Far In The Wilds (3 page)

The lion moved slowly through the shadows, padding on huge, silent feet he made his unconcerned way down the street. Ryder planted himself firmly, turning his body slightly to cradle the butt of the rifle in his shoulder. A gun that big kicked like a mule, and he could break his own jaw if he wasn’t careful. But he seated it securely and was just about to check the sight when the lion turned. Ryder hadn’t made a sound. Perhaps it was the monkeys, perhaps it was a shift in the wind that carried the scent of a man down to the lion. And perhaps it simply knew, as some animals do, that it was being watched.

Whatever the cause, the lion turned and with a spring from his massive hind legs launched himself towards Ryder from a dozen yards away. There was no time to sight him. Ryder fired once, blindly, then a second time, pulling the gun lower as he knew momentum would have carried the lion closer even if it had been thrown off its feet. He heard the roar and felt the tremendous thud as the creature fell to the ground. Before the lion’s roar had even faded away, he had the two fresh rounds chambered and the lion sighted, his finger sitting loosely on the trigger.

But there was no need to fire. The lion was stretched in the road, head toward Ryder, blood pooling in the gutter. The first shot had torn through his heart, stopping him cold, and the second had finished the job. Ryder counted it rather poor shooting compared to what he might have done in full sun with a chance to sight him properly, but the crowds were already pouring out of the club, cheering raucously. The men and the Africans gathered around the lion while the women made straight for Ryder. Jude reached him first.

“Two shots for a lion? You’re losing your touch,” she said lightly. But her hand trembled as she handed over his coat. Ryder opened his mouth to apologize for scaring her, but she shook her head and gave him a smile. It was over now. There was no need to speak of it. And if he understood better what he meant to her, how frightened she was of losing him, well, that could not be such a bad thing.

Helen helped him on with his coat. “Quite impressive, Ryder. There’s a reporter here from the
East
African
Standard
. He was taking photographs of the party for the newspaper, but he must photograph this,” she said firmly.

She organised the crowd into some semblance of order and with help from a dozen Africans, the lion was carried in triumph into the nearest building, the Norfolk Hotel. The bloody carcass was stretched out on the bar, the lion’s mouth pulled back into the tight rictus of a grin. The crowd gathered around, including the hotel manager—delighted to be included since the hotel had been hosting a much more modest affair than the club Christmas party. Now the Norfolk would go down in history as the site of one of the most legendary things ever to happen in Nairobi. Giddy with delight, he ordered champagne for everyone and when the photograph was taken, every person there lifted a glass towards the camera—every person except Ryder. In the commotion he had slipped out of the hotel. He walked to the spot where the lion had died, touching the still warm blood with a finger. It had had to be done, but it didn’t make him feel any better about it. The lion had been enormous and handsome, good breeding stock. He ought to have been out there on the savannah, fathering cubs and protecting his pride. Not getting himself shot like a common burglar in the middle of town.

Ryder rose and began to walk away when someone called his name, sharply. He turned and a flashbulb went off, blinding him in its glare. “What the f—”

He didn’t have a chance to finish the question before the bulb went off again. “That’s enough, Ned.” Ryder heard Helen coaxing the photographer away, and he strode off, making straight for the club bar.

“Whisky. Single malt, and forget the glass,” he told the barman. “Just give me the whole damn bottle.”

The barman obliged, and Ryder had just sunk a third of it when the crowd found him. He swore again, and turned to move away only to find the prince and his companion blocking his retreat.

“Mr. White, you have persuaded me I was wrong. I was wrong about you indeed. May I offer you my heartiest congratulations on an excellent kill?”

He extended his hand which Ryder took with reluctance. The prince went on. “I will confess to you my problem. Twice I have been on safari, collecting trophies. Always the leopard eludes me. The most beautiful of animals, and I have been thwarted! I have collected a lion and a zebra, both very fine, but I have no leopard, and this is something I must have. I wonder if you might be the man to show me.”

Mademoiselle cut in smoothly. “Freddie, Mr. White told you earlier he does not guide.”

The prince waved his hand. “This is nothing to me! Mr. White, I must have my leopard, and you will assist me, I am convinced of it.”

Ryder opened his mouth to argue then snapped it shut. Like all private safari clients, the prince was clearly wealthy and even more clearly accustomed to getting his own way. A regular client would be bad enough; a royal would be a nightmare. But the prince would get his way in the bush because money and status always did. If Ryder didn’t take him after the leopard, someone else would, and no doubt he would kill a breeding specimen, something fine and strong that deserved to live out its life instead of ending it hanging on a wall in Copenhagen.

