Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology

by Violet Vaughn

  “So you’re telling me no?”

  If Peter was determined to work in the bush, with his skills and background some big corporation would snatch him up with salary and benefits far beyond anything I could provide. For him, I was confident I was making the right decision, which meant, had it not been for the whimpering of my primal brain, it was an easy rejection. “I’m afraid so.”

  But it was nearly an hour’s drive from Liwale Village where Peter was staying, and his time was surely worth something. At least that’s the excuse my business brain concocted and one with which my primal brain heartily agreed. “Can I at least convince you to stay for lunch?” I flashed my best and most hopeful smile.

  I hoped the disappointment clear on his face was over being turned down for the job and not over being asked to spend more time with me. In the moment before he answered, I steeled myself for a polite no.

  “That’s very gracious of you—” he began.

  Inwardly I sighed, surprised at just how hard my own disappointment hit at the coming refusal.

  “I’d like very much to have lunch with you.”

  After a quick call to Kapuki, the cook, who seemed more delighted than annoyed about a guest on such short notice, Peter and I stopped by the barn on the way to the house. The little kudu calf, still under sedation, was napping peacefully while Melea watched over her, making sure the drip of fluids stayed steady.

  “I’ll ask Kapuki to bring your lunch here,” I told her. “I’ll be back at 2 o’clock to relieve you.”

  Peter and I made our way up the dirt track from the clinic to the landscaped house a few hundred yards away.

  “These aren’t all native, are they?” Peter swept his hand out to include all the gardens around, from the fruit-laden pear trees to the fragrant hibiscus sporting vibrant red flowers the size of saucers to the bougainvillea climbing the trellises set up just inside the electrified fence.

  I laughed. “The wife of the couple who lived here before missed her English gardens, I think. Badru looks after the plantings, and I don’t have the heart to let him go. He’s been tending this garden for twelve years now. Kapuki, the cook, and Leta, the housekeeper, are both his wives. They’re Maasai, but they live on the Makonde tribal land just outside the gate. They don’t have transportation, so they came as a package deal with the place. As did Melea and Abasi and the two rangers, both who were here doing internships when I arrived. David just returned to the States to help set up a new African exhibit at one of the Arizona zoos, and Steve is returning to London soon to complete his biology degree, which is why I have an opening at all.”

  We reached the main house with its expansive veranda overlooking the garden and the bush beyond. From its high-ground vantage, we could also see the clinic with its outbuildings to the east and a portion of the high, stout fence of the boma, or large corral with trees, a pond and a lush savanna where the big game type animals new to the sanctuary were first introduced. In the boma, new residents learned not just the concept of “home,” but also the more immediate lessons of “fence” and “electricity.” The boma provided safety for those on the outside as well as for those on the inside, as temperaments and tolerance to fencing were tested.

  “I can’t wait to see my first elephants in there,” I told Peter as we sat on the veranda while Kapuki fussed over us and our lunch.

  “You don’t have elephants now?” The surprise on Peter’s face was a welcome emotion. True interest that was neither cold nor simply polite. “Wasn’t this a working elephant sanctuary before you took over?”

  I smiled. “You did your homework.” There was still an old web page up with Kulinda’s history. “The previous owners were in constant battle with poachers. When they were down to two ellies a couple of years ago, they moved them to a herd in Mozambique and never restocked. Too much heartache. Besides, the couple was growing older and knew they’d have to give up the land soon enough.”

  “So you bought it.”

  When he grinned at me, I felt it all the way to my core. Another time, another place and maybe this lunch would end in something more than a simple good-bye. But today I kept it polite and impersonal. I had enough on my hands right now without complicating things any further. Even when complications came so handsomely wrapped and exuding enough pheromones to drive me crazy.

  “In essence. Foreign-born folk can’t actually own land in Tanzania. I purchased the lease. It amounts to the same thing—so long as the government here stays stable.”

