her but
for
her. A subtle difference maybe, but one I felt acutely in my soul.

She laid a fond and gentle hand against my cheek and whispered the word of her heart to me. “Petrol.”

I blinked, my brain taking a moment to work through the incongruity and focus on what she meant.

“We have nearly 100 gallons to figure how to get in here. I saw five, maybe six, containers in the sheds we can use. And a couple more with diesel that we can pour out. Mosi topped off the van’s tank before bringing it back, but we might be able to squeeze five or ten gallons into it. That means we’ll need to scrounge a way to haul another 50 gallons at least. Safely. We’ll be piling hay right next to it, and the
watoto
can’t be exposed to the fumes.” She pointed to a feature of the cargo hold I’d missed. “The window sliders will help with ventilation, but the babies will need to breathe more than the arabica cherries ever did.”

I’d forgotten she used the van to haul their coffee beans to market or to the washing site or wherever she’d told me they took them. Which was easy to forget since the inside smelled faintly of fruit left too long in the sun and nothing like a walk down the coffee aisle in a grocery store. Few other natural foods looked so different on the shelf compared to what it looked like on the tree.

“If you’ll siphon into the containers we have,” she continued, “I’ll check the work house and the other homes to see what I can find. Make sure you leave head room in each of them.” She took a breath. “At least there’s one thing we can thank all this rain for.”

“Yeah?”

“Cooler temperatures. The petrol shouldn’t explode back here.”

Now there was a phrase to cheer a man’s heart. Although I did admire the way she said it so matter-of-factly—like a gas explosion in the vehicle she was driving was an everyday possibility.

There was, it seemed, a great deal to admire about this woman, who was in her element in a crisis. She would have made a terrific emergency room doctor. Not that I had done so badly at it during my hospital residency stint, but it seemed my skills weren’t as transferable once I was out of that environment. Here, Kayla was always a step ahead of me.

It took an hour to find and fill 50 gallons worth of assorted containers, from thermoses to plastic soda bottles to what looked like a mini beer keg. Ultimately though, we had enough fuel to see this hog of a van through seven or eight hundred miles. Enough to see us south through a hostile DRC and into Tanzania or north into South Sudan where we’d risk the
Subs
outbreak and political strife of a different kind.

If we went west, we’d run out of fuel before we were out of the DRC, and while there were plenty of cities in the interior of the DRC, we couldn’t count on any of them being friendly to refugees from Ushindi. That much I had picked up in my research prior to coming here and in the days since I’d arrived. At the time, the political tensions in the region had concerned me some, but I’d dismissed them as something that wouldn’t actually touch me. Did all Americans have such hubris to believe we were somehow outside of the conflict simply because we were tourists or temporary workers?

To our east lay the imposing rise of the Mountains of the Moon. Zahur lay on the southwest-most flank of Mt. Stanley, the biggest of them, and two of its peaks—Alexandra and the charmingly named Margherita—were among Africa’s highest. They attracted mountaineers and tourists, but from the Uganda side mostly. From the Ushindi side, if there were roads up those mountains, they were nothing more than ranger trails and would probably be flooded out by now. I knew because I’d considered staying a couple of weeks beyond my tour in Ushindi and taking a crack at hiking one of the peaks over a couple of days. Having to hike in to the peak itself through dense, unpopulated rainforest—jungle really, rainforest made it sound a lot more hospitable than it was—put me off that idea immediately. Not to mention at the upper elevations, the peaks were rock and snow, requiring ice axes and ropes and skill I hadn’t acquired to traverse.

Our best bet, then, was to roll south—fast.

But first, we had one more obstacle to overcome.

Convincing our babies up the ramp and into the van.

We loaded in hay bales and spread a thick bed of hay between the bales that cushioned the walls of the van, leaving a small but cozy space for the babies—
watoto
, I tried to think in Swahili—to lay.

“I can get a lead rope,” I suggested.

Kayla shook her head. “That will scare them as much as the ramp.” She picked up a box of cereal we’d left out as a road snack for the gorilla and, standing at the paddock gate where we’d butted up the back of the van while Tamu and Nyota watched us from their lean-to with wary eyes, she called to the
watoto
.

Hesitantly, they came, eying the unfamiliar beast at their gate. With every tentative step it was clear they were weighing their fear of the unknown against their trust in their foster mom. Each step forward became a testament to just how much trust they had in Kayla.

“Come along, little
watoto
,” she called.

Kayla shook her box of goodies, and the
watoto’s
ears pricked as their steps became a little more eager. Another shake and they trotted the last few yards to nibble at the cereal in her outstretched hand. Before they could get more than a taste, she backed a couple of steps up the ramp. The babies advanced till their hooves were almost-but-not-quite touching the foreign metal. Stretching their necks, they found another small handful of treats waiting for them. As if being taller and having a longer neck than Tamu weren’t enough of an advantage where distance was concerned, the okapi also had that incredible tongue that easily gave her a 12-inch bonus reach.

Kayla backed another step.

Nyota proved to be the braver of the two, putting her hoof first on the cold metal. When the unfamiliar ground didn’t move or try to attack, she took another step up the ramp, then another and another.

More afraid of being left behind than of the strange ramp and vehicle, Tamu followed the okapi up at Kayla’s urging. Progress was slow but steady with Kayla doling out treats every couple of feet gained.

