The Maverick's Bride. Catherine Palmer
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in two, he hurled it to the ground and spun on his spurred heel.
He strode to the grove of palm trees, took his horse’s reins and mounted. The animal reared, hooves churning, then it turned away from the ship to gallop along the harbor and out of sight.
“Heavens,” Cissy exclaimed. “I should like to know what was in that letter. Shall I go down and fetch it?”
“No, Cissy.” Emma caught her sister’s arm. “That man’s business is not our affair.”
“But haven’t you the least bit of curiosity? After all, it’s not every day one sees a cowboy.”
“A cowboy?” Emma frowned. “Mr. King introduced himself as a rancher.”
“He’s American, isn’t he? With those boots and spurs, what else could he be?”
Emma watched the dust settling along the path the horse had taken. A cowboy…the sort of character she had only read about in books. Cowboys led wagon trains across the prairies and drove herds of longhorn cattle down dusty trails. What could such a man be doing in Africa?
“I hope we see him again,” Cissy said. “I should like to tell my friends at home that I talked to a real cowboy.”
“We won’t see him again,” Emma told her sister. “Mr. King must have come to Mombasa for that letter and he certainly wasn’t pleased with its news.”
“He was in a great hurry to be off.” Cissy tilted her head. “Emma, are you all right?”
Stiffening, Emma realized she was still staring after the man. “I’m fine, of course. Look, Cissy, our father’s new acquaintance is moving our way. He’ll expect an introduction.”
His top hat a burnished black in the late sunlight, Nicholas Bond held his shoulders straight and his chin up as he approached. Nothing about him echoed the casual slouch of the cowboy rancher. A sudden thought brightened Emma’s spirits. Perhaps Mr. Bond might capture her sister’s fancy and draw Cissy’s attention from poor Dirk Bauer.
“I should like you to meet Mr. Nicholas Bond,” Emma said as the man presented himself. “He’s the assistant director of the railway. Mr. Bond, my sister, Miss Priscilla Pickering.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Pickering.” He smiled, swept off his top hat and pressed his lips to Cissy’s hand. “And now your father awaits. May I direct you ladies from the ship?”
With a polished clip in his step, he escorted the sisters down the gangway behind their father.
“Your trunks are safely stowed,” Bond announced, clapping his hands to summon a trolley. As a pair of young African men pulled the wheeled vehicle to a halt, he turned to the women.
“Miss Priscilla,” he said, holding out a hand. “Take care, please. This is no English carriage.”
Cissy dipped her head in polite acknowledgment. As Nicholas and her father helped Cissy up the squeaky stair into the covered trolley, a flutter of white caught Emma’s eye. Half of Adam King’s letter tumbled toward her in the gentle breeze. After a moment’s hesitation, she snatched it up.
Roses the color of blood and wine bloomed in a tangle of green vines across the top of the paper. Watercolor florals, done in an elegant hand. The scent of perfume, heady and evocative, clung to the letter as Emma began to read.
My darling. The words swam out in flowing blue ink. How I’ve longed to be in your arms! How I’ve missed you—
The torn page stopped the words. Emma glanced up to see the men busily tucking Cissy’s skirts into the trolley. She read on.
As you know, I had planned to arrive in January, but unfortunately—
Another stop. Emma rushed to the next line.
—the governor’s inauguration on the twenty-fifth, and I do wish you could—
—such a long trip, but I know it will be worth it to see you—
—I understand how lonely you’ve been and how much you want someone to—
—and so after a great deal of careful deliberation as well as many conversations with—
“Emmaline?”
Her father’s tone froze Emma’s eyes on the final words: I remain forever, your faithful wife—
—Clarissa
The torn paper cut through her like a razor’s edge.
Dropping the letter, Emma saw the breeze catch it and whip it across the pier, whisk it high into the air and send it fluttering into the turquoise sea.
“Emmaline!”
Her father’s voice left no room for longing.
Chapter Two
Emma adjusted her crinolines on the narrow trolley seat as Nicholas Bond sat down beside her. She would have preferred to sit by Cissy, but the layers of petticoats lining their skirts prevented that possibility. As a result, she was forced to ride back-to-back with her sister. The space was cramped, and Emma found herself pressed awkwardly against Nicholas as the trolley jerked to life.
The air smelled of the sea. Emma lifted her face to the sunshine. The turquoise ocean mirrored the sky. Long rippling clouds paralleled an endless white-sand beach. Between shore and sky, seagulls fluttered, calling raucously above the crash of waves and the shouts of dockworkers.
“Mombasa town is on an island,” Nicholas explained over the rattle of the trolley. “Actually the coastal strip belongs to the sultan of Zanzibar, while we English control the inland region all the way to Lake Victoria. As you’re well aware, Mr. Pickering, we’re in dispute with the Germans over control of the Uganda territory to the west.”
“Why do you think I’ve come, young man?” Godfrey Pickering retorted. “It is imperative that our railway reach the lake before theirs does. I don’t mean to leave until I’m certain we shall win that race.”
The younger man nodded. “I am glad to hear it, sir. My own dream is to see the protectorate become a full-fledged colony of the Crown.”
Aware the conversation was little more than bluster, Emma gazed out across the landscape. Huts with thatched roofs graced the shade of stately palm trees. Chickens wandered across the road, oblivious to the trolley. In this populated area, the air was thick with the smells of salted fish and smoke.
Emma had longed for this moment, dreaming of the day she would see Africa. Lying awake at night on board the steamship, she had pictured a land, animals and people known only from sketches in books. Here at last, she could hardly keep her focus. Rather than the white-rimmed waters and the fishing boats, her eyes saw a dark man rising into the sky on a black stallion. Her ears heard not the sounds of clattering trolley wheels, but a deep voice with a strange, lazy accent like a long, slow river winding to the sea. Her ungloved hands felt the touch of a man’s fingers—worn and callused yet gentle, too. Even the strong sea scent faded beneath a memory of leather and dusty denim.
Emma wondered what her Aunt Prudence would have thought of Adam King. She smiled, knowing that her beloved mentor would find the man intriguing. Her thoughts slipped back in time to Aunt Prue’s large house in London where she and Cissy had spent the years after their mother’s death. Before Mrs. Pickering’s calamitous visit to the continent, the family had enjoyed happier seasons at their country estate. But after she died, their father’s business and his failing health had forced Emma and Cissy to the city.
Emma redirected her thoughts from her father to the memory of her clandestine ventures to the Nightingale Training School for nurses at St. Thomas’s Hospital. In a year’s time, she had attended all the required lectures and worked with patients under the supervision of the ward sister. Like the other new nurses, she enjoyed the culminating event of her training—an invitation to take tea with Florence Nightingale herself.
Miss