  I didn’t miss the cloud that passed over his already dark and somber eyes. Likely he knew all about unstable governments in Africa—and beyond. My heart clenched in sympathy. “Where were you stationed?” I asked, trying to sound conversational, not over-gentle or motherly.

  “North Africa mainly. The Middle East some. In special ops I didn’t stay in any one region long. I’m just…more than ready to put that behind me now.”

  “Why here? Why not go back home?”

  He shrugged, and the knit shirt easily followed the ripple of muscles across his shoulders and chest. “No home really to go back to. Maybe in a few years. Right now… I just want to figure out how to make a mark in this world that doesn’t involve—” he caught himself. Whatever he was going to say he swallowed sternly and buried it deep inside. “I just want to do some good. For me. For others. For some cause I can get behind so I don’t feel like slime when I look myself in the mirror every day.”

  Such a simple thing to want.

  And I had taken it away from him.

  “I’m sorry—”

  He cut me off. “No. Don’t apologize. You’re absolutely right. I’m not a follower. Not a very good one, at least. Plus, you need someone with a little more heart, a little more compassion than I can muster these days. I get that.” He pushed back his emptied plate and downed the last swig of lemoned water in his glass.

  “Would you like more?” I nodded at his plate. Kapuki had a talent for taming native African fare to more delicate Western palates. Plus it seemed like a good segue from the more sensitive topic of the job I’d just turned him down for.

  He shook his head and scooted his chair back. “I should be going.”

  I understood. In his place, I would want to be as far away from me as possible, too. I stood with him. “I can’t imagine you’ll be looking for work for long.”

  He nodded. “You have my number if something comes up. Or if you need…anything...I might be able to help with.”

  I gave him a sharp look. Was that a veiled invitation to contact him about…non-work-related activities? Or was it just my libido whispering that interpretation in my ear?

  “Would you mind if I checked in in a couple of days? About the calf? I’d just like to know how it all turns out for it.”

  “Of course. Any time.”

  He looked like he really needed a hat to tip my way—a bush hat like the Australians wore would frame that rugged face perfectly—but lacking such a gallant prop, he simply nodded my way. “Give my regards to the cook for an excellent meal,” he said before swiveling on his heel and heading for his SUV. A rental, I noted, by the stamping on its door.

  He had manners, looks and protective skills out the wazoo. Yet here I was letting him walk right out of my life. Another ship passing right on by in the night.

  A leaky, wounded ship that called to the heart of me. But I already had enough of those ships in my life.

  I was halfway to the barn and the little kudu calf when the van door slammed shut and Peter drove away.

  2

  Nicky

  “Doctor Nic! Doctor Nic!”

  Melea’s insistent cry along with the urgent rapping at my front door woke me. Sleep-grogged, my first thought was for the kudu calf whose leg I’d set with pins and screws the day before. Pulling on khaki shorts and buttoning up a top, I half-stumbled out the door as I squeezed open my eyes and forced myself awake.

  Melea looked even more flustered than her normal emergency mode, standing in
the doorway with dawn just breaking behind her.

  “It’s Abasi, Doctor Nic! He’s been shot!”

  “Shot?” I looked past her into the brightening morning as the adrenalin kicked in. “Is he alive? Where is he?”

  “Steve’s taking him to hospital now. The big one in Mtwara. I don’t know anything more. They were heading out the gate just as I got to the barn to check on Zuri.” So, she had named the calf. The name meant beauty, if my rudimentary Swahili had it right.

  I was grabbing my keys just as my phone chirped. “Steve! What’s happening?”

  “Abasi took a bullet just below the knee. Looks like it may have shattered the bone, but it’s not life-threatening.”

  Abasi’s strong cries of “Mbaya-sana! Poachers! Mbaya-sana! Let me find them—” backed up Steve’s assessment the jumbe would live.

  I exhaled in relief. But there was also the mbaya-sana, very bad, issue to deal with too. “Poachers?”

