A Whisper of Danger

by Catherine Palmer

  Splint rolled his eyes and headed for the back staircase. Jess let out a breath. If she could get through the next few minutes . . . get Rick out the door . . . get him out of her sight . . .

  Splint was halfway up the stairs when he stopped. “Hey, Rick. Did you know my mom back when she lived in Kenya?”

  For the first time that night, Jess stared straight at the man. He looked at her, searching her eyes. Her heart lurched against her chest, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. Everything about him did the same things to her as ten years before.

  “I met your mom a long time ago,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “We were kids.”

  “Cool. So it’s just like old times between the two of you.” Splint started up the steps again. “I knew there had to be a reason you called her Jessie that day she barfed on you in Zanzibar town.”

  Jess let out a groan, grabbed the stack of dirty plates, and rushed them into the kitchen. Miriamu brushed past her on the way out to the table. Setting the plates in the sink, Jess bit her lip to stop the tears that were determined to fall. Her son would figure it out. He was too smart. Then he would want the father he’d never had. And how could she keep them apart? How—when Rick was kind and gentle and funny and everything a father should be?

  “Jessie?” His voice in the doorway of the kitchen froze her tears. “Jessie, are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right.” She wiped the heel of her palm across her cheek and turned to face him. “I don’t want him to know about the past, Rick. I don’t want you to tell him.”

  “I won’t.”

  In the low light of the kerosene lantern, she could see the broad silhouette of his shoulders. Hints of gold glinted in his hair. His skin glowed a deep bronze in contrast to the pale sea green of his T-shirt. He took a step toward her.

  “Jessie, is Spencer . . . ?” He stopped and looked away.

  She could see him struggling, and she knew the question he wanted to ask: Was Spencer his son? How could she not tell him? Didn’t he deserve to know . . . ?

  No! He had run off and left her. Left his own baby growing inside a young wife. Abandoned them both. No, he didn’t deserve that child.

  “You’d better go,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  He rammed a hand down into his pocket. She stared at him, appalled at the urge she felt to tell him about his son. Mortified by the unbidden desire to touch him, to feel his arms slide around her. Terrified by her need to cry and rage and mourn . . . and heal. To heal him and to be healed by him.

  Why had God allowed this to happen? Things had been so much better before. Now she had to look into Rick’s eyes and read the mirror of her own emotions. He ached as deeply as she did. He carried the same torment.

  “Jessie, I—”

  “Rick—”

  “Go ahead.”

  “No, you.”

  “I just . . . uh . . . thank you for the supper.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Did you have something to say?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “I won’t say anything to Splint. About us.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to go, then stopped. “Jessie, did you ever marry again after me?”

  She jerked upright. “No.” He was looking straight at her, trying to read her eyes. She squared her shoulders. “He’s my son, Rick. Only mine.”

  “I guess you know that’s a physical impossibility.”

  “You may know about genetics, but you know nothing about parenthood. Spencer has one parent. Me.”

  She could see him struggling to leash the turmoil bubbling up inside him. He crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles tight and bulging under the soft knit of his shirt. His jaw worked as he forced down the words he so obviously wanted to say. And then he let out a breath.

  “God blessed him with you,” he managed. “You’re a good mother.”

  Before she could respond, he swung around and stalked out of the kitchen. Jess grabbed a dish towel and buried her face in it, stifling the scream that threatened. Out in the courtyard, Rick and Andrew thanked Miriamu for the dinner, said good-bye to Hannah, and left.

  Jess heard the front door shut. She heard the motorcycle start up. And she heard the crunch of wheels on the driveway.

  Forgive me. She heard the plea, but she didn’t know whose voice spoke the words. Was it Rick’s? or her own?

  Rick wanted a drink. Wanted one badly. He pulled the motorcycle over to the side of the road near the little cliff-side kiosk where he and Andrew so often ate dinner after their work on the shipwreck.

