Running Sideways

By Kim Havens

Meredith Thorne has spent years trying to atone for her mistakes. Born into wealth and privilege, she shuns her upbringing to embrace the African wilderness in hopes of outrunning the demons of her past; a past that involves her last summer in Flat Rock, Texas with Tate Matthews.

Tate Matthews is a hardworking rancher satisfied with the life hes carved out of the West Texas prairie. He has no plans to change his bachelor status, having loved deeply and lost a long time ago. Tate is content with his role as protector of his seriously ill twin sisterthat is, until Meredith returns to Flat Rock and turns Tates world upside down.

In the aftermath of our deepest failures, in the midst of our darkest fears, God shines a light on the true condition of our soul. Those courageous enough to face their shortcomings find God is not constrained by our expectations, hurts, or past. They stop Running Sideways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781449733285

Kim Havens

As a wife of twenty-four years and the mother of three teenage boys and a newly married daughter, Kim Havens’s life is about holding on for the ride. Sports in general and tennis in particular are her hobbies, but writing is her passion. She is humbled that God has allowed her to be a part of His epic story. Running Sideways is her first novel.

Book preview

1

Bomet, Kenya

She had been warned she would have days like this.

Dr. Meredith Thorne glanced toward the intern whose fingers probed her patient’s neck for a pulse. Dr. Kiplanget’s obsidian eyes told her enough. He shook his head and Meredith swallowed a knot of frustration. She lifted the boy’s tiny ebony wrist to confirm the intern’s assessment, listening carefully for labored breath sounds that would indicate he still clung to life. There was nothing.

Time of death: 5:42 PM. She pulled the latex gloves from her hands and tossed them in the trash as she quietly left the treatment ward. Brushing past the nurse, Meredith ignored the clipboard that held her next case. She didn’t want to see another patient. The boy’s death made the fourth she’d lost that day.

In her years as a medical missionary in Kenya, she’d never experienced a more costly nine hours.

Bursting through the clinic door onto the porch, Meredith gulped at the fresh air as if it were water. With temperatures in the upper sixties and only moderate humidity, the coolness of the evening filled her lungs, but did little to ease the ache of watching a child die. Chilly without her jacket dressed only in blue scrubs, she crossed her arms trying to will some warmth back into her soul.

Burning tears pressed the back of her throat as she looked down at her hands trembling with doubt. She needed some space. Instinctively, she wandered off the porch and away from Casualty; the African equivalent of an Emergency Room, as if a few hundred meters of distance could somehow erase the day from her mind.

The low setting Kenyan sun cast an orange glow across the Tenwek compound, washing the weathered buildings in a golden hue. The path leading from the clinic through the courtyard to the living quarters, dipped and then rose slightly. Lined with low growing Juniper the verdant green mingled with the milky white African Irises. A soft breeze carried familiar scents; smoldering cooking fires combined with succulent tropical foliage. Marred by a hint of rotting vegetation, all were poignant reminders of beauty and simplicity ever haunted by the stench of death.

Near the courtyard, she leaned against an ancient Acacia tree. In the distance, the strains from the evening worship service echoed from the chapel. Fourteen year-old twins, Carson and Collin Yates tossed a baseball back and forth as they did most nights. A yapping mongrel that she’d seen hanging around lately danced between in hopes that one of them would drop the ball. Several of the younger missionary kids chased each other, their squeals of laughter colliding hard against Meredith’s raw emotions.

Life continued without pause.

She noticed the varied shades of purple and orange splashed across the western horizon and wondered if God dwelt there. Perhaps He was too busy painting the canvas of sky to notice a small boy struggling to breathe.

Not that she felt overly connected with God of late.

Wrapped in a weariness that went beyond a long workday, anger first, and then nausea rolled through her and she lost the little there was in her stomach.

Heard you had a rough day. The quiet concern in the voice behind her made Meredith turn. Her boss had come looking for her.

Surprised by his presence, Meredith turned, wiping the spittle from her lips. Stephen’s blood stained scrubs told her he’d left his own patients to check on her. I just needed some air.

In his late thirties, Stephen Sinclair was the epitome of a medical missionary; tireless, compassionate, and dedicated to spreading the Gospel. A few inches taller than her own 5’10" frame, he seemed bigger than life at times, to Meredith. A native of Scotland, his lilting accent soothed even the most chaotic situations, and calm the most agitated patient. He loved deeply and was loved in return, by the people of Kenya. As Director of Tenwek, he held the distinction of being Meredith’s boss, but also one of her dearest friends.