  “There’s a dead buck—an impala. They were after the horns. We only scared them away, but I’ll admit it wasn’t for lack of trying. I wish I’d gotten at least one of them.”

  I had to admit I wished that too. I wouldn’t begrudge the occasional take for a family or tribe’s survival, but senseless slaughter of animals that legally belonged to the sanctuary for the poachers’ profit provoked us all.

  “I’ll call a crew out to fix the fence where they took bolt cutters to it. They cut the power too. It was a clean entry—should only take a couple of hours to repair. The bad news is we’re going to be even more shorthanded with Abasi down for a couple of months.”

  “One month! One month only!” Abasi shouted the correction from what sounded like the backseat of the sanctuary’s Jeep.

  I smiled, both at the man’s tenacity and his overestimation of his healing skills. But my smile quickly faded. With David gone and Abasi down and poachers in the area in strength right now, we really needed at least one more ranger—fast. “If I brought someone in to take Abasi’s place…?” I let the question hang to see how Steve felt about not being promoted, even temporarily. But the truth was I was having difficulty enough finding qualified junior rangers.

  “Believe me, I don’t want Abasi’s job, Doctor Nic.” I heard the grin in Steve’s voice. He’d been happiest simply patrolling and cataloguing the different species in the sanctuary, from the predators to the herds of prey to the birds and reptiles that populated the 2000 acres.

  “Two weeks! Two weeks and I will be hunting those mbaya-sana men myself!” came Abasi’s cry.

  “Besides,” Steve continued, “I’ll be gone back to university in three months. No ego here to bruise. The one in the backseat, however…”

  “One week and the doctors will have me running again!”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Stay with him. Let me know if they can set the leg with just a cast or if they’ll need to take him to surgery.”

  “No, no operation! I’ll walk tomorrow!”

  “My bet’s on surgery,” Steve said, and I sighed.

  “Keep me posted.”

  A couple of hours later I’d tended to the handful of patients in the clinic. Kulinda was too far out from any major populated town to run any full-time practice, but I was happy to care for the any of the nearby tribesmen’s animals, as well as deal with the occasional emergency in the sanctuary. That left me with most of my days free to deal with sanctuary matters…and to simply enjoy the wilderness. That I was able to bankroll operations out of a family trust fund, plus had the support of a handful of patrons still dedicated to supporting Kulinda for the foreseeable future, gave me the breathing space I needed. And, assuming I stayed within budget, I could count on a tidy emergency fund to cover Asabi’s medical expenses since he’d been hurt protecting the sanctuary. Kulinda, after all, meant protect in Swahili.

  A vanload of workers arrived just as I was finishing up in the clinic. I knew most of the tribesmen from the village just outside Kulinda by sight; they’d been out here often enough repairing fences, felling trees and doing much of the day-to-day manual work required to keep a 2000-acre reserve up and running. Under cover of their protection, I followed them out to the fence break to find the impala buck.

  On the way, I phoned Peter. “Can we talk? As soon as possible. There’ve been some…changes…here.”

  “I’m free any time this afternoon. But I’m between rentals. No car.”

  His voice was just as rich as I’d remembered it. “I can come to you. Where can we meet?”

  “There’s a bar down the block from where I’m staying that serves lunch. Nothing fancy, though their food choices can sometimes be…adventuresome.”

  I smiled, knowing what the tiny markets where I shopped were like. “Ground pig intestines one day and freshly roasted warthog the next?” I guessed.

  His low laugh thrilled through me. “You’ve eaten there before, I see.”

  He gave me directions, and a sharp sense of anticipation settled over me. Business, Doctor Nic, I reminded myself. Only business.

  The laborers piled out of the van at the break in the fence. A cursory glance was enough to tell me the poachers had been precise and efficient. In the distance, two impala does eyed us curiously. At times like this, I wished they had a healthier fear of humans.

  Of the dead buck there was no trace.

