A Kiss of Adventure (3 page)

“Yes, the explorer. Almost two years ago, I heard rumors that the page had come to light. There’s been a theory—a legend—that a secret message written by Mungo Park exists. It supposedly talks about some strange things. About a woman who plants trees, for example.”

Tillie shivered and turned the paper over in her hands. “What are you going to do with it?”

“I hope I’m going to get to read it.”

“I mean after that.”

“I don’t know. I need to read it to find out what to do next.”

She looked down at the sheet of paper, then took a deep breath and placed it on his thigh. He stared at her for a moment. When he gingerly picked up the paper, she leaned over and held the flashlight at his shoulder while he read.

Tillie tried to reread the yellowed scrap with him, but she found her attention drawn away by the nearness of his shoulder and the thick mane of black hair that brushed her hand. How strange that she should be tempted to rest her head against such a man’s shoulder.

Well, she was tired and disoriented. She wished Hannah were here. Hannah would know exactly what to do. Pray. That’s what she would recommend. But Tillie felt she hardly had time to think, let alone formulate a prayer.

“He wants you to walk in him one day at a time.”
One day at a time. How about one minute at a time? Tillie flushed at the memory of Hannah’s gentle reprimand. Her big plans were worth less than nothing at this moment.
“He’s the vine and you’re only a branch. If you remain in him and he remains in you, you will bear fruit. . . . But apart from Christ, Tillie, you cannot do a thing.”

Apart from him, nothing. Walk in him. One minute at a time.

Oh, Lord, help me.

Tillie opened her eyes and looked down at the paper. Graeme obviously had read and reread it by now.

“This is just great,” he snarled suddenly. He leaned back, knocking the flashlight from her hand and extinguishing its beam. They both bent to grope for it. As Tillie found it, his hand closed around hers.

“Look . . . what’s your name?” he whispered, taking the flashlight from her. “That guy in the market—did he call you
Matilda
?”

“No, please. I’m Tillie. Tillie Thornton.”

“Look, Tillie. I think you’d better listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. You’re in for some rough days.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the journal. I’m talking about Mungo Park and the legend and the curse. I’m talking about you, Tillie Thornton. You’re the tree-planting woman. So now, whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to go in search of the treasure of Timbuktu.”

Graeme explained that he didn’t understand the meaning of Mungo Park’s wording on the ancient document any more than Tillie did. Nor did he know the significance of the legend that had become so important to the Tuareg. But he did know one thing. For some reason the Tuareg believed the document was cursed—and so was the treasure.

“No one can handle it but the tree-planting woman,” he said. He refolded the paper and slipped it into the locket. Then he opened Tillie’s palm and placed the necklace in it.

She felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck. “Me. I’m the tree-planting woman in the legend.”

“At least the Tuareg think you are.”

“Great.”

“So, are you hungry? I’ve got a few bananas in my bag.”

“Hungry! Who can think about food? What about the curse and that Targui who’s after me? What does all that mean? And the message in the amulet? Mungo Park couldn’t possibly have known about me. He wrote this almost two hundred years ago.”

Graeme tapped the flashlight against the fallen log. “My guess is that our friend on the camel—he’s an
amenoukal
, by the way, the chieftain of a federation of Tuareg drum groups—brought the document to light because of you, the first tree-planting woman the Tuareg ever heard about.”

Tillie felt sick. In the past three weeks, she’d sent a flurry of letters to various agencies in the Sahel asking if any of the tribes living there would be willing to donate a large plot of arid land for her first tree-planting experiment outside the capital. The Tuareg were nomadic, but no doubt the officials had spoken to them about her project.

“The Tuareg probably think they can get to the treasure through you,” Graeme said. “I imagine the
amenoukal
’s looking for us—you—right now.”

“But I don’t know where it is!”

“He thinks you do. And now that you have the document, you’ll find him the treasure. At least, that’s how he sees it.”

Tillie looked out toward the Land Rover. A half-moon was rising over the banana grove. Tillie frowned. Graeme had told her it wouldn’t come up for hours. He had lied to her. Maybe he was lying about this, too. Maybe he wanted the treasure for himself. Or, more likely, maybe he was involved in some kind of illegal business and was trying to use this fantastic story about Mungo Park as a cover.

She studied the amulet in her hand. Brilliant in the silver moonlight, it fascinated her in spite of herself. What would Hannah be thinking? and Arthur? They needed her. Even her neem trees needed her. She couldn’t go off on some wild treasure hunt. It didn’t fit with her plans.

Your plans?
She heard the echo of Hannah’s voice. Maybe she did put too much faith in her own plans, but surely God had no purpose in sending her into the desert . . . with a black-haired stranger who couldn’t be trusted. . . .

Tillie stiffened. What had she been telling Hannah that very afternoon in the marketplace? She wanted desperately to go into the desert. She longed to be with the Africans and learn their languages. She ached to touch lives for Christ. But . . . but not like this! It wasn’t sensible.

My ways are not your ways. Neither are my paths your paths.
She had learned the verse at Hannah’s feet many years before. Now it echoed in her mind and heart. What if God intended to accomplish through her exactly what she’d always expected—but in a far different way than she’d ever imagined?
Remain in him . . . and you will bear much fruit.

She shook her head in confusion.
Much fruit?
How, when she was being chased by the Tuareg and forced to travel with a renegade like Graeme McLeod?

Trust in the Lord your God.

She drew a deep, steadying breath.

Trust me.

She nodded. “Okay,” she whispered.

“Huh?”

“I said okay.” She lifted her focus to Graeme’s eyes. “So now what happens?”

“Unless you’d prefer to travel to Timbuktu by dromedary, you can hitch a ride with me.”

“You realize I’m supposed to be in Bamako. If I don’t go back, everyone will be looking for me.”

