Out of the Shadows

Ben regarded her with compassion, this time working hard to hide his emotions. Finally, he caught her small hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Look, you’re exhausted. Why don’t you go to bed? If you want me to stay, I can drag one of the exam cots onto the porch and sleep there.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “But if you wake up before me in the morning, just don’t mistake me for a patient….”

She managed a little smile. “Thank you, Ben. That would be perfect.” They stood in silence for a few seconds. It took all of the self-control Ben had left to refrain from taking her in his arms again. Finally, he turned to leave. At the door he paused and looked back at her. Her face was red, her eyes were swollen and her hair was mussed. She had never looked more beautiful to him.

He smiled and whispered, “Good night.”

Dear Reader,

In 1998, I was part of a team of nursing educators asked to travel to Kenya for two weeks to provide continuing education programs for missionary nurses. Most of these nurses were American or Canadian, and many had worked in Africa for years.

The missionary nurses were amazing and inspirational. During our time together, I learned about the problems they encountered in their practices, as well as the less-than-ideal circumstances in which they often found themselves. I witnessed firsthand the grateful responses of the local people to their tireless work and loving care as they did whatever they could to manage the challenging situations, cultural differences and pervasive health problems.

Out of the Shadows grew from stories shared by the nurses, as well as my observations of the country and the people. Several of the characters are based on people I met while there. For example, the leader and unofficial head of the group of nurses was a longtime missionary from Alabama; she became the inspiration for “Mama Joe.” The Merdians—the Bible translators who play a significant role in the book—were based on a family who lived and worked in Kenya for more than twenty years. I hope I did them justice, as they deserve respect and admiration.

Enjoy the book!

Melanie Mitchell

Out of the Shadows

Melanie Mitchell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MELANIE MITCHELL

is a native of Texas. With her husband, Scott, Melanie has lived in Belgium, South Korea and a number of cities in the United States. She has traveled throughout the U.S., Canada, Europe, Asia, Africa and the Middle East. Melanie draws on her travels and work abroad to bring a variety of settings, experiences and an understanding of different cultures into her work.

Melanie has been a registered nurse for many years and currently teaches nursing in the Houston area. While she has written extensively—nursing textbooks and articles—she recently turned to her love of romantic suspense with Out of the Shadows, her debut novel.

To Scott, my support and inspiration (also a darned good pilot).

Eldorado

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old,

This knight so bold,

And o’er his heart a shadow

Fell as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow;

“Shadow,” said he,

“Where can it be,

This land of Eldorado?”

“Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,”

The shade replied,

“If you seek for Eldorado!”

—Edgar Allan Poe

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Dallas, Texas

BRIAN CARPENTER GAZED at his wife’s reflection in the mirror as he fumbled with the knot on his tie. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking frustrated, restless and lovely.

“What would you like me to bring home for supper?”

“I don’t know. I’m tired of takeout, and I’m starting to resemble a whale.” Leslie frowned and shifted restlessly. “If I don’t get out of this bed soon, I’ll go crazy.”

Brian decided the tie was neat enough and fastened the buttons on his collar. “Well, the bed rest won’t last more than a week or two. Isn’t that what your OB said?”

She wrinkled her nose and sighed. “That doesn’t help me feel any better.”

He sat beside her and gently brushed his fingers across her cheek. Despite her pregnancy, or perhaps because of it, she was beautiful. Her complexion was a little lighter than normal, enhancing her remarkable deep blue eyes. Her glossy brown hair seemed even curlier, and her skin practically glowed. He sympathized with her frustration, though, knowing that being confined the past ten days had been hard for her—she was active by nature and loathed relinquishing the care of their two-year-old daughter to anyone else.

“Any more bleeding?”

“Not this morning.” She brought her hand to her belly as if she could feel the baby growing. “Maybe everything is all right now. Maybe I can...”

“Not so fast.” Brian placed his hand over hers. “The doctor said you could slowly resume normal activities—not start running a marathon—after the bleeding has stopped for at least twenty-four hours.”

She slumped back on the pillows and frowned again. “I know.”

“Honey,” he said, forcibly upbeat, “you’re only ten weeks along. Give the baby a chance to get stronger. Then there will be less chance of a miscarriage.”

“Thank you, Dr. Carpenter.” Although her tone was mildly sarcastic, she smiled at him. “You’re right, of course. It’s worth it.” Leslie adjusted the lightweight quilt to cover her legs. “I just hate being useless.”

Sensing that the worst of the current minicrisis had passed, Brian changed the subject. “You’re sure your mom can pick Emma up from day care?”

“Yes, positive. The only reason you have to take her this morning is because Mom has a dental appointment.”

“Good. I won’t worry about leaving early to come home.” He squeezed her hand. “Can I get you something to eat?”

Leslie shook her head. “No. Thanks.” Her smile turned to a grimace. “Right now the thought of food makes me gag.”

