Far in the Wilds. Deanna Raybourn

as Mrs. Farraday says. I inquired about guides for our safari and your name did not arise in the conversation.”

      “Probably because I don’t guide.” Ryder helped himself to another glass of the cold champagne. He glanced to where Jude was dancing with Anthony Wickenden. The band was playing something soft and coaxing and the veranda doors had been thrown open to the warm night, the perfume of it thick with flowers and spice and smoke and the red earth of Africa itself. Outside the stars were shedding their light on the club gardens, glittering like so much broken glass on the velvet of the night sky. It was a night for falling in love, and it looked to Ryder as if Anthony was halfway there.

      He realized the prince was speaking. “But how is it that you do not guide? All of the hunters do.”

      “I do what I like. And I don’t usually like to guide. I’d rather hunt for meat or to take out a maneater than kill for sport.”

      The prince made a noise of derision. “I thought you appreciated beauty for its own sake. Is preserving the beauty of an animal forever not reason enough?”

      Ryder sighed. The strange little man and his cryptic conversation were tiring. Mademoiselle was a lovely distraction but not quite enough compensation for putting up with him. “Trophies are not beautiful,” he said flatly. “Not to me.”

      To his surprise, Mademoiselle flushed deeply. The barb hadn’t been directed at her, but she had taken it to heart, and he saw a flash of pure anger that she worked hard to smother.

      The prince spoke again. “I think you exaggerate your talents, Mr. White. Like all colonials, you are a teller of tales, are you not? Come, confess to me that you are not all that you seem. What are you really?”

      Ryder was well and truly bored and knew the fastest way to get rid of the prince was to tell him the truth. “I’m a farmer and tradesman. I have a sisal plantation on the coast, and I have a string of small shops called dukas in the bush. I sell rice and fabric and motor oil, Your Highness. Now, if you will excuse me—” He didn’t wait for permission to leave. He flicked a brisk nod towards Mademoiselle and turned on his heel, the prince spluttering behind him.

      Out of the tail of his eye, Ryder saw a commotion at the door. Rex Farraday was in heated conversation with the club porter while Helen was clutching her necklace with one slim hand, her face drained of color. Suddenly, a small crowd of native Africans shoved into the doorway, eyes rolling in terror, the women sobbing and the men shouting. In their midst they carried an unconscious man, blood dripping red onto the polished floor. Rex did his best to calm them, but Ryder caught one word repeated over and over again. Simba.

      It wasn’t possible, Ryder thought. A lion in the middle of Nairobi? But the Africans were insistent, and the porter added his voice to the fray. Ryder slid through the crowd until he was at the man’s side. He was about to question the porter when he saw the injured man’s wounds. There was no mistaking a lion’s bite, and the rest of the party knew it. The word simba flowed over and through them, sparking excitement and in some cases outright hysteria. The band stopped playing and the crowd shoved its way to the windows, exclaiming loudly as they caught sight of the creature.

      “Oh, that poor little monkey,” Ryder heard Jude say. Wickenden had his arm firmly around Jude, and Ryder turned away, his one responsibility attended to. Helen had kept her feet, but two other women had already swooned, men were shouting about forming a hunting party, and Ryder saw that things were quickly spiraling out of control. Rex was attempting to bring order to the situation, but few were listening and most were just drunk enough to be dangerous. It was only a matter of minutes before someone did something stupid.

      As he had done earlier in the day, Ryder vaulted over the bar, this time to grab the rifle that was hung on the back wall. He opened it and found it was empty.

      “Sahib,” the Indian barman called softly. Ryder looked down to find the man sitting comfortably on the floor tucked out of harm’s way. He handed up a box of ammunition. Ryder took up four rounds, loading two and slipping the others into his pocket before passing back the box.

      “Do you not want more, sahib?”

      Ryder shrugged. “I won’t have time to reload more than once.” He hefted himself over the bar again, landing lightly on his feet. At the door, Rex was still trying to restore calm. He caught sight of Ryder and waved him over with an air of relief. Helen shrieked when she saw the rifle in his hand.

      “Ryder—” She never finished the sentence, but there was no need.

      “Yes, Helen. I have to.” He gave her a lazy grin, and just then Jude appeared at his side.

      “Need a second gun?”

      “No, but you can hold my coat,” he told her, shrugging out of the tight evening coat.

      “Ass,” she said, but her usual easy tone was brittle. She was afraid for him, and he felt a quick chill brush his spine. Jude wasn’t afraid of anything. But life turned on a dime in Africa. A man could be hale and hearty at breakfast and dead by lunch, taken out by a bullet or an animal bite or a fever so savage it could turn a man’s organs to liquid. It didn’t matter how often you said your prayers or how many good luck charms filled your pockets. Dead was dead, and Africa could get you there quicker than anyplace else.

      He held her gaze a moment as he handed over his coat. He looked over her head to Wickenden whose eyes were round with fear and excitement. He gave Wickenden a brisk nod. He didn’t dare tell the fellow to take care of Jude, but they both knew what Ryder expected of him. Wickenden’s hands tightened on her shoulders and Ryder turned sharply on his heel.

      He strode through the crowd and it parted before him like the Red Sea, falling away as he walked. He knew there was a buzz of conversation and even a few muted shouts or sobs, he couldn’t quite tell which. The rifle felt good in his hand, solid and heavy, a large-bore with a bullet capable of shattering bone at a hundred yards. It was security, but security was an illusion. A cat was unpredictable as the wind and twice as changeable. In their own environment they fell into patterns, and if you watched one long enough, you might get to know him, might even get lulled into believing you understood him. But you never did. Like most everything else in Africa, lions kept their secrets. They could often be spotted near Nairobi, but it was rare to see one in the centre of town, and the fact that this one had ventured in meant that it was starving or ill or mean as hell, none of which inspired any confidence in Ryder.