But if Ryder took him, he could ensure that whatever he brought back was precisely the leopard Ryder led him to. It wouldn’t be difficult to find a problem animal, something that had been worrying the goats or carried off someone’s infant. He regularly took out such animals in the interests of his own livestock and his African neighbors’ lives. They depended on him, the Masai and Kikuyu, to hunt whatever threatened them. He could do it faster, more cleanly, and with much less risk to himself with his guns than they could with their spears. So he did it. And it never felt good, but it felt right. And here was the chance to do it in grand style—protecting the best of the breeding stock while culling a problem animal and taking the prince’s money to boot.

He smiled—a thin smile that only ever came when he’d been drinking too much. “I should warn you, my services won’t come cheaply.”

The prince gave Mademoiselle a sly smile as he raised his glass. “Money is a vulgar subject best discussed in the light of day. We will come to terms, do not fear, Mr. White. But for tonight, let us toast to another victory for me!”

Ryder raised his glass to find Mademoiselle watching him with a cool blue gaze that never left his face.

Chapter Three

Tusker lowered the newspaper and regarded Ryder thoughtfully over the breakfast table.

“Not a word,” he warned her. “Not a goddamned word.” He had glanced at the article just long enough to see words like “hero” thrown around. The more he read the blacker his mood. In the end, he’d thrown the newspaper onto the table. Tusker had retrieved it and worked her way through the breathless prose as she ate.

“He did lay it on a bit thickly,” she admitted. “And the pictures don’t help. You look like a film star,” she added, peering thoughtfully at the photograph taken just as Ryder had whirled to face the camera. “All handsome features and dangerous expression. You even have blood on your hands. The women of Kenya were already lining up to take a turn on you. This will certainly make it worse. If the international papers pick this up, they’ll be coming from Europe to try their chances.”

“Too late,” Jude put in helpfully. “He’s already guiding a French Mademoiselle. I’m sure she’ll have plenty of tall tales to tell when she returns to gay Paree.” Ryder shot her a look and she hid a smile behind a piece of toast.

Tusker regarded him thoughtfully. “I didn’t know you had taken up guiding again. I thought you despised that sort of thing.”

“I do, on principle.” His tone was firm. “But this client could make a particularly nasty nuisance of himself if someone doesn’t take him in hand. He’s a Danish royal and determined to bag a leopard.”

“And the French girl?” Tusker inquired.

“His fancy piece,” Jude supplied. Her eyes were bright with mischief and Ryder decided to pay her in kind.

“Is that what people say you are to Anthony Wickenden?”

He had expected her to throw a bread knife or hurl a plate, but she went on calmly buttering her toast. “Actually, I expect they’ll be saying I’m his fiancée.”

“Jude!” Tusker spilled her coffee as Ryder sat stone-still, his eyes never leaving Jude’s face. “You’ve only just met him.”

Jude gave a cool shrug. “What does that matter? He says he’s in love with me.”

Ryder’s look was appraising. “And do you love him?”

“Not yet. But I think I could. In time.”

“Then why rush?” Tusker demanded. “There is no need to hurry into an engagement. There’s no need to marry him at all. If you must have a man, just take him to bed.”

“Oh, I already have. He’s perfectly serviceable in that regard,” Jude replied. She crunched away at her toast, looking unconcerned as Tusker raged. Ryder pondered the notion of Jude marrying again. He tried the idea on, wondering how it would fit. To his surprise, it didn’t pinch or prod at all. He had always worried he might be slightly in love with her. Then she had married Stephen and he refused to think about it. Stephen was his best friend and that put an end to any feelings he might have nurtured for her. And after Stephen’s disappearance, Jude was simply his best friend, the person he loved more than any other in the world. He hadn’t expected to face giving her up to someone else quite so easily.

And then he realized why. “You don’t want to love him,” he said quietly.

Jude had just reached for another piece of toast, but she dropped her hand into her lap. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You want to marry someone who won’t challenge how you feel about Stephen. You’ve kissed Anthony, you’ve even bedded him, and it hasn’t affected you at all. That’s why you want to marry him. Because you can be his wife and Stephen’s too. It’s emotional bigamy.”

This time she did throw a plate before stalking off, calling to the dogs as she did so.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he said heavily.

Tusker shrugged. “It is the truth. Any imbecile could see she’s still in love with Stephen. But she has to be handled carefully. She can’t be allowed to marry this Wickenden person. What if Stephen comes home?”

Ryder didn’t point out it had been four years with no word and that Stephen would never come home again.

Tusker’s expression was mulish. “You think I’m an old fool. Don’t deny it. I can see it in your face.”

