The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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have been carved from oak. Although young, it had been worn into striking planes and hollows. The sun had burned it to a buckskin brown. A shock of black hair fell across the forehead and brushed the dark brows.
Recognizing him as the man she had seen on the horse, Emma nodded. “He should be in the shade. But he needs fresh air, and we must keep him warm.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The tall man turned from her, and the crowd parted as he strode toward a grove of palm trees.
Her patient momentarily out of her care, Emma stared after the stranger. Clad as no man she had ever known, he wore trousers of a blue that might have been indigo once but had long since faded into a soft, light shade. They molded to his long legs as if almost a part of him. His thick brown leather boots were nothing like the soft leather spats and buttoned footgear her father sported. These had odd chunky heels, squared-off toes and silver spurs that spun when he walked.
Her petticoats causing some difficulty, Emma stood from the wharf. As she started toward the palm grove, she noted that the stranger’s shirt was clean and white—brilliant in the afternoon sun—but it didn’t do the things a shirt was meant to do. It had somehow lost its stiffness, the collar hanging loose at his neck and the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Oddest of all was the man’s hat. Not a derby, a top hat or even a straw hat, this was made of jet-black felt, and it bore a wide, curling brim with a black leather band. The crown rose above his head, then dipped into a valley at the center.
As Emma approached, she saw him place the injured African on a patch of cool white sand near his horse. Then he slid a wool blanket from behind the black saddle.
“Emma, come quickly!” Cissy’s voice drew her attention. “They’ve taken the other one out of the water. No one will touch him.”
Whirling away, Emma followed Cissy through the crowd to the second African, who lay among the debris of the shattered crate. His body, clothed only in a fabric of native weave tied at the waist, glistened with water. He was awake but bleeding from a deep slash across his arm.
“Oh, Cissy, you know I’m not a surgeon,” Emma exclaimed, kneeling. “But we can’t wait for one. We must bind this wound without a moment’s delay.”
She glanced up to find her sister’s normally rosy cheeks pale, eyes wide with trepidation. Realizing Cissy would be no help, Emma turned her attention to the injured man. With effort, she lifted his trembling shoulders into her lap.
“I am here for you now,” she murmured. “With God’s help, I shall put you to rights.”
Miss Nightingale abhorred the practice of cheering the sick by making light of their danger or by exaggerating their probabilities of recovery. A good nurse must be concise and decisive, she instructed her pupils. Any doubt or hesitation should be kept to oneself and never communicated to the patient. Yet, Emma believed kind words could never hurt.
“Now, let me have a look at your arm,” she said gently. The man probably could make little sense of her English language, yet she prayed her tone and touch would suffice. As she lifted his wounded limb, he flinched and tried to pull away. The gash was deep.
“I must bind your arm. I need a clean bandage. Can someone fetch a—”
Observing the sea of dark faces surrounding her, Emma understood at once that she was alone in this effort. The crowd hung paralyzed, every eye focused on her.
“What would Miss Nightingale say now?” she mused. In such a place as this, everything necessary to good patient care was unavailable. Shaking her head, Emma lifted the hem of her lavender skirt, grasped her cotton petticoat and tore off a wide strip. It would have to do. She wrapped the fabric around the man’s arm and tied the ends into a neat knot.
“You must go home and wash this wound, sir. Use soap and hot water. Put on a clean bandage and then…” She paused and looked up again. Cissy had vanished, and the row of silent faces gaped at her. “Does anyone here speak English?”
“I’ll talk to him for you, ma’am.” The oddly dressed gentleman shouldered his way through the crowd and knelt in the dust beside her. “Touching a dead man is against these folks’ religion. They’re afraid both fellows are going to die.”
“Not if I can help it. Will you please tell this man something for me?”
“If he knows Swahili.”
“You’re American, aren’t you? I can tell by your manner of speech.” Emma looked up into the brilliant blue eyes. “At first I thought you might be Italian.”
“Italian?” The man’s mouth curved into a slow grin. “Born and raised in Texas. But I’ve lived here long enough to get by in the language.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She made a desperate attempt to calm her fluttering stomach. “Please tell this man he must find a doctor as soon as he can. A surgeon if at all possible.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, ma’am. He won’t be able to afford the treatment.”
“He should have stitches.” Dismayed, she shook her head. “Please tell him to wash the wound in fresh water. And keep it wrapped in cloths—clean ones, mind you.”
The stranger listened intently, then turned his focus from her and addressed the wide-eyed patient in a string of incomprehensible syllables.
“What did you tell him?” Emma asked.
“What you said, but he won’t do it. He’ll visit the mganga—the local medicine man—and get some homemade remedies. He’ll be all right.”
“Medicine man? You mean a witch doctor? But that’s dreadful—”
“Emmaline Ann Pickering, what do you think you’re doing?” A familiar voice growled overhead. Hard fingers clamped around Emma’s shoulders.
She cried out as she was jerked to her feet. The wounded man’s head slid from her lap to the ground as Emma confronted a pair of hard gray eyes.
“Father.”
Godfrey Pickering scanned his daughter from head to toe. “Explain yourself, girl.”
“I was helping…” Suddenly faint, she realized her serious lapse in judgment. Any effort to justify her actions would fall on deaf ears, but she must try. “This poor man was badly hurt and—”
“Emmaline, look at yourself,” Pickering ordered.
She glanced down at her silk skirt, now dusty and spotted with blood. Her puffed sleeves had collapsed, all the air gone out of them like a pair of burst bubbles. A wisp of hair had slipped from beneath her velvet hat to curl down her arm. Attempting to find a pin and tuck up the stray tress, Emma focused on her father’s red face.
“How do you do, sir?” she murmured, dipping a slight curtsy. She had no choice but to play the demure daughter. “I hope I find you well.”
Her father’s portly chest rose in an annoyed sigh. “Emmaline, do attempt to conduct yourself in the manner to which you were raised. I should like you to meet the assistant director of the East Africa Railway, Mr. Nicholas Bond. Mr. Bond, my elder daughter, Miss Pickering.”
A gentleman with brown hair, hazel eyes and a pleasant face stepped forward to extend a gloved hand. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Pickering.”
Emma knitted her bare fingers for a moment, then held out her hand. “Mr. Bond, my pleasure. Do forgive me—I seem to have misplaced my gloves.”
“Not at all.” His lips brushed the back of her hand. “I’m dreadfully sorry you’ve had such a rude introduction to the protectorate.”
“A rude introduction?” Emma turned her eyes to the injured man again. He was sitting up, picking at the cotton bandage. “Such a mishap could hardly have been predicted, sir.”
The American gentleman who had assisted Emma earlier now stood