“Your…earring…” he said, and she automatically felt her left ear and found the ring gone. Somehow it must have worked itself loose.
“It’s caught in your hair,” he said, reaching for it, as she reached for it.
They both froze, their hands gripped together in her hair. Their eyes met and all she could feel was his big hand, his fingers tangled with hers, the warmth of them. The sudden crazy pounding of her heart.
For a moment that seemed like an eternity they simply stood there looking at each other, not breathing. Then they both let go at the same time and the earring slipped lose from her hair and fell to the wooden floor where it bounced harmlessly under a chair. He rescued it from its hiding place and handed it to her, dropping it into her palm without touching her.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t mention it.”
And then she moved past him into the hall and went into her bedroom while he continued to his study.
She sat down on the side of the bed and let out her breath slowly, realizing her body was all tensed up. She unclenched her hands, rubbed her forehead.
This was too nerve-racking for words. Maybe it had been a mistake to come here. Maybe she should have stayed in the hotel in Nyahururu.
No, said a little voice, you were curious about Rand Caldwell.
Impatient with her own thoughts, she came to her feet and picked up the big, padded envelope she’d put on the desk when she’d unpacked her luggage. She opened it and slid out several notebooks and a sheaf of manuscript papers.
Her father’s personal journals. Four years of observations, thoughts, notes, and anecdotes, written while living in Kanguli. Like the man he had been, his handwriting was simple and clear and easy to read.
Using the journals, her father had started writing a book for publication. It had only been half-finished when he and her mother had died tragically when a drunken driver had careened into their car at high speed.
It had taken her a long time to gather the courage to read the journals, and once she had, a floodgate of emotion had been opened inside her. He had written about people and animals, about loving and living African-style. The stories were touching or humorous. She had wept and laughed. She had known then, that the book could not go unfinished. Other people would be entertained and inspired by her father’s work. It deserved to be shared.
Like the scientist he was, her father had made a detailed outline and plan for the book. She had studied the finished section, discovering that the material was in essence taken straight from the journals, organized and rearranged in a new format.
She had sat at her desk, her hands trembling, her heart pounding. I can do it, she’d thought, and the words had echoed in her head for days like a secret mantra. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.
Her love of writing, of expressing her thoughts and feelings on paper, she had inherited from him. She was her father’s daughter and she’d felt the swelling of joy and pride inside her.
I can do it.
She could do it. She was, in fact, uniquely qualified to do it.
And so the planning had begun. She had found a publisher who was interested in the project—in actual fact, she’d found two. She’d made a choice, signed a contract and received an advance large enough to make her stay here possible, backed up with the money from her parents’ life insurance policy.
Shanna looked down on the papers and smiled. And here she was, back in Kenya, where her father had begun the journals, and where she would finish the book. In the next few days she’d have to tell Nick that she had decided to stay and was not flying back with him to the States at the end of next week.
She did not want to go back to her apartment where so much reminded her of Sammy. It would be easier to deal with her feelings here, in another environment, doing something interesting. And certainly finishing the book here would be so much easier.
She settled at the desk and switched on her laptop computer. She studied the outline for chapter eight and found the journal entries assigned to it, absorbing the sounds coming from the bush outside through the open window.
Three hours later she came to her feet, stiff and tired, but feeling a great sense of accomplishment. Too keyed up to go to sleep, she quietly slipped out of her room, along the passage to the veranda.
The air was cool and the only light anywhere came from the stars and a half moon. The world was dark and full of sounds—mysterious, frightening. Below in the gorge animals were sleeping, or hunting. It was wild, secret and dangerous out there and she shivered a little.
From the house behind her came footsteps and Rand appeared next to her with a drink in his hand. Her heart made an awkward little leap as she looked at him in the pale moonlight and a thought floated through her mind. Rand was like the gorge below—wild and secret.
And dangerous.
She could sense it, yet not understand it. If he were a threat to her, then why?
It wasn’t physical, she knew that. It was a more subtle danger, more insidious, more devastating. He could hurt her.
She shivered again. What made her think like this?
“You’re up late,” he said evenly.
“I was working. Now I’m too excited to sleep.”
“Excited? Why?”
“I still can’t believe I’m really back here after all these years. In a way I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“To spoil my memories. I was afraid I would be disappointed.”
“And you’re not.”
“No, oh, no! Not in the least.”
A coughing sound came from somewhere in the darkness.
“Leopard,” said Rand, “down in the gorge.”
Leopard.
She hugged herself.
“Cold?” he inquired politely.
She shook her head. “No, just…I don’t know. Overwhelmed, I think. At home I’d hear cats meow or dogs bark. Now, here I am, listening to a leopard.”
They were silent for a while, standing there together listening to the mysterious darkness.
She glanced at his shadowed face. “Did you ever think of settling in the States or England when you were there?” she asked.
“No,” he said shortly. “This is my home. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
She could well understand it. The place had a hypnotic atmosphere, a magnetic pull. “I imagine it’s too romantic a view, but it seems a wonderful kind of life here.”
He gave a short laugh that held no humor. “Romantic indeed. And naive. Not many people can take this kind of wonderful life for very long.” His voice held a note of disdain. “Most people need the excitement and stimulation of cities and people around them,” he said flatly. “You live in Boston, you must know.”
“Yes, but city life can get very stressful. I like to get away. I often do. I enjoy being with people, but I also like to be by myself.”
“Where do you go to be by yourself?”
“The beach, the woods, the park. I like to walk. It gives me a chance to hear myself think. I rather like my own company at times.”
There was a silence.
She glanced over at him. “Does that sound conceited? That’s not how I mean it.”
He raised his brows fractionally. “How do you mean it then?”