Brian stood. “Okay, I can’t make you.” He snagged his car keys from the dresser and shoved them in his pocket. Glancing at her from the foot of the bed, he said, “Now, about supper...”

“I’ll talk to Mom. She may have planned to fix something.” Leslie flashed a wry smile. “She’ll disown us if we give Emma any more junk food. I’ll call you this afternoon and let you know. Okay?”

Brian nodded and walked back to her. He leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the lips. “We’d better be off. My first patient is scheduled for eight-thirty, and I need to run by the hospital to make rounds before that. Emma,” he called at the door. “Come kiss Mommy goodbye.”

In seconds, the towheaded little girl came bouncing into the room, dressed in denim overalls and a red T-shirt. Although Leslie had combed her hair earlier that morning, it was already falling into disarray. She repositioned Emma’s barrette before kissing her head.

“Be good at school, and remember that Nina will pick you up about lunchtime.” The toddler nodded and giggled.

“All right, baby,” Brian interrupted. “Let’s go. Hop in your car seat, and I’ll buckle you in.” Leslie gave Emma another peck on the cheek, and the toddler ran out of the room, heading for the kitchen door leading to the garage. Brian leaned over and kissed his wife again. “Do you need anything before I leave?”

Leslie pointed to her laptop and the pile of books beside the bed. “No, thanks. I’ve got plenty to do. I need to grade some papers and read a little. I’ll be able to stay sane for a while.”

He grinned. “I love you. Call me later.”

“I love you, too.” She blew him a kiss.

* * *

BY TEN O’CLOCK Leslie was bored. Since she was allowed to go to the bathroom and take occasional trips to the kitchen, she fetched a glass of lemonade and was headed back upstairs when the doorbell rang.

She frowned. It was rare for anyone to come to the house during the day. In keeping with the directives of her obstetrician, she slowly walked to the front door. Peering through the peephole, she saw two uniformed police officers accompanied by a man in a dark suit.

Police? Her thoughts raced, and her heart rate rose. Her hand was trembling slightly when she opened the door.

The expressions on the faces of the three men accentuated her fear. One of the uniformed officers spoke. “Ma’am, I’m Sergeant Hunton, from the Dallas Police Department. Are you Mrs. Carpenter?” His voice was slightly tremulous.

Leslie felt the blood leave her face. She gave a tiny nod.

The man in the suit said, “Mrs. Carpenter, I’m Jerry Zeiger, one of the chaplains for the DPD. Can we come in?”

Leslie’s legs were wobbling so badly she barely managed to step aside to let the men in. The chaplain took her arm and led her into the living room. “Please sit down, ma’am.”

She glanced toward the two uniformed officers, who remained standing just inside the door. Neither looked at her. Her hand was visibly shaking now as she reached out to move a cushion before sitting on the edge of the sofa.

* * *

THE CHAPLAIN SAT beside her and took her hand in his; hers was icy. He had to force himself to look at her directly. “I’m so sorry,” he said in the quiet, calm tone common among clergymen. “We have some bad news.... There was an accident. A delivery truck ran a red light and collided...” He paused and watched the young woman with growing concern. At that moment, he actively hated his job. He sighed, then said, “Ma’am, your husband’s car was hit and he was killed instantly.”

Leslie shook her head from side to side. She swallowed twice before she managed to whisper, “Emma?”

The chaplain held on to her hand, trying to give even a small amount of support. He no longer looked at her directly; instead, he stared at their hands. “Mrs. Carpenter, I am so sorry, but the little girl was killed, too.”

Even though he was expecting it, Zeiger was still affected by the wrenching sound of her sob. Pulling away from him, the young woman doubled over and buried her head in her hands. He wanted to comfort her, but he knew she would find little solace for a long, long time. And he understood too well that she’d never forget this moment. She would never totally recover.

* * *

THAT NIGHT, SHE lost the baby.

CHAPTER ONE

THE FIRST THING Leslie Carpenter noticed as she stepped off the British Airways jet in Nairobi was the smell. It was earthy, rich with the scents of soil, manure, tropical flowers and sweat. After being confined in the stuffy, crowded 747 for more than ten hours, she welcomed it.

Leslie shouldered her large canvas tote and joined the slow line of passengers. She was struck by the odd mix of people carrying loose clothing, bags, sacks, briefcases and children as they made their way down the corridor into the terminal. Most were African, with a significant number of white and Asian faces in the crowd. These, she surmised, were tourists or expatriates, although a smattering appeared to be businesspeople.

As she headed toward the immigration officials working at glass-enclosed desks, Leslie noticed soldiers scattered throughout the processing area. They were dressed in camouflage fatigues and carried wicked-looking machine guns. She could see at least three from her location in the passport control line, and their presence reminded her of the acts of terror that were relatively common in Eastern Africa. She took a deep breath and told herself the situation had calmed in recent months.

