Rand's Redemption

A teapot, cups and saucers, sugar and milk were set out on a low table. There was a plate of small sandwiches—cucumber and tomato. Very English. And peanut butter cookies, very American.

“These are good,” Shanna said, chewing the nutty cookies. “Taste like the ones my mother used to make. Fannie Farmer’s cookbook.”

Rand’s face tightened almost imperceptibly—she had not imagined it. She stared at him, wondering what it was she had said. He took a sandwich and ate it, not looking at her, and began a conversation with Patrick about the cattle dipping the next day and other ranch business matters. His left arm dangled over the armrest of his chair, his hand absently stroking the comatose dog by his side.

She couldn’t help looking at his hand, the gentle stroking of his strong fingers.

She listened to the men talk, drinking the strong tea and eating the sandwiches and cookies. It didn’t escape her that Rand did not take any of the cookies. Well, maybe he didn’t have a sweet tooth.

After the men left to take care of some more business, Shanna decided to get her notes for her article and work on the veranda for a while. Large open doors led into the sitting room and she looked around with fascination at the cheerfully decorated room—bright-colored paintings on the wall, Arab carpets on the polished floors. No ceiling, but the wooden beams and thatch of the conical roof were visible high overhead, the design a work of art in itself. A huge stone fireplace dominated one wall. The large cane rattan furniture with its thick cushions looked wonderfully comfortable, and a wall of shelves held books and African carvings. Blooming branches of pink and purple bougainvillea were arranged in a large glass jug which perched on a big round wooden coffee table.

This was not a house with cool elegance or showy opulence, but a living place with natural charm and a casual richness of comfort and color. She resisted the urge to linger and examine the artwork and books, feeling a bit indiscreet about it.

Having collected her work from her room, she returned to the veranda, finding Kamau, clearing away the tea things.

“The cookies were delicious,” she said in Swahili. “Did you make them?”

He nodded politely. “Yes, memsab. I always bake them for visitors.” He took the tray and left.

Shanna stared after him. Had there been a touch of sadness in his dark eyes, or had she just imagined it?

“I read that there’s a lot of wildlife on the ranch,” she said. “Doesn’t it interfere with the herds?” She’d seen the humpbacked Borana cattle this afternoon on her way to the house.

She and Rand were having dinner in the dining room and Shanna was trying to keep a conversation going, which was proving quite a challenge.

“Not generally, but sometimes.” On occasion a lion would become a problem, killing lambs or calves, and would have to be shot, he told her. He spoke in short, clipped sentences.

“What about poaching? We hear a lot about that these days.”

“Not on my ranch. We have a security system with guards who patrol the property boundaries. We haven’t had a problem for years.”

It was an awkward, stilted conversation. Not a real conversation at all. She was asking questions and he gave answers in an automatic fashion, as if they had rehearsed the lines from a script.

She looked down at her plate of beef in a wild mushroom wine sauce. “This is delicious. Did Kamau cook this?”

“Yes.”

“Who taught him how to cook?”

He drained the last of his wine. “My mother,” he said curtly. He reached for the wine bottle. “More wine?”

She nodded. “Please.”

Nick had told her that Rand had lost his mother when he was a boy. The cook must have started work in the ranch kitchen as a young man. Rand’s father had died five years ago, she knew.

From his responses, it was obvious that Rand had no desire to discuss anything remotely personal. She had, however, found out he had grown up an only child and had learned hunting and fishing from his father, had studied in both the U.K. and the States, and had returned to take over the running of the ranch.

“Was it lonely, growing up here?” she asked.

He raised his brows as if the question had never occurred to him. “No.”

“Where did you go to school as a child?”

“In Gilgil and Nakuru, boarding schools.”

He was not generous with information and seemed intent on keeping a careful distance, which did not make for a relaxing atmosphere. Standoffish, Lynn had called him. Well, he was. She found his reserve unnerving and it took an effort to be her cheerful, friendly self. He was excruciatingly polite and it was obvious that she was far from a treasured guest. She was relieved when the meal was over. Rand pushed his chair back and came to his feet.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do in my study.”

“Of course.” She stood up as well and he held open the door for her.

“Wait,” he said as she moved past him. She stopped, surprised, saw him looking at her left shoulder.

“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.