  “What’s the matter, man?” Andrew asked behind him. “Why are you stopping? Let’s go on into town. I’m full from that meal.”

  “Just a second. I’ve got to think.”

  Rick unsnapped his helmet and lifted it off. The night breeze blowing in from the ocean felt good. He shook his head to let the air dry his damp hair.

  “This is bad news,” he said.

  “Okay, man. You’d better tell me what’s up.” Andrew climbed down from the bike and took off his own helmet. “You want to go inside the kiosk?”

  Rick let out a tired laugh. “Sure.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  He swung one leg over the cycle and started for the small wooden hut. From inside poured the sounds of African rock music—a mixture of lively drums, horns, and singing. Through the open door, Rick could see the collection of tables, most of them sitting lopsided on the rough mud floor. A breath of wind carried the musky, enticing scent of rich African beer.

  Rick stopped. “Can’t do it, Andrew.”

  “Can’t do what? Come on, let’s have a Coke like we always do. Maybe get some samosas. We’ll talk about this redheaded lady who has you all twisted up.”

  “I don’t want Coke. I need something stronger.”

  “You got it bad, eh?”

  “Seven years since I had my last beer. If I walk in there, buddy, I’m going to blow my streak.”

  Andrew’s dark eyebrows lifted, and he shook his head. “Worse than I thought. So, what’s the big deal? Go back to Uchungu House and ask the lady for a date. Tell her you think she’s pretty. Give her a little kiss. You’re a good-looking guy. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem?”

  He studied the dimly lit interior of the kiosk. It would be so easy to walk in there. So easy to order up a beer. And another. So easy to make himself forget.

  “Yeah, the problem,” Andrew said. “You like her, that’s obvious to anybody with two eyes. You stared at her all night like you were dying of thirst and she was a tall glass of ice water. She kept turning pink and white and red until I thought she was going to melt right into your arms. One kiss and she’ll be yours just like that.” Andrew snapped his fingers. “So what’s the problem, man?”

  “She’s my wife. That’s the problem, man.”

  Rick strode to the edge of the cliff and listened to the ocean waves crashing against the shore far below. High tide. He picked up a pebble.

  “Excuse me, but did you say Jessica Thornton is your wife?”

  “That’s what I said, Andrew. My wife. I married her eleven years ago. Kenya. The bad old days. I ran off and left her more than ten years ago. And guess how old her son is.”

  “Surely not ten years.”

  “Surely so.”

  Andrew gave a low whistle. “That would tend to make a guy want a drink.”

  “Yes, it does.” Rick flicked the pebble over the cliff. “But I killed my marriage with alcohol. I nearly killed myself.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Andrew mused a moment. “You think Jessie is still your wife?”

  “I think so.”

  “The boy? Could he really be your son?”

  “He could. Or maybe not. She won’t tell me. She doesn’t want me around. I don’t blame her.”

  “Maybe she won’t tell you anything because she had the boy with another man. Maybe she didn
’t care that you left her. Maybe you don’t owe the woman a thing.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you think that boy is your son, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too. He looks like you.” Andrew shoved his hands down into his pockets. “You want the boy? or the woman? or both? or neither?”

  “Both.”

  Andrew let out a low whistle. “Okay, man. Now I see the problem.”

  Rick picked up another pebble and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, back and forth, back and forth. He could feel the sharp edges of the coral chip digging into his skin. God had given him seven years of nourishment. Seven years of healing. Seven years to rid his body of the poison of alcohol. Seven years to beat his addiction. Seven years of transformation into a new man.

  Why did he feel just like the old Rick McTaggart?

  “You say she doesn’t want you around,” Andrew said. “I say you’re wrong.”

  “The lady hates me, pal. I can see it in her eyes.”

  “That’s not what I saw in her eyes.”

  “You weren’t in the kitchen. She doesn’t want me to have anything to do with the boy. She’s not going to tell him we were married. She doesn’t want the thought that I might be his father even to cross his mind.”

  “Because maybe you’re not.”