“I thought you just said you’d go!” Frustration filled his deep voice. “Look, suit yourself. I’m going on to Timbuktu, and to tell you the truth, I’d rather go it alone.”

“Something wrong with my company?”

He shot her a glance, his eyes traveling over her, taking in her dress, her mutinous expression. “You’re a scientist, right? Trees and all that. Well, the desert is no laboratory, and the Tuareg won’t care about your college education or your test tubes. You can’t walk very well in a skirt and sandals. You won’t eat three squares a day or drink soda pop, you know?”

She knew. She also knew she felt more at home in the wilderness than she ever had in a laboratory.

“I can drive you back to Bamako,” he went on, “but the Tuareg will grab you in a second. Remind me to tell you about the Tuareg sometime. They have fascinating ways of dealing with those who disappoint them. Either way—it’s your choice.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a choice to me, McLeod.” She stood up and strolled to the Land Rover. Her hands brushed the tips of the elephant grass. She picked one and chewed its sweet end. She didn’t want to have to trust this guy, to put her life in his hands, but what else could she do?

Arthur would be frantic, of course. She thought of the man who wanted to make her his wife. With his blue eyes, light brown hair, and square shoulders, Arthur always drew attention. And his circumspect behavior and air of sophistication always commanded respect. He had told her he cared for her, and she believed him. He was a gentle, quiet person—nothing like this character who claimed to have “rescued” her. Tillie closed her eyes and tried to let the cool night breeze drifting across from the river calm her.

All right, Lord, I’ll go toward Timbuktu.
She would go with Graeme McLeod—at least until Arthur caught up with them, as she was sure he would. She would pray for safety, and she’d use whatever opportunity God brought her to do his work.

A rustle in the grass startled her, and she turned to find Graeme beckoning her to join him. He held a bunch of bananas aloft like a prize and shook it lightly, a silly grin softening his face. His expression reminded her of an excited, endearing boy. Shaking her head at the transformation in him, she walked back to the fallen log and curled her legs beneath her on the grass.

“Care for some dinner,
mademoiselle
?” He held out a banana to her in both hands, as if displaying a bottle of rare wine for her inspection. When she made a face and snatched it from him, he laughed aloud and began peeling his own fruit. Taking a bite, he chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I won’t risk a fire tonight,” he said. “Maybe I’ll be far enough by tomorrow to chance it.”

“So, how far is Timbuktu?”

Graeme let out a breath. “You’re coming with me, then?”

“As long as you keep your distance. I don’t fraternize with kidnappers.”

He mused for a moment. “Well, you might be useful in the long run.”

“Useful?”

“Crocodile bait.” He gave her a quick wink. “In the Land Rover we can make it to Timbuktu in a couple of days. It’s rough going, but I think she’ll hold up. By steamer it would take longer, and the river’s not always passable.”

Tillie dropped the banana peel into the grass. “Where am I supposed to sleep? Are you going to set up a tent or something?”

“There’s your tent.” Graeme jabbed a thumb toward the Land Rover. “Home.”

Tillie stiffened. “I’m not sleeping in there with you.”

“What’s the matter? Wouldn’t your boyfriend approve?”

“Arthur Robinson is my fiancé . . . sort of. And no, he would not approve.”

“Arthur Robinson. That gray suit you were with? Well, I’d sure obey him if I were you.”

Tillie bristled. He was baiting her. “I don’t obey Arthur. I obey my—my moral values. And my conscience.”

Angry with herself and with Graeme, she stood. Walking toward the Land Rover, she stared up at the moon. Why hadn’t she told him she was a Christian? That she obeyed
Jesus
? Why couldn’t she just say it?

Fuming, she climbed into the back of the vehicle, formed a pillow from a pile of clothes, and closed her eyes. She could hear Graeme moving around near the Land Rover. Lying stiffly on the hard metal, she thought of what he had said. Arthur was a fine man. He did deserve her respect, even her obedience.

“I’m not sleeping out in the grass,” Graeme said, climbing into the front seat. “Okay?”

“Scared?” she taunted him.

“You bet.”

Tillie wedged herself against the wheel well. She felt the front seat move as he tried to get comfortable in the cramped space. For some reason, the image of the last time Arthur had kissed her popped into her head. He was always so careful. He didn’t even like to hold her hand in public, and he never impetuously hugged her or gave her a peck on the cheek. Once, when she’d leaned her head on his shoulder, he had asked her to remove it. Those had been his exact words: “Please remove your head from my shoulder, Matilda darling.”

She stared at the olive green wheel well. Her mother had died when she was young, and her father had never remarried. Hannah was already widowed when she had come to look after the Thornton children, so Tillie had had few role models for the proper behavior between a man and a woman. Maybe it wasn’t right to show affection. But then, why did she long for it so much?

In a moment all was silent in the truck. She looked up at the stars winking down on the hidden Land Rover. Around it, a symphony of night noises swelled in intensity as the animals of Africa called to one another, challenging, seeking food and mates.

“Look . . . Tillie,” Graeme said in a low voice. She went rigid as he leaned over the seat and put a warm hand on her bare arm. “I’m sorry about what I said. I’m sure your boyfriend is a nice guy. I know he’ll be glad to have you back safe and sound when this is all over.”

“Thank you.”

“And your folks, too. I imagine they’ll hear about this through the embassy.”

Biting her lip, Tillie shrugged away from his touch. “My father lives in a remote area and probably won’t know about it until it’s over. My mother died when I was young.”

Graeme was silent for a moment. “Well, it looks like we have something in common after all.”

Tillie didn’t want to know anything about the man in the front seat. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for him. She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t even want to care about him—not in any deep way. Wasn’t it possible just to live out your witness and share the Lord with people without having a relationship with them?