After getting her passport stamped, she followed the crowd to the baggage-claim area. The conveyer belt was already laden with suitcases, boxes, foam containers wrapped with duct tape, duffels and even heavy black garbage bags. Various emotions tugged at her as she watched the carousel, feelings she hadn’t experienced in many months. She recognized excitement and anticipation along with nervousness and more than a twinge of fear. Feeling very alone, she wondered for the twentieth time—What am I doing?

The incongruity of standing in the capital of a developing country hit her, and not for the first time. For the past year and a half she had depended on her family and friends in Dallas. Their love and patience, along with her compassionate colleagues at the nursing school, had helped her through the tragedy that had shattered her life. The very idea that she could leave them and fly halfway across the world struck her as preposterous—even now that she had done it.

It had taken months to recover from the emotional assault that followed the accident. Living with her parents had helped.

More than a year had passed when a colleague mentioned the need for a volunteer nurse-practitioner to run a rural clinic in Africa for six months, allowing a long-term missionary to return home for a much needed sabbatical.

Leslie had contacted the East Africa Mission office in Atlanta, and less than five weeks later, she tearfully kissed her parents, sisters and closest friends goodbye at Dallas’s DFW airport, promising to email as often as possible.

Now, following two ten-hour flights, she was in Nairobi.

She located her bags and stood in the slow line for Customs. After presenting the required forms, she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and moved toward the exit.

Anna MacDonald, also known as Mama Joe—the nurse who would be heading home for sabbatical—was supposed to meet her at the airport and accompany her back to the village clinic. Leslie had seen pictures of the veteran nurse and, scanning the faces, she quickly spied the petite woman in the crowd. She was easy to spot, with her white face, silver-gray bun and black-framed glasses, standing beside a smallish, middle-aged white man. Leslie waved to the pair and was relieved when they waved back. Mama Joe and her companion hurried forward and, without hesitation, she scooped Leslie into a warm hug.

“Hello, dear! You must be Leslie. I’m Mama Joe. We are so happy that you’ve come!” Her voice was a little deep and a bit raspy, with the hint of a Southern accent. “You’re a wonderful answer to my prayer.” She pulled back and smiled, taking Leslie’s hand. Behind the heavy glasses, her eyes were a soft brown.

“I’m very happy to meet you, too, Mama Joe.” Leslie hoped the warmth in her voice matched that of the older woman. “I can’t believe I’m actually here, and I can’t wait to get started at the clinic.”

Mama Joe’s smile widened, and lines creased her tanned face. “We’ll be heading out for Namanga—our village—later this afternoon. I’ll be able to show you everything before I leave in a couple of weeks.” She indicated the man beside her. “Leslie, this is Dennis Williams. Dennis is the regional director of the East Africa Mission.”

Leslie shook his hand. “Yes, Mr. Williams, we spoke on the telephone a few weeks ago. It’s good to meet you.”

“Call me Dennis, please. Thank you again for helping out at the last minute like this. We feel very lucky to have you take over the clinic for the next six months.” He took her suitcases and headed toward the exit. “If you aren’t too tired, we could show you a little of the city, have lunch with my wife—then our driver can bring you back to catch your flight to Namanga.”

“The village is a couple of hours south of here by plane,” Mama Joe explained. “It takes six hours to drive because the roads are riddled with potholes, so we fly when we can.” She took a quick breath and continued, “I came up this morning with Ben Murphy. He’s one of the pilots who help us from time to time. We’re supposed to meet him here at three.”

Leslie glanced at her watch. It was a little after ten. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she left Dallas for London. After a three-hour layover at Heathrow, she’d been able to doze with her head propped against the small window of her red-eye flight. Yet, despite the grueling trip and minimal sleep, she was wide-awake. “That sounds terrific!” She smiled. “I’d love to see Nairobi.”

Leslie accompanied Mama Joe and Dennis toward the busy terminal’s exit. She’d passed her first hurdle and she felt welcomed by her new colleagues. Maybe, she thought, I’ve made the right decision after all....

* * *

THE TRIP FROM the airport was like nothing Leslie had ever experienced. In the parking area, she was introduced to a young Kenyan named Marcus who chauffeured the mission’s van. “I rarely drive,” Dennis explained. “I’ve lived in Nairobi for more than five years, but I still can’t get used to driving on the left.”

Mama Joe acted as tour guide, pointing out the various sights. As they neared the city, the trees and lush grassland quickly gave way to signs of human habitation. People walked and jogged on a roadside path, their numbers growing as the van progressed. Mama Joe explained, “Most people don’t have cars. They grow up running everywhere. That’s why so many of the great runners are from Kenya.”