Stephen knew there was more but didn’t push, and Meredith appreciated his patience.

After a moment of comfortable silence, she nodded toward the kids in the distance. Did you know that Carson and Collin are Red Sox fans? Collin can tell you the batting average of every starter in their lineup and Carson has big dreams of pitching for them one day.

Stephen shrugged. No, I guess I didn’t know that.

I remember that age, feeling like I could do anything.

I wanted to be Kenny Dalgleish.

Who?

You know-Jock Stein? The Celtic? Football? He grinned at Meredith’s confusion. I was certain I would be a world class soccer player.

Do Kenyan children dream of something beyond all this? She waved her hand toward the tiny ragged huts just outside the compound walls; contemptible living conditions, but so very common.

Stephen’s grimace told Meredith he understood. It was the little boy, then?

Kewei. His name was Kewei and he was four. Cryptococcal Meningitis, exacerbated by advanced HIV. If we had caught it earlier… her voice trailed off.

Stephen sighed, having experienced the same scenario repeatedly. You know as well as I there isn’t much you can do when their immune systems are already compromised. Remember, ‘we treat, Jesus heals’, he quoted the sign that greeted visitors upon their arrival at Tenwek.

Meredith’s gaze settled on two girls exchanging secrets and giggles at a nearby picnic table. She pushed a few strands of hair from her face. What am I doing here, Stephen? she whispered, the day’s failure weighting her question.

You’ve had a rough time of it; everyone does eventually.

His assessment was intended to encourage her, but tonight it rang hollow. I thought it would be different.

We do our best, but in the end, we don’t get much say in who ultimately lives or dies.

I had planned to make a difference when I came here. Meredith closed her eyes and remembered the confidence that had slowly given way to cynicism over the last six years. After residency, Kenya offered her an opportunity to control her own future. More than that, the missionary service represented a sort of absolution; a way to silence some of her demons.

I think everyone has that desire. No one would do this job, otherwise. Stephen’s heavy Scottish brogue rolled over the r’s like a Highland brook over smooth pebbles.

Meredith ached for his words to find their way to her heart, but the look on Kewei’s face just before he took his last tortured breath wouldn’t leave her. The ‘why me?’ was an all too familiar expression.

You are a brilliant doctor, Meredith. No one who has seen you work would question your determination or desire. But you aren’t God.

Meredith felt the anger rising; she’d grown tired of the easy cliché answers. Every question, every case here was complicated and hard. Of course she believed God was sovereign. But her belief didn’t make days like this easier to swallow. Forgive me if I wanted my work to be more than hoping for a miracle, she blurted, before her mind had even had a chance to filter her observations.

You’re feeling this because of a Casualty rotation, Stephen countered.

I’m feeling this way because children should at least live long enough to learn how to tie their shoes! she argued as the reality nearly took her breath away.

I know this isn’t what you are used to, but we all have to try to make the best of it until we get some new personnel, he pointed out. Being short-staffed in Casualty happened occasionally and Meredith knew this rotation wasn’t Stephen’s idea.

Meredith spun around, unable to keep the tears from tracing down her cheeks. But it never changes, does it? she raged, wrapping her arms around her waist in protection. She knew she wasn’t making sense, but she’d stopped caring. Life wasn’t making sense anymore. Whether I’m in Casualty, or the Obstetrics ward, we still can’t solve the fundamental problem of poverty and ignorance!

Stephen was puzzled. These aren’t new issues, Meredith.

She despised the tears but she couldn’t stop them once they began. What we do here is just crazy! I’m crazy for believing I could somehow change a part of the world God has obviously forgotten! It was unfair of her to unload her frustration on her boss, but Meredith needed someone to hear her, and if anyone understood, it was Stephen.

In the twelve years he’d spent as a medical missionary in Bomet, he’d seen his share of crippling diseases and broken bodies. Countless patients arrived too sick to be helped. Born with the AIDS virus in their system, their bodies had already lost the ability to fight infection. It took so little to complicate the illnesses. Tenwek Hospital saw almost 100,000 patients each year, performing over 5,000 surgeries, and yet their efforts barely registered as they served a population of 8.5 million.

Why now, Mer? Stephen asked softly, as if he knew his gentle words could talk her away from the edge of a precipice. You’ve had tough days before.

