Noble Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 3) (5 page)

I knew I had stayed too long, but how do you leave your home? How do you abandon so many others depending on you?

It wasn’t about politics or the growing strength of the militia preparing to march across the land.

Zahur was a sizable tract of land, but was it attractive to an army? Coffee was a commodity crop, not something that could sustain a nomadic militia. It required large numbers of willing hands to profit; workers who had to be fed and housed and paid out of the profits of a crop that had to be harvested, washed, processed and shipped on time to ready buyers who might or might not care from whom they were buying at prices negotiated around the rise and fall of worldwide supply and fluctuating currencies.

For an army with limited resources, the only value in the land was in not letting the other side have it in usable condition. There was a reason Sherman had burned his way across the South during the U.S. Civil War.

Zahur was remote enough, isolated enough that coups—whether bloody or bloodless—and regime changes had little impact on our day-to-day operations, assuming our supply chain remained intact and we were able to ship the coffee to our buyers without interruption. As long as taxes and bribes and any newly imposed fees weren’t too exorbitant, we’d suck up the economic changes and continue on from regime to regime, business as usual.

At some point, inevitably, in a region so unstable as this, the whole of the economy would be upset enough to affect even us. Our luck would run out.

One day the slopes of Mt. Stanley would burn.

That day was approaching like a gathering storm over the mountains, rolling inevitably, unstoppably over Ushindi. Over Zahur. Over me.

I shuddered, literally shaking off the self-pity that loomed. The situation demanded action—or at the very least contingency planning. That coming storm contained multiple threats. It wasn’t just me and my home at risk. There were ten other families here who were under the swing of both swords too—political pressure and the
Subs
virus. Their wants and needs also figured prominently.

“At least I didn’t have to be the one to break the news of Lisha to them,” I confessed to Mark, although I felt like a coward as I said it. Quick texts had let me know Jamal was keeping the other families apprised. “And the cooperative is keeping a protective eye on Jamal’s kids. If they get too lonely or worried or scared, they have nine other families they can crash with. Ten, if you count me, but I probably intimidate them too much.”

“You?” He caught himself with an embarrassed laugh.

“I am
jumbe
now. The de facto boss since my father passed six months ago. My relationship with the workers and their kids changed abruptly then. At least the way they treat me did. More respectfully, but also more…distantly. I appreciate the respect, of course. But that distancing saddens me. I don’t consider myself any less approachable or less concerned about them as friends first and employees second. But while they’re still friendly with me, it doesn’t feel like we’re friends anymore. Just business acquaintances.”

“You sound lonely.”

“Do I?” I thought about that. Between kids and adults, there were always a couple of dozen people living on the plantation. During harvest, we’d hire a couple of dozen more who lived here in seasonal bunk houses. But in the house where I lived, it
was
pretty lonely, even if a couple of the women popped in and out to help me cook and clean.

“I guess I’m just missing Mama and Baba. Especially with so much happening, or at least poised to happen, right now.”

Mark looked uncomfortable , as though he couldn’t decide how to respond, whether physically or emotionally. I was, after all, little more than a stranger baring my soul to him. Have lonely must I have been to do that?

The truth was, I wasn’t sure how to respond to him either. Well, my body certainly knew how it
wanted
to respond, especially after he’d stripped his shirt off in the kitchen. If his wound had been worse or if there’d been a hint of a ring on his finger, even a discolored band of skin, I would have been far more comfortable sitting out here alone with him. He would have felt…tame.

As it was, he reeked of availability and possibility. A wild stray who could as easily choose to go as stay. He carried with him an air of unpredictability, of future uncertainty.

On top of which, he was also
hot as hell
, as my urban classmates would have said.

My body didn’t care that Ushindi seemed perched on the edge of civil war or that the mosquitoes emerging in the set of the sun might carry a deadly pandemic.

No, its only concern was the breadth of shoulder that tapered to a narrow waist before slipping into the tight pair of bush shorts worn by the man sitting next to me who was obviously trying to decide if he should put an arm around me in a gesture of empathy to help take away a little of the loneliness he saw in me.

I considered myself a warm person—always concerned and ready to help—but I wasn’t practiced in the touch of strangers—not in the giving nor the receiving.

I could understand the tingle of anticipation in my gut at the thought he might wrap an arm around my shoulders. What I couldn’t understand was the sudden craving to be wrapped close in that arm, his shaven cheek next to mine, the soft line of his lips turned toward me, our breaths mingling in the gathering dusk.

I didn’t need his sympathy. I didn’t need him any more than I needed the other strays in my life.
They
needed
me
.

The dozens of strays I’d taken in over the years proved that. I didn’t accumulate strays because I needed them to fill some wide hole in my maternal heart. I took them in because…

Because it was the right, honorable, noble thing to do? Because there was any kind of choice in the matter? Or because I
did
have a crushing need to be needed?

What if Mark didn’t need me beyond the patch job I’d done for him?

Not every stray I’d fed had stayed, of course. When they’d gotten to the point they no longer needed me, they’d left. And that was okay, because there were always strays who did need me coming along behind.

The few special ones stayed, like Gus. The ones whose need had become comfort, loyalty and eventually, I liked to believe, love.

Where on the spectrum would Mark fall?

His arm twitched, paused like a snake coiled before a strike, then fell back to his side, the moment of possibility gone.

To cover any betrayal of regret that might lurk in my eyes, I dug into my backpack and handed him a spray can of insect repellent. “Better put this on.”