Ryder shook his head. “Not a fool. Just mistaken. If Stephen were still alive, he would have come home by now. Nothing but death would have kept him away from her.”

She sighed. “A thousand things could have kept him—for God’s sake, there was a war on! He could be lost, hurt, thousands of miles from home.”

Ryder covered her hand with his own. “Tusker,” he said, gentling his voice, “the war is done with. Everyone who was coming home is already here. I don’t know if Jude can make a go of it with Wickenden, but she deserves a chance to be happy.”

Tusker’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you the one who just accused her of wanting him because he wouldn’t challenge her feelings for Stephen?”

“I just don’t want to see her spending her life pining. She needs to bury her dead,” he said flatly. “We all do.”

She shook her head. “It was stupid of me to send her into Nairobi. I thought she deserved a little fun. I never expected this.”

“It will be alright, Tusker,” he assured her.

But her expression was implacable. “It will never be alright until Stephen comes home.” She took a deep breath. “But I don’t want to quarrel with you, boy. So tell me about this Mademoiselle instead. Is she blond or brunette? Your last was a redhead and I know you like variety.”

Chapter Four

As they had when they were children, Jude and Ryder made up their quarrel without ever speaking of it. He made preparations for his safari and she appeared the morning he was due to set off, fully packed with her weapons oiled and loaded.

“I told the porters to bring a separate bath tent. I thought Mademoiselle Gautier would appreciate the privacy,” she told him casually. “And I thought she might like to have another woman along. The bush is no place for a lady alone.”

“Thank you,” he returned. “Although I suspect Mademoiselle is the sort of woman who isn’t very popular with her own sex.”

Jude grinned at him then, and just like that, they were friends again. Ryder hesitated.

“You can bring Wickenden if you like. An extra gun is always welcome.”

She twisted her heavy hair back and shoved a thorn twig into it to hold it in place. “I don’t think so. It will do him good to miss me. Absence and the fond heart and all that.”

Together they paid a visit to Ryder’s
duka
to stock up on supplies for the trip. Mr. Patel, the manager, bustled around, ordering his sons and his plump, slow wife to stack and carry as he ticked items off the list.

“I have plenty of drink,
sahib
, but the grouse paste did not come, and neither did the caviar.”

Jude snickered at Ryder. “Oh, you are laying it on thick. I thought this was a hunting trip.”

Ryder shrugged. “Rich clients expect the best. If I can keep them well-fed and watered, they’re less likely to ride me about everything else.”

Mr. Patel emerged from the back room of the
duka
, beaming as he carried a few jars aloft. “But I have found the duck
confit
and the Spanish olives!”

Jude went off into gales of laughter then, as Ryder snatched the jars and tossed them into a basket. Jude could mock, but Ryder had found in the past that a few luxuries went a long way towards placating difficult clients. Mr. Patel hauled out an entire crate of champagne then and the boys followed with a hamper packed with fruits and pastries. Mrs. Patel insisted they stay to luncheon, feeding them up generously with a curry she created out of spices and an elderly goat Mr. Patel had bought cheaply off the Masai.

When they had eaten their fill, Ryder fell to organizing and, with Jude’s help he had the safari packed up and ready to go. The prince had arranged a driver to take him out of Nairobi and high up onto the plateau of the Great Rift where the
duka
sat at a crossroads of the savannah trails. They were late, as Ryder expected, and it was teatime before the purr of the engine could be heard over the plain.

The prince emerged from his car dressed head to foot in crackling new safari gear while Mademoiselle was dressed more simply, in head-to-toe white that was neither creased nor streaked with the harsh red dust of the African soil. She wore a large straw picture hat and pinned over it a silk veil to protect her complexion. Jude, whose own face was tanned a deep gold, rolled her eyes at Ryder when she saw it.

Mademoiselle offered him a hand as cool and pale as new milk, smiling a Mona Lisa smile through her veil. Ryder inclined his head as he helped her from the car.

“Good afternoon, Mr. White.”

He smiled. “I thought we were friends.”

“Very well, Ryder,” she replied. She rolled the
r
slightly as she said it, exhaling his name like a caress.

If the prince noticed the intimacy of the moment, it was not enough to dampen his spirits. He clapped his hands together, calling for attention. The native bearers, dozens of Turkana and Kikuyu, stopped what they were doing and assembled expectantly. The prince stood in his car, beaming down at them.

“Thank you all for coming. I must tell you that I have the very highest hopes for a successful safari, and my satisfaction will be reflected in your tips at the end of our journey.” He inclined his head to Ryder. “And yours as well, my dear fellow.”