Meredith brushed the wetness from her cheeks and took a few moments to force her emotions back under control. I’m tired and grouchy, and my head is killing me, she offered.

But this meltdown…that isn’t like you at all.

In truth, Meredith had to agree. She was a rock; she prided herself in never letting the stress of difficult days bother her. Yet tonight she felt lost.

I’m sorry, Stephen.

He moved forward and thumbed a few tears from her face studying her intently. I don’t mind, but I’m worried about you. You need is a vacation; and not just a weekend at the beach in Malindi.

I missed my run this morning, she explained, wishing she believed her excuse.

You’ve missed workouts before.

I’m fine.

No, this is different. He paused and crossed his arms, pinning her with a perceptive glance. You’ve watched countless Missionaries burn out. It’s why there’s typically a three year limit of service. Once these new residents get here, I’m tempted to order you home.

This is my home. I may have my doubts occasionally, but I’ll push through. I always do.

You need a break.

I’m fine.

Skepticism furrowed his brow. You look terrible, you know. Your skin is clammy, and you have dark circles under your eyes.

Rotten day, remember? she pointed out.

Rotten day or not, doctors typically don’t lose their dinners.

Meredith had already convinced herself the nagging upset stomach and low grade fever were, at best, a result of spending the last several hours on her feet, at worst, a relapse of Malaria; both of which were treatable. I have a day off tomorrow. I’m sure I can sleep off whatever bug I’ve picked up.

Or we can put you on a flight back to the States, and let you rest there, he suggested.

You know why I can’t go home.

Stephen cocked his head to one side. It’s been more than six years, Meredith. Your father can’t possibly still think you will bend under his iron will.

Look up determination in the dictionary and you will find the name Douglas Thorne.

He can’t be that bad.

He’s also listed under ‘ruthless’, ‘coldblooded’, and ‘heartless’.

Doubt tripped across Stephen’s features. Perhaps your reluctance to leave has as much to do with your father as the romantic interest of a Dr. Joel Bryant?

The guy from Seattle?

No, Dr. Bryant’s from Chicago, Stephen slowly clarified, as if he were instructing a child.

Meredith shrugged and offered her boss a blank stare while her mind tried to match a name to a face.

You honestly have no idea who the man is, do you? His amazement was evident. He’s been stalking you for weeks. Along with just about every unattached male that comes through the program.

Exasperated, Meredith turned on her heel and began walking back to the clinic, leaving Stephen in her wake. I’m not here to find a soul mate, Stephen. I just want to serve God.

You are an enigma, Meredith Thorne. Beautiful, smart; I don’t know of a single available intern that isn’t half in love with you by the time he leaves Tenwek. Perhaps if you let your heart get involved with someone, you wouldn’t have to carry days like this all by yourself.

Are you trying to irritate me? She reached for the clinic door.

Stephen stopped her, holding the door shut while she unsuccessfully pulled against it. You could do worse, you know. The physicians that come through here are all well educated, humanitarian types.

Not interested, no matter what their resume.

Eventually someone will break through all those walls, Stephen predicted confidently

I’m very happy with my walls, thank you very much.

A guy has to wonder if there is more keeping you here than just an overbearing father back home.

Meredith flinched but there was no way she was going to give Stephen the satisfaction of being right. You have a very vivid imagination, my friend.

I don’t think so.

You really are getting on my nerves, now.

Stephen chuckled and released the door. That’s more like the Meredith I know.

Meredith snorted in disgust, and headed inside. If nothing else, Stephen had given her incentive to finish her shift.

Because there was no way she was leaving Kenya. Even if it killed her to stay.

Three hours later, Meredith wearily read the clipboard describing the last of her cases. The words were blurring but Akeyo, the duty nurse, had already given her a verbal rundown. Mr. Bendwari had a broken leg. At last, something not life-threatening. Setting a bone she could do in her sleep.

The four aspirin she’d taken hadn’t touched the headache she’d been fighting. The nausea was now coming in waves. Whatever stomach bug she’d picked up was really doing a number on her system.

But there was no way she was going to quit now and give Stephen a reason to force her into a furlough.

Akeyo returned with supplies. Meredith pushed away from the wall where she’d been leaning. The edges of the brightly lit room faded in a wash of dizziness. Meredith felt the confusion as her surroundings danced and wavered. The walls closed in and in the next instant, darkness took over.