  Rick nodded. On the one hand, he could handle the idea that he wasn’t Splinter’s father. It eased his guilt. So what if he’d walked out on Jessie? She must have run straight into another man’s arms. Just thinking about that made him angry. He had left the marriage, but at least he hadn’t gone to another woman. If Jessie had been unfaithful to her vows, she deserved the consequences.

  Unfaithful to her vows? The thought slapped him in the face, and he felt his face burn with shame. What could you call walking out on a brand-new marriage? And how could he be sure Splinter wasn’t his son? For all he knew, Jessie had been pregnant the night he’d left her. In that scenario, he had run off on a young, naive girl carrying his own child.

  Rick hurled the pebble over the cliff and out into the surf. “I’m going back there. I’m going to make her tell me the truth.”

  “You can’t do that. The woman will seal her lips as tight as a clamshell. You won’t get a thing out of her.” Andrew laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Forget her.”

  “Forget her?” Rick swallowed against the gritty lump in his throat. “I still love her, Andrew.”

  “You don’t even know her. Ten years is a long time. Maybe you loved that girl when she was eighteen or nineteen. But she’s a grown-up angry woman now. For all you know, she’s mean and tough and ugly inside. No man even wants to knock on the door of a woman like that. You forget what I’ve been telling you all these years? Lot of women out there, McTaggart. Why don’t you go get yourself one?”

  Rick shook his head. “Right now, all I really want to do is have a drink.”

  “So?”

  “So, that’s what I want to do. You know me better than anyone else, Andrew. You know I gave up my own will when I surrendered my life to Christ. The Lord’s had seven years to work on me.”

  “I’ve seen you change a lot, brother.”

  “He’s still got a long way to go.”

  “Hey, nobody’s perfect. Look at me.”

  Rick found a smile for his friend. “I’m not going to take even one step backward. No matter how much I want to right now.”

  “Okay, so what are you going to do? Go to the lady’s house and make her tell you the whole story . . . or go inside the kiosk and have a Coke . . . or go home and go to bed?”

  “I’m going to let you go into the kiosk and get us both a Coke.” He nodded. “Right now, I’m going to pray.”

  “While you’re at it, put in a good word for me about that woman, Miriamu, who cooked our dinner. A man would kill for a woman like that.”

  Andrew gave Rick a thumbs-up sign and headed for the kiosk. The two men had been through enough together to respect each other’s privacy. Rick found a smooth boulder and hunkered down on it. He had told Andrew all about his past—the drinking, the surrender to Christ, the uphill walk away from addiction, the struggle to allow the Lord to mold him into a new creation. But he hadn’t told his friend about Jessie.

  All these years, she had been his secret. His hidden guilt. Though he had begged God for forgiveness for what he’d done to Jessie, he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgiven himself. The only way he had been able to see an end to what haunted him was to ask forgiveness from Jessie herself.

  “Father, I’ve asked her to forgive me,” he murmured into the wind that rushed up the cliff from the ocean. “She can’t. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this one.”

  He sat for a long time, watching the clouds paint patterns across the moon. At times like this, he felt frustrated and angry. Why wouldn’t God just tell him what to do? Why couldn’t the Lord send down an occasional blinding light like he had for Paul on the road to Damascus? That would be awfully handy. Or how about an angel—like the one who told Joseph to skedaddle into Egypt? Rick could do with an angel right now.

  “Come on, Father. You know what’s supposed to happen with this thing. Couldn’t you just clue me in?”

  He let out a breath. A little boy chased a puppy past the boulder. Unaware of the man watching him from the shadows, the child laughed and danced around the scampering pet for a moment before racing off into the night. An ache tore through Rick’s heart at the sight of the child.

  If Spencer Thornton was his own son . . . he wanted him! Look how many years he had missed. Look what he had turned his back on.

  “Oh, God!” He buried his face in his hands. He could see Splint’s bright eyes, hear his voice, his laughter, his thousand amazing questions. And what had he offered to his own son? A few paltry words of advice.