  A drag trail indicated clearly that after Steve and Abasi had driven off, the poachers had returned for the buck. The horns were generally all some poachers came after. That was the money shot. But if there was time and room in their truck, for the right client they’d carry back the entire animal. Who knows, Peter’s bar might be serving fried impala liver tomorrow.

  I’d seen enough. “Asante-sana.” I waved my thanks to the work crew knowing they were still close in touch with Steve, then went back to the house to change into fresh khaki shorts and a sleeveless cotton button-up blouse. I left the top two buttons unbuttoned, convincing myself it was because of the famed African heat and had nothing to do with the peekaboo it played with my cleavage.

  Business.

  I made a stop first at the small police station—more like an outpost—that served the region, and filed a report. Shots fired and a dead impala would have only been of mild interest, but Abasi’s gunshot would legitimize the crime. Not that I expected anything to come of the report, but I did want to be sure the incident was recorded. Enough such incidents in the area might attract the attention of the Tanzanian government and prompt sweeps or other more effective means to control what seemed a rampant and ongoing problem.

  I phoned Steve from the station for an update, and put it on speaker so the sergeant and his constable could hear too.

  “Surgery,” Steve said. “Something about a plate? They’re holding him over, and the doctor said he’d be laid up six weeks at least. Sounds like the fence is powered up again, though. I’ll pick up some supplies while I’m out, then head back in.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to be acting jumbe in the interim?” Steve was going to be a great eco-biologist some day. And for someone just into his twenties, he was extraordinarily competent and self-assured.

  “You know I’ll do whatever’s needed. But either way, we need another body out there.”

  “I’m working on it. And hey, Steve? Thanks.” I hung up with an exaggerated sigh for the sergeant’s benefit. “Did Jack Thomas have this much trouble when he owned Kulinda?”

  The sergeant’s toothy grin was oddly reassuring. “Always.”

  Great.

  I headed the Land Rover toward Liwale about 20 kilometers away. What harm to let my primal brain do some fantasizing about Peter on the way? I goosed the gas and sped toward the bar.

  Business.

  3

  Nicky

  Peter was already at the bar when I arrived, settled in at one of the handful of metal tables in the open court under the thatch of roof that kept out the blazing noonday sun.

  I had thought my imagination remembered
his shoulders as a tad broader, his face a tad handsomer than the reality. I was wrong. He was still the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. Where my imagination did fail was in believing he’d be sitting alone, perhaps nursing a drink, while he waited for me with breathless anticipation of his own.

  The swarthy man at the table with him with his trimmed beard and bush hat wasn’t one of the natives making friendly. He confirmed that by rising smoothly as soon as I approached the table.

  “I won’t intrude, Mr. Lawson. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Peter shook the man’s extended hand. “Brandon. I’ll see you tomorrow morning in Kilwa Kivinje.”

  The stranger touched the brim of his hat and dipped his head my way. “Ma’am,” he deferred politely before strolling away. Something about his cold eyes for all his gentlemanly actions froze my heart.

  But even more, apprehension settled like nausea in my stomach.

  “That was…?” My eyes trailed the man to his late-model Range Rover and watched him drive away.

  “My new boss.”

  My heart sank. I had known Peter was marketable, I just didn’t think he’d find a position so soon. I smiled thinly and tried to muster enthusiasm in my voice at least. “Congratulations. What type of work?”

  Peter’s eyes shifted sideways, and my instincts went on alert. “He runs a…brokerage firm.”

  What kind of duplicity could there be in that? Or was Peter just ashamed that it sounded like corporate work involving a desk rather than outdoor work where weapon skills too often came in handy? “Sounds…tame.”

  His mouth quirked into a half-smile that melted my heart. “Yeah. Guess it does.” Kicking back his chair, he rose hurriedly to pull out the chair his boss had just vacated, and waited for me to sit. It might have come as an afterthought, but the tendency toward chivalry was there. As long as it didn’t cloud his judgment about women, I had to admit I liked that in a man. Plus, being on the receiving end certainly didn’t suck.