2

Flat Rock, Texas

Had Tate’s twelve gauge had been within reach, he would have killed his tractor with one shot. Then he would have turned the gun on the dusty black radio sitting on the edge of the work bench and killed it, too. The twang of the country tune echoing through the building combined with the frustration of trying to hold together thirty-year old piece of machinery made Tate want to shoot something. How ironic that Kenny Chesney would suggest at that particular moment that anyone would find a tractor sexy.

Tate’s tractor was cursed.

He smothered a yell as his wrench slipped and he scraped his knuckles on the rough cement floor. Sliding out from beneath the giant machine, Tate crawled to his feet and wiped at his grease smudged hands. Years of farm work had left them hopelessly stained and callused, but he rubbed at them anyway out of habit. He glanced at his nemesis, trying to come up with some way to make it work for just one more season. As it was, the thing was being held together with more bailing wire and duct tape than he would have liked to admit.

Lord, if you can heal tractors…. Tate didn’t finish the sentence. His cell phone rang; Carry on my Wayward Son, There’ll be peace when you are done…. The ringtone still made him grin.

Hey, Mom. Across the field, he could make out the lights of his childhood home a half mile away.

Did I catch you in the middle of something?

Nah, I needed a break, anyway. Tate yanked the radio cord out of the wall, ushering in some much needed silence before he walked through the large sliding metal door of the garage and stepped out into the October evening. The air was finally cooling, hinting that fall might eventually get to Texas. He mentally counted the weeks before hunting season opened.

His mother interrupted his thoughts. How about coming over for supper? I made a roast this afternoon. Tate could almost picture Mary Matthews looking out the kitchen window; her face flushed from the heat of the stove, her apron carrying visible hints of dinner across its front.

His stomach growled at the suggestion, knowing there would also be warm yeast rolls and buttery mashed potatoes. Thanks, but I’ll have to pass. I’m determined to get the tractor running tonight.

Still giving you fits? she asked.

Tate sighed. Same as always. She runs just fine until I absolutely need her.

Well, you still have to eat.

I have some leftovers, Tate assured her.

Mary huffed her disappointment. Have you talked to Casey, tonight? she asked referring to Tate’s sister.

No, but she called while I was out feeding. I haven’t had time to call her back.

Ahh, well then I won’t spoil her surprise.

Surprise?

Tate didn’t get an explanation. Instead he heard Mary’s muffled warning to Tate’s father to be sure to wipe his feet and not let the screen door slam as he came inside.

Is Dad just getting in? Tate asked, already knowing the answer.

What? Mary’s voice returned to normal. Oh, yeah. Sorry. Your father says to say hello.

Tate chuckled. Tell him hi for me.

Hey, any chance you’re heading into town tomorrow?

Probably. You need me to pick something up?

Tate could hear the clinking of pans and then water running in the sink. I put up two dozen jars of peaches today. Just thought you might be able to drop some off over at Casey and Nathan’s

I’ll stop by if I end up making a trip. A cloud of dust swirled in the distance. I’ve got company coming up the driveway, Mom. Can I call you later?

Mary agreed, and Tate disconnected the line, grabbing his worn ball cap from his back pocket and pulling it on his head.

Hey Huck. Tate sat on his heels and ran his fingers through the fur on his Chocolate Lab’s neck while he waited for his company’s arrival. He frowned at his dog. You’re wet. You been in the pond again?

Huck’s response was to nose a slimy, well-used ball toward Tate.

Tate obliged and tossed the ball across the yard. He knew the dog would never tire of the game, but he could spare him a few minutes of play. He chucked the ball again, just as his brother-in-law, Nathan, killed the engine on his truck, and jumped out.

How’s Betsy? Nathan nodded toward the garage holding the dilapidated tractor.

Annoyed, Tate followed him through the doorway. Liable to be scrap metal by the end of the week. Want a Coke?

Nathan Monroe shook his head. Tall and muscular, he towered a good three inches over Tate and looked every bit the college athlete he had been. Now, as the Flat Rock Bulldog’s head football coach, Nathan’s unorthodox methods had the Bulldog’s over .500 for the first time in ten years.

Aw, Come on, T. You gotta treat her like a woman. He motioned to the offending beast. Be gentle with her.

Like you know anything about tractors.

Why don’t you just pony up and buy another one? Bet your dad would go in with you.

Tate shook his head. Neither he nor his father had that kind of money laying around. He changed the subject with a nod toward his friend. What happened to your hair?

