When I Found You (A Box Set)

by Webb, Peggy

  There were no other human beings for miles around. Just the two of them. Together on the mountaintop. The knowledge made Ruth guilty, as if she were betraying her husband merely by looking at Brett. She stood up and deliberately moved to his blind side so he wouldn’t guess what she was thinking.

  “I should go to bed,” she said.

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “What time do you start work in the morning?”

  “Six, but you don’t have to be up that early.”

  “If I’m going to be a part of this research team, I intend to pull my full share of the workload. I’ll see you in the morning. At six.”

  She moved with a slow, easy grace, her dress alternately billowing and clinging as she walked. He watched without shame. And when her bedroom door closed, he still stood looking down the hall, his memory so strong of her that he could describe the exact shape of her thigh, the precise contour of her breast, the specific size of her abdomen.

  In his own bedroom he stripped and lay naked upon his bed, flat on his back, hands at his side. The red ribbon from her hat swayed against the bedpost with his slightest movement. He made himself lie perfectly still, in heaven and in hell.

  He dreaded for morning to come ... and longed for it like a child awaiting Christmas.

  o0o

  Cee Cee’s fascination with Ruth’s belly overcame her dismay at having the stink female in the compound.

  “What big?” she signed, pointing to Ruth, standing just outside her cage.

  Riveted, Brett stood in the doorway watching them. The day before, he hadn’t let Ruth come into the cage with Cee Cee. He hadn’t been sure how the gorilla would react —hadn’t been sure how he would react.

  He hadn’t slept at all the previous night, and when he’d got up just before sunrise, he’d felt as if his head had been stuffed full of cotton wool.

  He’d put on his pants, no shirt, no shoes, didn’t even comb his hair, and tiptoed down the hall to check on Cee Cee—though he’d never done such a thing and knew perfectly well that she would be fast asleep.

  As he’d neared Ruth’s bedroom door, he’d known that was why he’d decided to check on Cee Cee—so he could walk past Ruth’s door, perhaps stand outside for a moment while she slept—so close to her that only a bedroom door separated them. Realizing this, he’d started to turn around and go back. Why torture himself? Why risk turning the doorknob, and going inside, and pulling her so close that he couldn’t tell where he left off and she began?

  But he hadn’t been able to go back. Forces beyond his control had pulled him onward. When he’d come close, he’d known she was not asleep. Her door had been slightly ajar and there had been a sound inside—not weeping or murmuring or any kind of sound she’d make with her mouth, but a sort of charged silence, the kind the mind makes when it’s so full of emotion, it can’t shut down.

  Walk on by. Walk on by.

  Good advice from a conscience and a mind overloaded with passion. Advice he knew he wasn’t about to take.

  He’d stood outside her door, riveted, as if somebody had nailed his feet to the floor. She’d been at the window, her arms on the windowsill, her forehead pressed against the glass, backlit by the moon. Under her thin gown her legs were long and shapely, worthy of hours, years, of contemplation. In profile her face was a work of art— exquisite eyebrows perfectly arched, soft, smooth skin gleaming as if it had been polished.

  Scarcely breathing, he’d imagined himself kneeling on the smooth bare floor in the moonlight, pulling her down with him. Standing in the hallway, Brett had clenched his fists. He wanted to be her husband. He wanted to be the one who had found her in Hawaii and brought her to the Virungas. He wanted to be the one who had carried her to the marriage bed..

  At the window she’d tipped her head to one side, turning slightly as if she’d sensed she was being watched. What would he do if she turned and saw him?

  He’d held his breath, waiting. She hadn’t turned. Instead she’d pressed her face into the windowpane, hunched her shoulders forward, and wrapped her arms around herself, hugging herself, holding on to her warmth and her grief.

  With the stealth of a lion on the prowl, Brett had eased past her door and down the hall. He would never tempt fate that way again, he had vowed. As long as she stayed with him, he would be nothing more than a protective and caring brother-in-law.