Leslie watched in amazement as the van passed men in dress pants and sometimes even suits jogging toward town, often carrying briefcases or backpacks. The women wore dresses or skirts and blouses of batik cottons in a rainbow of colors. A lot of them carried bundles, often on their heads, and babies in cloth slings on their backs. Many pedestrians lugged wooden carts filled with bananas, mangoes and other fruits, building materials, chickens, bolts of cloth, and what appeared to be car parts. She stared when she saw two men leading a Cape buffalo.

Leslie tried to absorb the sights of the engulfing commotion when they reached the city. The streets were crowded with trucks, cars and buses, many of which appeared decrepit, with rusting fenders and duct-taped bumpers. With surprising frequency, their relatively new and well-maintained van was passed by large passenger vans overflowing with people. Following her stare, Mama Joe laughed. “Those are matutus, Kenya’s primary means of public transportation. The vans are supposed to hold about fifteen people, but as you can see, they typically carry at least twice that number.”

Leslie shook her head slightly in sympathy as she continued to look through the window. Drivers here were aggressive—really aggressive. She watched in astonishment as a rust-covered car swerved around them and nearly cut them off, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a car in the right-hand lane. Leslie clutched the seat and glanced at Mama Joe and Dennis. They didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the darting traffic, sudden stops and starts and blaring horns. With slightly nervous resignation, she determined to avoid watching the traffic ahead and concentrated on the sights from her window.

The city’s skyline loomed. Modern skyscrapers were interspersed with two-and three-story buildings that appeared to date back to British colonial rule. Occasionally ramshackle structures were adjacent to office buildings, and a variety of crowded shops and stores could be seen only a few feet off the busy street.

“I’m surprised there are so many tall buildings,” Leslie said as they approached the city center. “Nairobi reminds me a little of Chicago or even New York.”

Dennis nodded. “Nairobi is very cosmopolitan. Of course, the majority of people are African. But because of British colonization, there’s a large contingent of Europeans here. And there are a lot of immigrants from South Asia, particularly India and Pakistan.”

“This is very different from where we live,” Mama Joe added. “In our area, there aren’t many who aren’t African. Mostly farmers. We also take care of quite a few Masai—the nomads who tend cattle.”

Leslie wondered anew about the conditions she’d be exposed to in the rural area. She had vaguely pictured mud huts with thatched roofs and cooking over open fires.

They drove out of the primary business district and entered a residential neighborhood. As they progressed down a tree-lined street, the houses grew rapidly in size until they became mansions on huge lots surrounded by high walls. “We are very fortunate,” Dennis said. “The building that houses the East Africa Mission was donated about fifty years ago by a wealthy family who returned to England.”

Marcus turned the van through a gate and parked in front of a large Victorian. Inside the old brick walls, Leslie saw a lush lawn, edged by deep beds with layers of flowers. As they walked to the front door, Leslie recognized the sweet smell of honeysuckle and lilac. Dennis held the door open for the two women. “The main offices of EAM are on the first floor,” he explained. “My family and I live on the second.”

Two African women were seated at desks in the first room of the mansion. The young women smiled shyly at Leslie as they were introduced, revealing beautiful white teeth which contrasted strikingly with their very dark faces. Mama Joe stopped to chat as Dennis led Leslie through the lower floor.

A slightly plump woman with gray-tinged brown hair met them at the top of the stairs. Before Dennis could make the introductions, she took Leslie’s hand. “Hello, I’m Connie. I’m so glad you had time to come by.” She pulled Leslie into the living room. “Please sit down. I know you’re exhausted—that trip is a killer!” Leslie sat back in a cushioned chair with the lemonade Connie had handed her and surveyed the room with its enviable collection of Victorian antiques. It gave her the impression that she was in a parlor in southern England rather than in a missionary’s home in central Kenya.

The disconnect was vaguely perplexing.

At Connie’s suggestion, Leslie spent a few minutes in the modern bathroom freshening up before lunch. She changed into the spare blouse from her carry-on bag. It was slightly wrinkled but clean. The high humidity had caused her wavy, dark brown hair to curl, so she brushed it into a heavy ponytail and confined it with a large barrette. There were faint dark rings under her large blue eyes. She sighed. Only a good night’s sleep would remedy that.

Lunch was anything but exotic: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and salad. The only nod to their being in equatorial Africa was the selection of fruits for dessert—mangoes, pineapples and papayas.

Between bites of flavorful mango, Leslie asked, “So, why are you called Mama Joe?”

“I haven’t thought about that in quite a while.” Easy humor shone in the crinkled corners of the other woman’s brown eyes. “Well, when we first came to Namanga, our kids were very small. As a sign of respect, I was not called by my given name, but by the designation ‘Mama.’ ‘Joe’ is my oldest son, so I was ‘Mama’ of ‘Joe,’ which became ‘Mama Joe.’ I’ve been known by that name for about forty years.” She chuckled. “I doubt many people even know my name is Anna!”