  Just because God can see the future, he had said to Splint, that doesn’t mean he’s already set the whole thing up. If he had, we’d be like little robots. We wouldn’t get to make our own decisions about how we’re going to act and what we’re going to do with ourselves.

  “Okay, Father,” Rick prayed, realizing his own words were speaking to him, “I know you’re not going to dictate this thing for me. I know you’ve given me free will. . . .”

  God gave us the right to choose, his words echoed back to him. You’re the boss of your life—unless you decide to give it to him.

  “I give it to you, Father,” he said. “I give it all to you. Jessie. Spencer. My urge to drink. My fears. The past. The future. This moment. I lay everything in your lap. Father, mold me. Take me where you want me to be.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, letting go. Giving up. Surrendering. Accepting Christ’s forgiveness. Forgiving himself.

  “I got it, man! I got the answer.” Andrew plopped down beside him on the boulder and shoved a glass of lukewarm soda between his hands. “You’re going to be sweating blood in a minute with all that praying. Look, here’s the answer.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This.” Andrew waggled the small Bible Rick had carried in his pack for years. “You’re always shoving this thing in my face, man. Now it’s your turn. I’m going to tell you what you’re supposed to do.” Rick reached for the book, but Andrew snatched it away. “I said, I’m going to tell you, brother,” he repeated. “And you’re going to listen.”

  “You don’t even know where to start looking, you pagan.”

  “Oh yeah? It just so happens you’ve been giving me so many sermons through the years, I got myself my own Bible. I may not be a Christian, but I’ve been doing some reading in this book you talk about all the time. So don’t call me a pagan. Before you know it, I’m going to be preaching to you.”

  Rick chuckled. “Preach on, Brother Andrew.”

  The African took a sip of his soda. “Okay, we are now going to learn what this book says about being a husband, which is what you happen to be.”
r />   He flipped on a flashlight and brushed through the crinkly pages until he came to the concordance. After considerable fumbling and muttering, Andrew cleared his throat. “‘And you husbands must love your wives with the same love Christ showed the church. He gave up his life for her.’ Tah dah! ‘Husbands ought to love their wives as they love their own bodies. For a man is actually loving himself when he loves his wife.’ Tah dah! ‘So again I say, each man must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.’ Tah dah!”

  “Wait a minute. Is that in there? That tah dah business?”

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “You think you’re going to get out of this by making jokes, man? If you really believe what you’ve been telling me you believe, you’re going to have to love that woman at Uchungu House, no matter how nasty she is. Love her. Respect her. Honor her. Even if she hates your guts from now to the day you die.”

  Rick studied his friend’s face. “You think that’s what it means?”

  “How are you going to argue with it? Look at this one, man.” He adjusted the flashlight on the page of Matthew’s Gospel. “‘They record that from the beginning “God made them male and female.” And he said, “this explains why a man leaves his father and mother and is joined to his wife, and the two are united into one.” Since they are no longer two but one, let no one separate them, for God has joined them together.’”

  Andrew shut the Bible and set it firmly on Rick’s thigh. “You’re a man,” the African said. “You got a wife. You believe this book. You better do what it says.”

  Rick picked up the book and stroked his fingers across the smooth leather. “‘Let no one separate them, for God has joined them together.’ I’m not going to be the man to break the sanctity of my marriage any longer, Andrew. I’m going to love Jessie. I’m going to love her . . . and I’m going to win back my wife.”

  “And I’m going to watch you do it. If you can pull this one off, man, I may just be tempted to start following this little book myself. You never know . . . I might even give my own life to your friend Jesus Christ.”

  EIGHT

  Jess peered over Solomon’s shoulder as he studied the intricacies of the Renault’s engine. His dark hands stroked over the wires and hoses as she had seen them move over the leaves and flowers of a plant. He touched the battery, wiped off a blob of grease, tugged on a rubber belt.