  That’s what he’d told himself early that morning, but now she was glowing and dewy in spite of the fact that she wore no makeup, and he was having a hard time keeping his hands off her, let alone his mind.

  Suppose he didn’t keep his hands off her? Suppose he told her that her condition was due to him and not a stranger? What would she do?

  He stood in the doorway, waiting, watching.

  “I’m big because of the baby inside me, Cee Cee,” she said as she signed an answer to the gorilla’s question. “This is Malone’s baby.”

  A sense of loss stabbed Brett.

  “What baby? No see baby.” Cee Cee approached the bars and aggressively reached toward Ruth.

  “Leave the room, Ruth,” Brett said, sharper than he meant, fearful for her, for himself, for all of them.

  “Leave?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re treating me like a curiosity-seeking stranger rather than an anthropologist with a Ph.D... . and your sister-in-law, to boot.”

  “That’s what I said. Leave.”

  She felt like a rag doll that somebody had punched a big hole in and let the stuffing out of. She felt as if she were standing in her cottage on the main compound and listening to Brett tell her all over again that Malone had been cut to pieces with a bush knife and was on his way to Nairobi to die. He hadn’t said those words, of course, but she’d known.

  Just as she now knew why he was shouting at her. It was the same reason she’d stood at the window the night before with her hand stuffed in her mouth so he wouldn’t hear her crying. What she felt when she looked at Brett Corday was a melting in her bones that made everything else fade in significance.

  She tried to tell herself such feelings were wrong, with Malone barely cold in the grave. And yet she knew that the feelings had never died, not from the moment she’d stood on this very mountaintop with Brett and felt his hand on her cheek.

  There was magic between them. Was it so wrong to want a little magic after all the terrible years?

  “I’ll move back from the bars,” she said, “but I won’t leave.” She tilted her chin up at its most stubborn angle. If Brett was going to be implacable, she would be immovable.

  “You’ll do as I say, Ruth. Leave now.”

  “Is it because I’m a woman that you’re ordering me about, or because I’m pregnant, or because I’m a widow ...”

  Unexpectedly, her situation overwhelmed her. She felt as if the entire Gulf of Mexico had been dumped over her head.

  Tears seemed to come from every part of her at once— her eyes, her nose, her mouth.

  Brett held her as close and as tenderly as he would have a whimpering, shivering, orphaned puppy.

  “I’m so sorry, Ruth. So very sorry.”

  She put her head on his shoulder and sobbed.

  “It’s not that ... I’m a wimp or anything. It’s just that ... everything seems ... too much.”

  Cradling her in his arms, he rocked back and forth.

  “Cry, Ruth.” Suddenly his own pain formed a tight ball in his throat. “You need to grieve for him. Both of us need to grieve for him.”

  She let herself go for the second time in her life. What was there about this man that made it so easy to let go? In the haven of his arms she thought how lovely it would be if she always had his arms to comfort her, his chest to lean on, his voice to reassure her. That was the way it should be. A man and a woman together, sharing the sadness as well as the joy.

  “We’ll get through this, Ruth. Together.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Together.”

  Chapter 65

 
ALABAMA

  Eleanor was on the front-porch swing facing the east, staring into the distance. Luke Fisher parked his rental car under the shade of two enormous pecan trees, then stood there watching her. It was typical of Eleanor that she hadn’t come to him for help. She’d always handled everything by herself. It was one of the qualities he admired most about her, as well as the one that gave him the most grief.

  His feet crunched on the gravel walkway as he started toward her.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” she said.

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come here.” She pushed at her hair. It had grown longer since he’d seen her.

  “I’d grow old waiting for you to ask me for help, Eleanor.” He propped one foot on the bottom step of the front porch. “I decided not to grow old waiting.”

  She stared at him, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

  “I’m empty, Luke. I can’t give you anything. Not even encouragement.”

  “Did I ask for anything?”

  “No.”