A turaco chattered in the trees and a serval cat howled downhill. Gus’s ears perked and he lifted his muzzle, sniffing the air before rising and padding off to the tree line a few yards away. With a yawn, Nyota shook herself awake, unfolding her long legs and coming to a graceful stand. Tamu followed, rocking her clumsy body to her feet and dislodging the gorilla, who hooted his displeasure at being jostled awake.

When Mark handed back the spray can, Jengo scampered over to inspect it. I spritzed his belly with a quick, fine mist to satisfy his curiosity, letting him navel gaze while I dug out his bright yellow squeak banana from my pack to keep him occupied on the walk back. I found a long stick about half as big around as my wrist and teased Tamu with it until she won it away from me, holding her prize proudly and ready to carry it back with us. I was about to load the empties up when Mark snorted.

Was he laughing at me? I whirled…straight into his smile. I expected the hint of dimples and the way the expression softened the strong chisel of his high cheekbones and the squared-off point of his jaw. I also expected to be hit by a wave of sexual energy that would tingle through my core. But it wasn’t that kind of a smile. No wave or tingle followed. What did follow was a completely unanticipated reaction. One that only deepened when he said, “You know, you’re a good mom.”

My heart clenched at his smile. My tightening chest squeezed the breath from me at his words. Of course I was a good mom—to my
watoto
, my fur babies. But the way he looked when he said it—sexy and sincere—threw my emotions into overdrive. From somewhere wholly unexpected came a biological cry I had never heard, a biological need I’d never felt. Not that I hadn’t considered
mom
before, but that was when I was still young enough to play with dolls. And even then I usually preferred my herd of plastic horses to a cradle full of tiny plastic humans.

So why the sudden longing when all Mark had done was smile at me and compliment my skills?

Most perplexing, why was it
Mark’s
smile that had unearthed such a long-buried urge?

If being around an unattached and available male for only a few hours could stir such disturbing emotions, then it was clear I needed a higher-quality social life.

“It’s getting dark.” My voice trembled only a little as I tried to cover my consternation. “We should get back before the mosquitoes get too thick.”

His smile fell away naturally when he nodded, but the deep longing within didn’t subside nearly as quickly as I gathered up the empty bottles and tossed them in my backpack.

I held out my hand and Jengo took it with his right, clutching his banana squeak in his left, with the okapi and rhino lining up behind and Gus keeping a watchful eye on us all.

I heard Mark chuckling at us as we trooped down to a small paddock with a lean-to shelter in the corner.

“Nyota and Tamu sleep here at night while they’re still young enough to be easy prey,” I explained as, obediently, the okapi and rhino walked through the gate I held open. Then I flipped on the electric current to the fence’s top two wires.

I couldn’t hear the hum, but the animals always seemed to be able to. Jengo screeched and backed away from the fence, shaking his head. “He’s touched the wires a couple of times and gotten shocked,” I told Mark. “Now he reminds everyone not to get too close to them.”

“He’s kind of amazing,” Mark said as we walked the last few yards to the house. “No”—he stopped so I had to turn back to see him in the gathering dark—“
you’re
kind of amazing. The way you interact with him”—he waved a hand to encompass all the menagerie—“with them. You make them seem so smart. And the way you encourage them so naturally. I know it’s just a routine to you now and that you probably don’t even see it. But take it from an outsider looking in, it’s, well—”

“Amazing?” I filled in with a grin. “Maybe I make them look good, but the
watoto
don’t act any differently for me than they would for their own mothers in their own natural environments. The world is what’s amazing when you take the time to really see it.”

We covered the last few feet to the side door that led into the kitchen. I flipped the light on and pointed to a cabinet door. “There’s more Percocet in there, if you need it, and clean glasses are there.” I pointed to the next cabinet over before unloading the empty bottles from my pack into the sink to wash. “Sandwiches okay for supper?”

I caught the quirk of his smile from the corner of my eye and spun around to confront him. “What?”

“You just can’t stop being a mother, can you?”

Something in the way he said it made me wary. “Is that an insult?”

He looked genuinely abashed. “Not at all. I find it…comforting. In fact, I find you—this—all of it comforting. Not at all what I expected being sent to a free clinic in the middle of Africa.”

“What
did
you expect?” I rinsed my hands and began unpacking sandwich makings from the small refrigerator, transporting them to the table for a make-your-own buffet.

“Starving children. Sad, sick adults. Third-world depression. Your typical stereotype. But the tribe members and plantation workers I’ve seen… They’ve been well-adjusted, well-fed and healthy for the most part. Tell me something, does everyone out here have a cell phone?”

I laughed. “Pretty much. I know families without running water that don’t do without a phone.”

“It’s different here from what I imagined, that’s for sure. But while I imagined seeing armed militia in Hasa, I didn’t imagine being kidnapped and shot by them. Nor did I imagine being taken in by someone like you.”

“What do you mean,
like me
?” I dropped a plate in front of him and cut a handful of thick slices from the loaf of crusty wheat bread, handing him the first two. Maybe I was fishing for a compliment with my question, but I was also intensely curious to know what he really thought about me.

“You’re like a wild zoo mother. But you’re also so…Western. The way you talk, the way you live, the way you dress—I walk into your house and except for some of the wall hangings and the fabrics, I could be walking into a home in Iowa. Except… I don’t know anyone in Iowa half as lovely as you.”

I leaned in close and peered into his dark eyes. “Do you actually know anyone in Iowa?”

He laughed. “Okay, you caught me. But the lovely part…that stands.”

“Are you disappointed?”

He blinked. “With you?”