Nathan patted his bald pate. Lost a bet.

Linemen?

Corners. I told them if they had three picks in the game on Friday, I would shave my head.

They had four Tate laughed.

Bunch of slow, short, overachievers. Nathan’s words were layered with affection.

What did Casey say?

She baked them all cookies.

Sounds like her. Tate imagined his twin sister’s enthusiasm. She was the perfect coach’s wife having always loved sports even if she had never had the opportunity to play. You think you have a shot at the playoffs?

Nathan picked up the wrench and tossed it from one hand to the other. With this group of boys, you never know.

The two friends talked football for a good ten minutes. Tate slid back under the tractor and Nathan handed him tools as he called for them. Tate could tell his friend had something more on his mind than offensive stats and defensive changes in the secondary.

Eventually the football talk stalled. Tate waited, knowing Nathan would get to the point of his visit when he was ready.

Casey’s pregnant. Just like that, Nathan dropped the bomb.

Tate slid from beneath the tractor and starred wordlessly at his friend. It had to be a mistake. Casey had Cystic Fibrosis; she couldn’t get pregnant.

Nathan expelled a hard breath, obviously shaken. Tonight he seemed less like the former college fullback and more like a kid afraid of the bully. Tate crawled to his feet and picked up the oily rag again. He paced, not knowing how exactly to take the news.

Do Mom and Dad know?

Casey told them this afternoon, and of course, they’re thrilled and concerned. She wanted to tell you, too but she started feeling sick this evening. She was afraid if I didn’t come over, you would hear it from somebody else.

Joy, wonder and fear mingled then settled into a knot in Tate’s stomach. Casey never thought she could have kids.

It’s not unheard of, but I admit, had we known it was even a possibility, we would probably have done something to prevent it. You know as well as I do how much time she’s spent at the hospital in the last two months.

Casey had always been small and sickly as a child. Tate had never given it much thought until she was diagnosed at age six. Being her twin, he was tested as well, but no one was really surprised when the tests came back negative. Tall and athletic, he was the polar opposite of Casey in nearly every way. He was almost never sick, while she was constantly fighting some illness or another. Still, when she was diagnosed with CF, he had been devastated.

As she battled the pneumonia and secondary infections over the years, Tate never really got over the fact that his life was charmed. He was fiercely protective of her and moving home after college and working with his father on the family ranch were decisions he made without thinking. When Casey ended up marrying his best friend, Nathan Monroe, Tate slowly and reluctantly eased out of the role of her protector.

Tate crossed his arms and leaned back against the workbench, studying his brother-in-law. Lord help us all! You’re going to be a father!

And you’ll be an uncle.

Shouldn’t we be celebrating right now?

Nathan’s face reflected the seriousness of the thoughts racing through his mind. That little clinic downtown is fine for a flu shot, or even to put in a few stitches if need be, but a regular hospital is nearly an hour away. Something what fits Casey’s needs is clear in Austin. When that baby decides to come, you suppose it’s gonna stay put while we drive two hundred miles?

Has she seen Doc Butler?

Nathan grimaced. He advised terminating.

Fear settled in Tate’s gut. So, an abortion. He could hardly spit the words out.

Nathan’s silence told Tate all he needed to know.

Tate smothered a curse, and resisted the urge to throw something against the wall. This isn’t some teenage girl who got in trouble after sleeping with the basketball team, Nathan! This is Casey! Why would Doc suggest such a thing?

He’s worried that the combination of Cystic Fibrosis, a pregnancy, and the upcoming cold weather is going to be too hard on her lungs.

But you told him no, right?

Nathan avoided Tate’s gaze. He leaned wearily against the tractor, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. If you want to know the truth, I kinda agree with him.

Tate’s breath left him in a rush. He loved his sister; knew the fragility of her health. Carrying a baby to term might kill her body, but an abortion would kill her soul. You don’t mean that.

We are talking about Casey’s life, here. She could die!

So you want to kill a baby? Your own kid?

You think I want to make a choice like that? Nathan’s eyes shot sparks. I haven’t slept in three days, just trying to wrap my mind around the whole thing.

How far along is she?

Not sure. We think probably ten or twelve weeks, maybe. That’s why Doc Butler is pushing us to decide sooner rather than later.

Tate could understand Nathan’s reasoning. He wanted to protect Casey, too. Still, Nathan had no idea of the cost. Well, maybe you should think some more. Pray about it.

