Free A Touch of Betrayal by Catherine Palmer Page A

fashion seemed light-years away, she missed her sketch pad. Gazing up, she tried to memorize the shades of green and the interplay of the long thorns.
    Her concentration was jarred by the animated voices of Grant Thornton and a group of men walking into the camp clearing. She paused in her study of the tent and listened for a moment. Though she couldn’t understand their words, Alexandra found herself drawn to the sound of Grant’s low-pitched voice. When he used the African language, his words rolled comfortably in the same rhythmic, melodic tones she had heard among the Maasai as they carried her the long miles.
    Now that was poetry.
    The men laughed, their deep chuckles tumbling over each other. Grant said something, and they laughed again. How wonderful to speak another tongue with such ease, Alexandra thought. She had studied a little French in high school and college. But she doubted she could order a drink of water—even if she were standing in the middle of Paris.
    “Ayia taa,” Grant said, in what sounded like words of farewell to his friends. “Irragie naishi o kule.”
    “Toomono,” came the response.
    “Knock, knock. Anybody home?” Grant’s head appeared between the flaps of Alexandra’s tent. “Hey, you’re looking better today. Mama Hannah sent me over to—”
    “Ol-oibor siadi!” one of the African men called to him.
    “Just a sec.” Grant vanished for a moment. “ Nyoo , Kakombe?”
    “Inotie enainotie le-nkipika te minjani,” the man said. At this, the other Africans burst into hearty guffaws.
    Shaking his head, Grant stepped into the tent. “Ha-ha,” he said. “Big joke at my expense.”
    “What did they say?”
    “Kakombe—he’s a friend of mine—he says I have what the son of Engipika got in the deserted kraal .” Grant pitched a stack of folded clothing onto the end of the cot. “Here’s a pair of my trousers and a shirt. Mama Hannah wants to wash that dress of yours.”
    Alexandra pushed herself up onto one elbow. “Who’s the son of Engipika?”
    “It’s just a saying. Don’t worry about it.”
    “I want to know what it means.”
    “It refers to a Maasai legend.”
    “Tell me the story.”
    He shrugged. “One day a man named Ole Engipika was eating meat when he was attacked by his enemy. He escaped with the meat, but he left his weapons behind. He ran into a deserted kraal to hide, but he soon discovered that he wasn’t the only occupant. A lion leapt up and growled at him. Deciding he’d better leave, he turned around and saw a snake coiled around the gatepost—the only exit. Then he looked into the distance and saw his enemy coming fast.”
    “So what happened?”
    “Nobody knows how Ole Engipika escaped. That’s the point of the saying. Inotie enainotie le-nkipika te minjani basically means, ‘Buddy, you are in a fix.’”
    Alexandra looked into his eyes. “It’s me, isn’t it? The African men think I’m a problem for you.”
    “Yeah, but not in the way you probably imagine. You’ve got to understand that the Maasai are totally structured by clan and family. They can’t figure out why I like to live alone out here. They can’t believe I’m happy without a wife or two and a bunch of children. Your coming along when you did . . . well, they tend to view things from a sort of superstitious perspective.”
    “They think God sent me to you?”
    “Very perceptive.” He gave her that crooked grin. “Don’t worry about it, though. You and I both know the truth. So, if you’ll pull on those clothes, I’ll drive you up to Oloitokitok to use the phone. Then we’ll figure some way to get you back to Nairobi.”
    Alexandra slid her feet over the side of the cot. As her toes touched the tent floor, she winced and glanced at the flat-heeled shoes the Maasai warriors had carried all the way from their kraal . “I’m not sure I can get into those things. My feet are still swollen.”
    “Here.” Grant set a pair of sandals made of rubber tire soles