The Maverick's Bride (2 page)

Her petticoats causing some difficulty, Emma stood from the wharf. As she started toward the palm grove, she noted that the stranger’s shirt was clean and white—brilliant in the afternoon sun—but it didn’t do the things a shirt was meant to do. It had somehow lost its stiffness, the collar hanging loose at his neck and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Oddest of all was the man’s hat. Not a derby, a top hat or even a straw hat, this was made of jet-black felt, and it bore a wide, curling brim with a black leather band. The crown rose above his head, then dipped into a valley at the center.

As Emma approached, she saw him place the injured African on a patch of cool white sand near his horse. Then he slid a wool blanket from behind the black saddle.

“Emma, come quickly!” Cissy’s voice drew her attention. “They’ve taken the other one out of the water. No one will touch him.”

Whirling away, Emma followed Cissy through the crowd to the second African, who lay among the debris of the shattered crate. His body, clothed only in a fabric of native weave tied at the waist, glistened with water. He was awake but bleeding from a deep slash across his arm.

“Oh, Cissy, you know I’m not a surgeon,” Emma exclaimed, kneeling. “But we can’t wait for one. We must bind this wound without a moment’s delay.”

She glanced up to find her sister’s normally rosy cheeks pale, eyes wide with trepidation. Realizing Cissy would be no help, Emma turned her attention to the injured man. With effort, she lifted his trembling shoulders into her lap.

“I am here for you now,” she murmured. “With God’s help, I shall put you to rights.”

Miss Nightingale abhorred the practice of cheering the sick by making light of their danger or by exaggerating their probabilities of recovery. A good nurse must be concise and decisive, she instructed her pupils. Any doubt or hesitation should be kept to oneself and never communicated to the patient. Yet, Emma believed kind words could never hurt.

“Now, let me have a look at your arm,” she said gently. The man probably could make little sense of her English language, yet she prayed her tone and touch would suffice. As she lifted his wounded limb, he flinched and tried to pull away. The gash was deep.

“I must bind your arm. I need a clean bandage. Can someone fetch a—”

Observing the sea of dark faces surrounding her, Emma understood at once that she was alone in this effort. The crowd hung paralyzed, every eye focused on her.

“What would Miss Nightingale say now?” she mused. In such a place as this, everything necessary to good patient care was unavailable. Shaking her head, Emma lifted the hem of her lavender skirt, grasped her cotton petticoat and tore off a wide strip. It would have to do. She wrapped the fabric around the man’s arm and tied the ends into a neat knot.

“You must go home and wash this wound, sir. Use soap and hot water. Put on a clean bandage and then…” She paused and looked up again. Cissy had vanished, and the row of silent faces gaped at her. “Does anyone here speak English?”

“I’ll talk to him for you, ma’am.” The oddly dressed gentleman shouldered his way through the crowd and knelt in the dust beside her. “Touching a dead man is against these folks’ religion. They’re afraid both fellows are going to die.”

“Not if I can help it. Will you please tell this man something for me?”

“If he knows Swahili.”

“You’re American, aren’t you? I can tell by your manner of speech.” Emma looked up into the brilliant blue eyes. “At first I thought you might be Italian.”

“Italian?” The man’s mouth curved into a slow grin. “Born and raised in Texas. But I’ve lived here long enough to get by in the language.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She made a desperate attempt to calm her fluttering stomach. “Please tell this man he must find a doctor as soon as he can. A surgeon if at all possible.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, ma’am. He won’t be able to afford the treatment.”

“He should have stitches.” Dismayed, she shook her head. “Please tell him to wash the wound in fresh water. And keep it wrapped in cloths—clean ones, mind you.”

The stranger listened intently, then turned his focus from her and addressed the wide-eyed patient in a string of incomprehensible syllables.

“What did you tell him?” Emma asked.

“What you said, but he won’t do it. He’ll visit the
mganga
—the local medicine man—and get some homemade remedies. He’ll be all right.”

“Medicine man? You mean a witch doctor? But that’s dreadful—”

“Emmaline Ann Pickering, what do you think you’re doing?” A familiar voice growled overhead. Hard fingers clamped around Emma’s shoulders.

She cried out as she was jerked to her feet. The wounded man’s head slid from her lap to the ground as Emma confronted a pair of hard gray eyes.

“Father.”

Godfrey Pickering scanned his daughter from head to toe. “Explain yourself, girl.”

“I was helping…” Suddenly faint, she realized her serious lapse in judgment. Any effort to justify her actions would fall on deaf ears, but she must try. “This poor man was badly hurt and—”

“Emmaline, look at yourself,” Pickering ordered.

