Guarding the Princess(86)

He led her over floors crafted from rough, cool granite into the kitchen furnished with an antique Aga stove.

“This is what I want you to see.” He opened the back door, and escorted her into a trellised kitchen garden enclosed by a rock wall. Herbs and vegetables grew in neat rows. Dassies—fat furry rodents with big liquid-brown eyes—sat sunning themselves atop the wall, watching them through netting that kept both them and the birds out.

Dalilah turned slowly around. “Did you plant all this?” It was a silly question, and she knew it even as it left her mouth—of course he planted it. There was no one else. It was just that she was trying to picture this burly ex-merc with his hands in this lush dark soil, which he must have brought in from somewhere, or worked up from compost himself.

He gave a sheepish grin and hooked his thumbs into his belt. Then he shrugged. “Got the lettuce, but no tofu.”

She punched his arm with a laugh. “I’ll live. Where does the irrigation come from?”

“Underground water table and rain tank, for the most part. I’m working on some other initiatives—I’ll show you later.”

She slipped her arm around him, hugged him close, huge and solid and warm against her body—she loved the feel of him, everything about him. “You surprise me, Brandt Stryker.”

“Touché, Princess,” he whispered. “Come,” he said, leading her back into the kitchen. He opened the fridge.

“White wine all right for sundowners?” He held up a chilled bottle.

“Not whiskey?” she said.

He laughed and took two glasses down from the shelf, setting them on the counter before digging in a drawer for an opener. “Why don’t you go through to the deck while I put away the bags,” he said. “I’ll bring this through.”

She glanced at her new suitcase standing by the door. It was filled with new clothes—functional bush clothes, hiking boots, good sandals, hats, along with some sundresses and new underwear. Propped against the suitcase was a flat package he’d been carrying under his arm. It was wrapped in brown paper.

“What’s in there?” she said.

He scooped it and the bag up. “Just some prints I had done in Gaborone. I’ll be right back—go on through.”

Dalilah kicked off her sandals and padded barefoot through the living room, wanting the feel of this place, the touch of wood beneath her feet, the sensation of the stone. Her gauzy white sundress was cool against her skin. It was a liberating feeling—Dalilah wanted to enjoy it, everything about this newfound sense of lightness and brightness and freedom, where everything in the world seemed suddenly possible. And exciting.

Old-fashioned fans stirred lazily in the living room, too. The decor in this section of the house was all dark African woods, animal skins, block-printed fabric. Large black-and-white and sepia-toned photographic prints hung on the walls—an overall retro safari look that put Dalilah in mind of Hemingway and images of great hunters.

Dalilah turned her attention to the prints. One depicted a man holding up the head of a Cape buffalo he’d shot, gun in one hand. The man had Brandt’s features, but with a big beard and sideburns. A boy, maybe seven years old, stood next to him with a rifle in his own hands, white-blond hair. Both man and boy had eerily pale eyes against suntanned skin. Brandt and his father? she wondered.

There were other hunting shots, and deep-sea-fishing images. A marlin leaping with sprays of droplets sparkling in sunlight. In one image Dalilah recognized the prominent topography of Cape Town, South Africa.

Then she came to a photo of a child in a slum—this one taken in a jungle area. Another image showed a barefoot kid pushing a toy made of wire—his arm had been amputated. Yet another image showed a small girl fleeing something awful, terror wild in her face and eyes. This one looked as if it had been shot in Asia somewhere. There were more—a series with mothers with children, some poignant, some just plain heartbreaking. Devastating. Dalilah rubbed her arms, her mood shifting.

He’d told her he didn’t bring people here, so these were not for show, they were for him. His touchstones. That’s why he said he took pictures—to capture, remember. Brandt’s words sifted back into her mind.

It’s what I do, Dalilah. These days I shoot with a camera, not a gun, if I can help it. I shoot rare and beautiful things, things with meaning to me. Images I return to so that I can be reminded of what I value in life. Or what stands to be lost...

She’d thought Brandt was running from his past, seeking relief. But she was wrong. He wanted to hold on, maybe too acutely, to the memories that had changed him. No wonder he struggled with needing relief.