Ryder refused to look at Jude. He heard her smothered laugh and knew if he turned around to lock eyes with her they would both end up offending the prince. Beside him, Mademoiselle betrayed no reaction to the prince’s pomposity. No doubt she was accustomed to it, Ryder decided.

“I’m sure the porters would appreciate that if they spoke English,” he told the prince.

He stepped forward and gave a few short instructions in Swahili before dismissing the porters. They moved off and he noticed one or two of them mimicking the prince’s posture and gestures. There would be trouble if Ryder didn’t establish at once who was in charge of the safari.

He turned to the prince. “Get down from the car and take your seat in the truck. You ride in the back with Mademoiselle. We stop when I say, and you don’t give orders to anyone, least of all me. Whatever I tell you to do, you do it, without hesitation and without question and I just might be able to bring you back alive. Understood?”

The prince had flushed an unbecoming red. “Now see here,” he began.

Ryder cut him off flatly. “There is no ‘here’ except mine. This is my safari. You’re paying me, not the men. They take orders from me and from Jude and that’s it. I’m the only one here cashing your check, so I’m the only one you’ll be talking to.”

“If you are on my payroll, then I shall expect to be fully involved in making all decisions,” the prince countered.

“Not a chance, not when those decisions mean the difference between living and dying. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.”

The prince hesitated a moment, then to his credit, put out his hand with a grudging smile. “I accept, Mr. White. And in light of your terms, I suggest that we dispense with the formalities. You may, for the duration of the safari only, address me as Freddie.”

Ryder shook his hand and they turned toward the truck. Strapped atop was a crate of chickens for fresh eggs, and the back was quickly loaded with the prince’s personal baggage as well as Mademoiselle’s. Jude had shoved her necessities into a rucksack and she tossed it into the back, shading her eyes with her hand as Ryder finished loading.

“Isn’t that Gideon?”

Ryder looked to the distance. Silhouetted against the westering sun was a tall figure, his features obscured by the brilliant light. But there was no mistaking the elegant height or the graceful, loping stride of the Masai. He covered ground swiftly, and in a few moments he trotted up, smiling his broad smile.

“I have heard there was to be a leopard hunt,” he said by way of greeting.

Ryder grinned and pitched his voice low. “I was hoping you’d find us. I need a lead on a problem leopard for my client to take as a trophy. Got anything?”

Gideon tipped his head. “There is a lion preying upon the goats of my grandmother’s village, but this is not a leopard. I have heard of a child that was taken from a Masai village near the lake called Waridi. Perhaps this was from the
chui
.”

Ryder slammed the tailgate shut. “It’s a place to start.”

* * *

An afternoon’s ride was just enough to be properly annoying, Ryder thought as they drew to a halt a few hours later. A full day could get you right out onto the savannah, away from everything you thought you knew. A couple of hours only bought you trouble. There had been two punctured tires, a snakebite from something more cranky than venomous, and a litany of complaints from the headman of the Kikuyu at having to walk while a Masai was allowed to stand on the running boards of the truck.

“My safari, my rules,” Ryder said flatly. The Kikuyu held his eyes a moment then turned away.

The prince was at his elbow. “Grievances already?” A small smile played about his mouth, as if the idea of Ryder having difficulties pleased him.

Ryder shrugged. “Nothing new. The Kikuyu hate the Masai. But they don’t have to answer to Gideon. He’s not here as their headman, just my personal guide.”

“Perhaps if you had that one whipped for insolence it would set a better example to the others,” Freddie offered.

Ryder stared at him. “Oh, yes, it might. And when the Kikuyu decide they’ve had enough of our white men’s example, perhaps they’ll do to us what they did to a hunter near Nakuru who mistreated his porters. They dragged him back to their village, staked him out under a blazing sun, and let the entire village take turns pissing in his mouth.” He watched in satisfaction as the color drained out of the prince’s face. “Or we could try things my way.”

Freddie turned on his heel. Jude was laughing outright at the expression on his face, but Mademoiselle was thoughtful. She shook her head slowly. “I wonder, Ryder White, if you are not a terrible bully.”

Ryder folded his arms over his chest. “Why? Because I won’t lick his boots?”

“He seems ridiculous to you, but he is not accustomed to being thwarted. He is a powerful man in his country. But not as powerful as he wants to be. He is only a youngest son of a youngest son, and the little taste of power he has makes him thirsty for more. This makes him dangerous.”

* * *

In a short while the tents were up and the fires built, and Ryder shouldered his gun.

“Are you expecting trouble?” Mademoiselle asked archly.

“It’s time to hunt. The cook needs meat for dinner.”