She glanced down at her silk skirt, now dusty and spotted with blood. Her puffed sleeves had collapsed, all the air gone out of them like a pair of burst bubbles. A wisp of hair had slipped from beneath her velvet hat to curl down her arm. Attempting to find a pin and tuck up the stray tress, Emma focused on her father’s red face.

“How do you do, sir?” she murmured, dipping a slight curtsy. She had no choice but to play the demure daughter. “I hope I find you well.”

Her father’s portly chest rose in an annoyed sigh. “Emmaline, do attempt to conduct yourself in the manner to which you were raised. I should like you to meet the assistant director of the East Africa Railway, Mr. Nicholas Bond. Mr. Bond, my elder daughter, Miss Pickering.”

A gentleman with brown hair, hazel eyes and a pleasant face stepped forward to extend a gloved hand. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Pickering.”

Emma knitted her bare fingers for a moment, then held out her hand. “Mr. Bond, my pleasure. Do forgive me—I seem to have misplaced my gloves.”

“Not at all.” His lips brushed the back of her hand. “I’m dreadfully sorry you’ve had such a rude introduction to the protectorate.”

“A rude introduction?” Emma turned her eyes to the injured
man again. He was sitting up, picking at the cotton bandage. “Such a mishap could hardly have been predicted, sir.”

The American gentleman who had assisted Emma earlier now stood and removed his black hat. He glanced at Mr. Bond as if expecting an introduction. When he received no response, he shrugged and thrust out his hand.

“I’m Adam King, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

Emma placed her hand in the large warm grasp. She studied his blue eyes, assessing and finding them sincere. “Emmaline Pickering. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Any time.” He continued to hold her hand. “You’re a nurse.”

“No, she is not a nurse,” Emma’s father broke in, taking her hand and setting it on his arm. “She is my daughter.”

“Mr. Pickering, may I speak plainly?” Nicholas Bond asked. “This man is unworthy of your acquaintance. Adam King is a troublemaker. He has been most unwelcome in Queen Victoria’s protectorate.”

“As bad as that, are you?” Mr. Pickering surveyed the American. “Perhaps I should know more about such an adversary.”

“Adam King. Rancher.” He held out his bare hand to the heavy-jowled man.

“Godfrey Pickering, director of the British Railway.” After a moment’s hesitation, he shook the extended hand. “Your name is familiar, Mr. King. Is your family occupied in a transportation industry, sir? Railway, perhaps, or shipping?”

Nicholas’s eyes darkened as he inserted his own answer. “I assure you, sir, this man is involved in no enterprise so honorable. His closest associates are uneducated farmers. He consorts with the native population—with savages of the lowest form.”

A flicker of anger briefly transformed the taller man’s
features, but he made no reply. As the two men stared at each other in silence, Emma feared the confrontation would come to blows.

But Mr. Bond turned away with a nod. “If you will accompany me, Mr. Pickering, we shall make our way back to the ship and see that your baggage is sent directly to government quarters. Miss Pickering will be eager to prepare for tonight’s reception in honor of her father. Indeed, I should be honored to escort you myself. May I have the pleasure?”

Taken aback by Nicholas’s cutting remarks about the American who had been of such help to her, Emma nonetheless put on a smile. “How kind, Mr. Bond. I had no idea there was to be a reception.”

“It’s not every day the protectorate is graced with a dignitary of your father’s rank. We rarely have such charming company as you and your sister.”

With that he crooked his elbow for her to take. Reluctant to leave Adam King so abruptly, Emma nevertheless slipped her hand around the railway director’s arm. But as she lifted her skirt, she turned back to the Texan. Nicholas had no choice but to pause.

“Mr. King,” she said quietly. “Again, I thank you for your assistance.”

The rancher nodded.

“Will the two men be all right, Mr. King?”

Adam’s eyes met hers. “They will, Miss Pickering. I’ll make sure of it.”

“And the child—the one you lifted onto your horse?” For some reason, she wanted him to know she had seen him save the boy.

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “He’s with his mother.”

“Your actions belie your reputation, sir,” she said. “I’m glad. Good day, Mr. King.”

Without meeting his disturbing gaze again, Emma allowed herself to be led up the gangway and back onto the ship. Spotting Cissy at the rail, she disengaged herself from Mr. Bond, who was eager to accompany her father toward the myriad trunks and hatboxes emerging from below deck.

Joining Cissy, Emma noted her sister’s damp cheeks. “What is it, dearest? Are you ill again?”

Clutching her hankie tightly in one fist, the younger woman gripped the railing with the other. “Dirk. He’s leaving and I shall never see him again.”

Emma spotted the contingent of German soldiers marching down the pier, beginning their 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.