Nathan flinched at the suggestion. God and I haven’t been on speaking terms since I was in the third grade. I know you and Casey hold to praying about every little thing, but this is different. And to tell you the truth, I figured of everyone, you would be with me on this one.

Why do you say that?

Because it’s Casey, and I know you would do anything to keep her healthy.

Well, of course I would. I just didn’t ever think that it would come down to a choice between her life and the life of a niece or nephew.

Nathan shook his head. I’ve been researching on the internet. Casey may not be able to carry to term, the baby might not live, and chances are pretty good that it will have the CF gene, too. I can’t lose Casey, Tate. Not for those kinds of odds.

"The baby might be fine; might be completely healthy.

Nathan shifted uncomfortably. Doc Butler says that we should make the decision, soon.

Tate sighed, trying to figure out what he could say to convince his brother in law not to follow through with Doc Butler’s suggestion. Nate, please don’t do anything rash. Everyone’s real emotional right now, feeling all kinds of things. You and Casey need some time to let all this sink in.

I want to do the right thing here, T. You know that.

Tate moved forward tentatively. He extended his hand to his best friend, brother-in-law, and, at the moment, the father of his niece or nephew. For what it’s worth, congratulations.

Nathan sigh was one of frustration but he didn’t refuse Tate’s handshake. Casey wants you to come by later. Do me a favor and don’t say anything about the abortion.

Are you kidding? I don’t want to be on Casey’s bad side. Done that enough to know better.

Nathan left and Tate turned his attention back to his tractor. For a while he couldn’t concentrate, so he just sat and stared. He still couldn’t believe Casey was pregnant; couldn’t believe they were considering ending it.

A twelve-year old hurt surfaced in the corner of Tate’s mind. He hadn’t thought about Meredith Thorne in a long time. He remembered how he felt leaving New York after speaking with her father. The questions still haunted him, even if time and distance had taken the edge off the confusion and pain. If he gave the memories room, they would take him back to a place he simply wanted to forget. It had taken him years to flush the emptiness and from his heart and mind. Having gone through the experience, Tate had no desire for his sister to walk that same road.

The stillness of the garage mocked him. Returning to the workbench, he plugged the radio back into the wall. The music would be a distraction; help him get through a long night of tractor repair and, more importantly, push the memories of Meredith back where they belonged. A few commercials and a news update at the top of the hour did the trick. Tate was back under the tractor, back in control of his thoughts.

3

There had to be someone to blame and the two men arguing in the hallway outside her hospital room seemed to Meredith, the most likely candidates.

Because waking up in a Houston medical facility with tubes and wires monitoring every heartbeat and breath was certainly not her idea. Some had hijacked her life. One or both of them were be responsible. Had they not been making a scene as they debated what to do with her, Meredith would have guessed they were cohorts in crime?

She will get better care in New York City! Douglas Thorne’s voice reflected his ire. Surely you can’t believe that the physicians here can even compare to those in New York?

Candidate #1: Meredith’s father. In the six years since she’d last seen him, she marveled at how little he had changed. Dressed impeccably in a business suit complete with a power tie, it didn’t take much to imagine him on the successful side of a conference table. Other than hair now almost completely gray, time seemed to have overlooked his imposing six foot two inch frame. Meredith knew he held resources and influence that boggled the imagination; she just didn’t realize they included Malaria infected mosquitoes.

This is a fine facility, Mr. Thorne, Stephen argued. The doctors here have a working knowledge of Meredith’s condition and have done a remarkable job to this point of getting her through the worst of the Malaria.

Candidate #2: Stephen Sinclair. Their last conversation before she’d fainted in Casualty replayed in Meredith’s mind. Though she doubted he’d somehow masterminded an elaborate plot to force her into a furlough, she couldn’t exactly let him off the hook. Dressed in a wrinkled denim shirt tucked into khaki pants, Stephen wore the last several days of worry on his face. Tired circles smudged the area beneath his compassionate eyes, making him appear older than his thirty-eight years. As he stood toe to toe with her father, she could almost feel sorry for him.

Almost. If not for Stephen, her father would still be in New York.

Why here? her father ranted as he paced. Why not fly her back to New York City at the first sign of a problem? Houston? Surely you could have done better than Houston!

"As I’ve told you before, we were desperate to find fast transportation out of Nairobi. If we hadn’t been able to hitch a