Mademoiselle nodded to where the cook was busy stirring up pots of fragrant stews and patting flatbreads into shape. “It looks as if he has everything in hand.”

“That food is for us. I’m getting meat for the porters.”

Jude checked her rifle and fell in next to Ryder as Mademoiselle stared at him in frank astonishment. “You hunt for them? Should it not be the other way? Why do they not hunt for your supper?”

“Because this is Africa, not the Ritz. It is far safer and faster for me to take bush meat with a gun than for them to try it with a spear. Their job is to carry things. Mine is to feed them and keep them safe. I’ll be taking Jude with me, but Gideon will watch over you. Ask him if you need anything.”

Her eyes went to the tall, motionless figure perched on a rise. “You mean the very black fellow? The one who stands with one leg tucked up like a stork?”

Ryder spoke slowly. “His name is Gideon.”

He turned on his heel and strode out of camp with Jude behind him. She knew him well enough to say nothing until at last he let out a long exhalation and looked around.

“I’m here. Did you think you lost me?”

He paused to let her catch up. Jude smiled widely. “What’s the matter, chum? Mademoiselle’s charms fading?”

“Sometimes I think the longer I stay in Africa the more I hate people who aren’t us.”

Jude gave a short laugh. “You don’t hate her. Far from it.” He shot her a quizzical look. “Oh, don’t mistake me. She’s horrid. But that’s never stopped you before, not when the horridness is wrapped up in such a lovely package.”

Suddenly, she stopped, swung her rifle to her shoulder and dropped a kudu without preamble. The large antelope fell silently, shuddered once, and was still.

“Bull’s eye,” she said.

* * *

The evening meal and the vast African night sky—and vast quantities of liquor—warmed everyone considerably. Ryder was mellow and at ease for the first time that day. The prince proved to have a talent for mimicry and told stories of meeting the crowned heads of Europe that had Jude laughing so hard she spilled half her drink. Ryder topped her up, grateful to the prince for amusing her. Even Mademoiselle caught the mood of the evening. She sang a little song that was risqué, but only slightly, and she sang it in a deliciously husky low voice that carried lightly over the sleeping plains. The porters had gathered at their own campfires and sang their own songs and told their own stories. Only Gideon stood alone, silent as one of the cold, distant stars overhead.

“Why does your man not join us?” Mademoiselle demanded.

“The Masai are very independent,” Ryder told her. “They are despised by many of the other tribes and they keep apart.”

“Why are they so despised?”

“Because they’re poor. They have nothing but their cattle and their mud houses. The other tribes like to have someone else to look down on, so they look down on the Masai.”

Mademoiselle shrugged. “In France, a countryman who has many cattle is usually rich.”

Ryder smiled in the darkness. “That’s because in France you eat your cows.”

She lifted her brows. “The Masai do not eat their cows? What do they live on?”

“Corn porridge and gourds and sometimes the blood of the cows.”

She shuddered, pulling her shawl more tightly about her slender shoulders. “I should not have asked. It is so strange here, so different from anywhere else.”

Ryder thought back to his childhood in the Yukon, eking out a living in the gold camps, hunting and fishing and fighting the elements every step of the way. “Oh, not that different,” he murmured.

“And you are a man of this place,” she said softly. “You have chosen to live here.”

He gave her a half smile. “No. Africa chose me. That’s how it works out here. It’s a hard place, and you can’t ever tell when someone comes out if they’re going to make it or not. Sometimes the hardiest folk get carried off the first season—from disease or snakebite or broken bones or lightning on the savannah. And sometimes the ones you think are the most fragile end up thriving.” He flicked a glance to Jude and saw that she and the prince were deep in conversation, topping up their glasses as they chatted.

“And Africa has chosen you,” Mademoiselle said. She looked up into the night sky, tracing a constellation with her fingertip. “That one there? Is it not Orion, the hunter?”

Ryder eased back onto his elbows, his legs stretched out in front of him. “It is. That constellation always reminds me of Whitman.”

“Who is this Whitman? Is he a friend of yours?”

Ryder resisted the urge to smile again. “No. He was an American poet. And he knew a thing or two about being out in a place like this.”

He fell silent a moment, then began to recite softly. “
Alone
far
in
the
wilds
and
mountains
I
hunt
,
Wandering
amazed
at
my
own
lightness
and
glee
,
In
the
late
afternoon
choosing
a
safe
spot
to
pass
the
night
,
Kindling
a
fire
and
broiling
the
fresh
-
kill’d
game
,
Falling
asleep
on
the
gather’d
leaves
with
my
dog
and
gun
by
my
side
.”