  “Eleanor, for once in your life let someone else do the giving.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Sit back and relax. See what happens.”

  The breeze stirred her hair, and a mockingbird scolded two fat squirrels intent on scaling the pecan tree to get at the nuts hanging heavy on the branches. It was a peaceful setting. No wonder Eleanor had stayed holed up there for the last six weeks.

  She watched the squirrels for a while, then stared at him.

  “I’ve forgotten my manners,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “You’re entitled to forget manners, Eleanor. You’re entitled to a lot of things.”

  “You came a long way.”

  “Yes. It was a long way.”

  “Why did you come, Luke?”

  “I’d be lying if I said just to comfort you.”

  For the first time since the deaths of her husband and her son, Eleanor felt a stirring of hope, not for any thought of a future with Luke, not for the thought of any personal happiness. That was premature. She simply felt a movement and flow in her blood, a sign that she was still alive.

  Sitting on the front porch, Luke was a study in brown —felt hat pulled low over his dark eyes, shoes dusty from traveling the back roads of Alabama, tan slacks wrinkled, his skin as weathered and tan as the bark of a pecan tree. Eleanor wished for a camera.

  “At least we never lied to each other,” she said. “Let’s not start now.”

  “All right. First of all, I came because I’m your friend, and I was Joseph’s friend. Friends help each other in time of need. But you know that’s not the only reason, don’t you, Eleanor?”

  She let the swing die to a stop. Her Alabama relatives had rallied around her, but they had no understanding of what it was like in Africa, of the kind of courage and strength it took to live in virtual isolation at the base of the Virungas with nothing but her family, her camera, and the gorillas. That kind of isolation fostered a deep bond that bordered on total dependency. Joseph’s death had severed the bond; she’d been set adrift, a small boat without an anchor in a very large sea.

  Luke understood. He’d lived that kind of life. He knew that it was not weakness on her part that held her captive in Alabama, but an attempt to renew that part of herself that was missing.

  “I know,” she said. “And I’m glad to see you, but I can’t think of anything beyond today.”

  “Don’t say anything, Eleanor. Just sit there.” Abruptly Luke left the front porch and went to his car. When he came back, he was carrying a camera—not the cheap drugstore kind but a very expensive model, the kind Eleanor could use to focus on a leaf and capture every vein.

  He knelt in front of her and slipped the camera into her hands.

  “This is a start,” he said. “Without a camera, a part of you is missing.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Don’t say anything. Just listen.”

  “All right.”

  “You’ve always viewed the world through a lens. Look through it again and find your way back.”

  She lifted the camera, focused on his face, and snapped.

  “I’m glad I’m the first thing you found, Eleanor. I take that as a good sign.”

  “Maybe it is, Luke... . Maybe it is.”

  She touched his cheek, and he covered her hand with his. They stayed that way for a very long time, and then they went inside to see if they could find something in the kitchen cabinets for supper.

  Chapter 66

  SAN FRANCISCO

  “Nobody was supposed to die,” Max said.

  “It was unfortunate,” Chu Ling replied. “An accident.”

  He refilled Max’s teacup, then folded his hands across his belly and waited. He didn’t know what his future relationship with this man would be, but he wasn’t about to ask foolish questions. Nothing good ever came from impatience.

  “You were in charge. How could you let it happen?”

  “Africa is a long way from San Francisco.” Chu Ling refused to make excuses.

  “This is true, but I thought your men were reliable.”

  “Shambu was always our man, but Corday hired the Batwas.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “The old man found them taking the gorillas. There was an argument that got out of control. Once the pygmies got the lust for blood, even Shambu couldn’t handle them.”

  “Even if the authorities find out about Shambu and the Batwas, we’re clean,” Max said. “There’s no way the murders can be laid at our door.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “My attorney told me. I pay him a fortune to know. If I can’t believe what he says, I might as well throw in the towel.”

  Max was sweating. Chu Ling took that as a sign of weakness.