I saw the anxiety in Kayla’s pinched face, the tightness around her mouth and eyes betraying her need to be already gone and fled to safety. In her voice and movements, however, she was the paragon of patience, okapi- and rhino-whispering her little ones into the cargo hold at last, luring them onto the thick bed of hay, then stepping slowly around till she was between them and the ramp while I eased my way over and strung rope across the open bay in a makeshift fence that would dissuade them—especially the okapi—from leaping out whenever we opened the door. Only when all was secure and the
watoto
were munching on a last handful of cereal did Kayla crawl between the ropes and help me unhook the ramp and slide it back into its brackets on the undercarriage. The she murmured love and comfort to the babies as we closed the door.

Double-checking the ventilation windows on either side, we made our muddy way to the cab, ready at last to be on our way. I opened my door, snorting as I slid into the passenger seat.

“What?” Kayla, behind the wheel, wrestled her heavy door shut.

“A lot of things. The first being I’m still not used to your backassed cars, so I thought I was getting in the driver’s seat.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry. You’ll do your share of driving. We have a long way to go.”

“Do we? Does that mean you’ve decided where you’re going?”

“Ethiopia, by way of South Sudan. So north. You’ll be able to catch a flight in South Sudan from Juba to Cairo once the quarantines are lifted. Assuming fighting doesn’t break out again. Malakal Airport there had to be closed due to the violence even before the quarantine was slapped on because of
Subs
. Between Congolese guns to the south, Sudanese violence to the north and the mosquitoes, I’m willing to chance disease. Hopefully it won’t be more than a fortnight before I can bring the kids back here. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see Ethiopia, maybe check out some of their amazing coffee plantations.”

She hadn’t actually consulted me, but her tone and behavior suggested she was open to input. Which I didn’t really have. No way was safe, so it was all a gamble. My throw of the dice would be no better or worse than hers. What mattered was that wherever we were headed, we were going together. For now, at least.

We pulled up to the house one final time. I didn’t need to get out, but I did, following her in as she collected the bag of snacks I’d packed for the road. I watched her expression carefully as she peeked in. “Squeak banana, ball, mangoes, dog biscuits, water bowl, plastic cups and cheese and crackers for us. Did I miss anything?”

Kayla smiled. “Only this.” She ducked into a hall closet with a thumb-lock on it to keep Jengo out and returned with a magnum of rum.

It was my turn to smile.

She picked up her backpack with the baby bottles and dry formulas I’d bagged up and took Jengo’s hand while I grabbed the snack bag. With Gus following close on our heels, we headed for the door. With the generator off, the house was as quiet as a tomb. Tears gathered in Kayla’s eyes as she closed the front door behind us one final time.

She blinked, and the tears were gone, replaced by that trademark look of resolve I had so grown to admire.

In the tight cab of the van, we scrambled to find a comfortable riding arrangement. There was only room for Gus to sit between Kayla and me, but Jengo seemed determined to ride in Kayla’s lap. He whimpered and cried and clutched to her as she encouraged him my way. It was only when I reached across the dog and wrapped my hands around the little gorilla’s chest that he realized Kayla wasn’t asking him to go away but merely move from one lap to another. That seemed to suit him, and he clambered the rest of the way on his own, exchanging a toothy grin and a hand squeeze with Kayla once he was on my lap. He didn’t even protest, now that he understood we were all in this together, when she unclasped her hand from his so she could drive us out of here.

I handed Jengo his toy banana from the snack bag and gave myself a moment to bask in Kayla’s warm smile of approval before she put the van in gear and pulled away, rolling slowly through the plantation gates. It was amazing how quickly Zahur disappeared behind us as the mountain’s rainforest swallowed the view.

One moment it was there, the next it was gone.

Concerned, I glanced Kayla’s way. “You okay?”

“No,” she said, and something in that vulnerable admission touched the primal protector in me. “I feel—what’s your term?—sucker punched. Like I’m having to admit defeat before even putting up a fight. And that’s before even trying to think about leaving a home that’s been a stronghold since the turn of the
last
century before this one. Or think about the cows…”

Those damn cows
. And yet, that she could think about their safety in the same breath she worried about her home… There was something good and noble about that. Something that spoke to me personally about such a generous and sympathetic heart. Something that filled me with shame for not caring as deeply as she did. For thinking only of myself and how I was going to find my way home, while Kayla could somehow think of herself, her home, her strays, her cows and me all at once, and all with equal priority.

Here I was sitting in a van with a gorilla chattering on my lap and a Rottweiler drooling on the seats, fleeing an armed militia with what I’d decided was the most amazing woman in the world. And I had the gall—or maybe it was the idiocy—to question Kayla’s feelings when I wasn’t really allowing myself to feel anything of my own.

It was, after all, Kayla’s home and Kayla’s animals. I had followed along with her suggestions and plans not just because I didn’t have anything better to offer, but because, ultimately, what was happening here affected me only insofar as when and where and how I was going to catch a flight out. I’d be gone and Kayla would be left wherever we wound up—Ethiopia, Sudan, the DRC, to rebuild her world and life. I wouldn’t be a part of that, so her decisions needed to be her own.

“It isn’t too late to turn back.” I meant it as tough love, not a challenge or an indictment.

For no longer than the moment it takes for lightning to flash across the sky, the very foundation of who Kayla was wavered. Then her strength and resolve returned as decisively as a thunderclap. As if to underscore the rightness of her decision, a helicopter
thwocked
low over the rise of ground to our right. Like a vulture over carrion, it circled our van before, nose almost to the ground, it followed our track of road back toward Zahur.