  “We can still get the gorillas. Shambu wants to continue without Corday.”

  “No!” Max couldn’t sit still. He’d always hated that he’d had to sacrifice the gorillas in order to discredit the Cordays. Now that Corday was dead, he had no interest in that illegal activity ... nor any idea how he would get Ruth back. Alive, Corday was a sitting duck. Dead, he was a martyred saint. “I won’t fund it anymore. And if he tries to take them anyhow, I’ll leak it to the press. There’ll be bleeding-heart preservationists all over the jungle. He won’t be able to take a crap without stepping on one.”

  “Then our business is done?”

  “Yes. Our business is done. In case anybody asks, you don’t know me and I don’t know you.”

  “Maxwell Jones? I never heard of the man.”

  “You ought to be in show business, Chu Ling. You’re a hell of an actor.”

  “All smart people are actors when the need arises. It’s a gift.”

  “Or a curse.”

  Outside the sun was trying to burn through an early-morning fog. Max had chosen his time and his place carefully. No one was about this hour of the day, no one except him and a few stray cats.

  As he walked down the block and around the corner to the lot where he’d parked his rental car, he thought of a way his plan might still work.

  Ruth was staying in the compound of the only remaining Corday. Bring the dead down, and the one left alive would come tumbling along with them.

  And then she’d have no one to turn to except him.

  Chapter 67

  THE VIRUNGAS

  Brett woke to the sound of Ruth’s singing. Flat on his back in bed, he let the music flow over him. It was a blues tune she sang in her soft, sultry voice. Something from Gershwin, he thought.

  He dressed then went down the hall to stand quietly in the doorway of Cee Cee’s enclosure. Ruth and Cee Cee were totally absorbed in each other. They sat on the floor together inside the gorilla’s indoor quarters, Ruth singing and weaving a red ribbon around Cee Cee’s head, and Cee Cee leaning against Ruth’s knee with a big smile on her face. />
  In the two months since Malone’s death, Ruth had forged a close bond with the gorilla. Brett had tried everything he knew to make Cee Cee cooperate with Ruth: reason, cajolery, punishment, bribes. But nothing had worked ... until one morning Cee Cee heard Ruth singing.

  “What noise?” she’d signed to Brett.

  “That’s Ruth. She sings.”

  “Sing how?”

  “With her mouth.”

  “Cee Cee sing mouth.” The gorilla had opened her mouth and emitted a terrible series of sounds. Enraged by her efforts, she had pounded her chest and signed furiously. “What sing, you show Cee Cee sing now.”

  “People sing, birds sing. Gorillas don’t sing.”

  “Yes. Cee Cee sing, teach now, me, me, me.”

  “Do you want Ruth to sing for you?”

  “No dirty stink female bad, not sing Cee Cee.” She’d poked his chest. “You sing Cee Cee, now teach now.”

  “I can’t sing.”

  She’d given him a look of wounded dignity then sat in the corner with her back to him, pouting. In the kitchen Ruth had continued to sing. Cee Cee had cocked her head, listening; then, embarrassed that he’d seen her interest, she’d pretended she had a bug in her ear and spent considerable time digging around with her fingers to find it. She’d even pretended she’d found one and made a great commotion of throwing it onto the floor and stomping on it.

  “Brett?” Ruth had appeared in the doorway. “I’ve brought Cee Cee’s breakfast.”

  Cee Cee usually galloped around her cage in delight over food, but that day she’d sat stoically in her corner pretending she had no interest in breakfast.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Ruth had asked.

  “She wants to learn how to sing.”

  “Hmmm. I think that can be arranged. Do you think she’ll let me give her a singing lesson?”

  “Let’s ask her... . Cee Cee, Ruth will teach you to sing.”

  “No. You teach.”

  “I can’t. Only Ruth can teach to sing.”

  Cee Cee had considered her dilemma for a while; then she’d shambled over to Brett, sat down beside his feet, and gave him a coy smile.