“I am aware, Pastor Mayweather. But I intend to deal with men’s and women’s bodies much more than their souls. I’ll leave the cure for eternal damnation to you.”
Vehemence blew through Mary’s words, and William was hard put to understand. But they’d gone too far off track and he needed to deal with the situation at hand. “A good mission station is one where everyone works together toward the salvation of the heathen. However, we have to first get through the night alive in this village.”
Considering his plans for her quick removal from the mission, he wasn’t sure why he bothered with the lecture on teamwork. The only thing of real importance now was surviving the situation she’d created.
William crossed his arms and gave Mary his most serious look. “So you, Doctor O’Hara, must do exactly as I tell you tonight so you do not find yourself married or get us all killed. Nana Bolo will not accept your refusal. He thinks of women as property, and property does not make its own choices.”
Mary’s brow knit into a frown and her mouth opened in a small “oh.” The look didn’t last. What looked like fumes of outrage bubbled to the surface. “Well, you can set him straight on that right now. I am no man’s property.”
She punctuated her words with an adorable little foot stamp. William would have chuckled if the situation they were in was not so dire. “Tonight while we are in this village, you are. It’s the only concept he understands. Since you and Clara are under my care, I explained to him I was not willing to trade you despite his several generous offers.” William leaned down closer to her eye level and said, “And believe me when I say the bullocks, goats and chickens he offered are looking pretty good about now.”
Each step down the path to the village might as well have been on hot coals instead of rough dirt for the effect on Mary’s temper. Once her jaw began to hurt as they got to the village perimeter, she realized she was grinding her teeth. The nerve of the man. She’d made a mistake, but an understandable one. One he completely discounted.
Quick orders were exchanged between the tribesmen, Hannabo and William. As the carriers and porters were separated from them, a frisson of unease snaked down Mary’s spine. Leaving those familiar faces behind, familiar faces with weapons, unnerved her. William and Hannabo were armed, but what could two men do against a village? The iron-tipped spears in the warriors’ hands carried a sure promise of death.
Or better yet, what would two men do? Did missionaries have a code against defending themselves? Not to kill, or something? Her sense of vulnerability projected itself in stomach knots. It was like a residency all over again. Classroom training couldn’t compare to actual experience.
The booming artillery at Argonne had been unnerving, but shells rarely reached the mobile field hospitals and both sides strictly left the Red Cross personnel alone, keeping in mind they themselves might end up in need of their services. Captured enemies were treated alongside soldiers. The only fact she could remember about the Liberian interior was that many missionaries had died in the attempt to break evangelistic ground here. She knew the fatality rate of malaria. How many died at the hands of the natives?
“Dr. Mary, look.” Clara gave a slight nod of her head. They followed a hut-lined path through the village, stepping around the roaming chickens and one stray piglet. A break in the huts revealed a small work area, complete with a low cook fire and large iron cook pot with steam rising.
Mary glanced over and saw a group of about ten young children, including one nursing baby, all sans clothing. The older ones were eminently curious. Three of the youngest fled behind their mother’s legs to peer out from safety as soon as they had seen them. The oldest of the bunch, not more than seven, stood stock-still and tried to look fierce, not quite pulling it off. Of the five women present, presumably their mothers, although there was little doubt about the one who was nursing, expressions ranged from wary to curious to downright hostile on one thin woman with blue cloth covering her modestly while she stirred the pot.
Without exception, the rest of the women wore nothing more than a cloth skirt fastened about their waists and a small fetish bag she’d come to expect hung around their necks. Mary found herself gawking and forced herself to take her eyes off the uninhibited display of uncovered skin. Even as a physician, the unabashed nudity discomfited her. Why did some cover more than others? Was it a status indication?
As much for herself as Clara, Mary said, “They might not have ever seen a white person, Clara. Try not to stare. I think we’re scaring the little ones.”
“Then we’re on equal footing. Some of those warriors scared me. All those tattoos on their faces. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither. Maybe it’s something just this tribe does. None of our porters bear those kind of markings. Although Hannabo’s patterned scarring on his face resembles them a little.”
“Well, the children are adorable. I can’t wait until we’re in Nynabo and I can start the school.”
“Let’s hope it won’t be much longer. The excitement of jungle travel wore off soon after we left the beach at Garraway and headed to Newaka. I’m ready to be settled.”
Clara laughed. “I know what you mean. The first few miles when we left Garraway city behind, the trail seemed so exciting. So different.”
Mary adjusted the medical satchel she carried. “I agree. The endless dirt track, tree roots waiting in ambush and all the insects lost their novelty for me.”
Clara glanced around. “Well, we should be careful what we wish for, because there’s a lot of novelty here.”
Novelty aside, they passed in a tired, companionable silence through the rest of the village, the tableau of cooking they’d seen repeating once more. The village, large and well laid out in several divisions from the perspective of the hilltop trail, was different when you actually walked through it. Now an endless maze of mud huts, topped with the low-hanging dried brush used for thatching, surrounded them. Mary feared she would get lost in the sameness if she tried to navigate alone.
A wooden palisade wall came into view and the tribesman leading them halted before a hut outside the entrance to the private compound. He gestured to the hut and to the women, and Mary assumed it to be their quarters for the night.
Before she could enter the hut, William put his hand up and conferred with Hannabo, all the while with his back still to them.
Arrogant. That was the word that normally came to mind when she thought of Pastor William Mayweather. Then he took off his pith helmet and ran his hands through that wavy brown hair and the word changed. Striking. And worried.
William crossed his arms when Hannabo conveyed something to the tribesman and the tribesman shook his head and repeated his gesture indicating the hut. What was the problem? Was he holding out for a better hut? They all looked the same to her.
The weariness settling over her as the sun dropped halfway below the horizon overrode her resentful obedience and she stepped forward. “What’s the problem? Is there something wrong with this hut? Because it looks fine to me.”
William turned to her with narrowed eyes, glaring. She flinched. If those rich, brown eyes had been spears, she would have been impaled on the spot.
She’d done it again. Whatever it was.
William’s deep rumble came out deceptively low. “I’m sure the hut is quite fine.” He came closer, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned down and in until he was only inches from her face. “If, that is, you don’t mind being separated from Hannabo and myself. Alone with only your sharp tongue for protection. Of course, we could always share the hut.”
William pulled back, the discomfort of being close enough to Mary to see her smallest freckles befuddling his thoughts. He had tried counting to ten, reciting Proverbs to himself about the futility of arguing with the foolish—none of it worked. No sooner did he get things back under control than this obstinate woman tried to insert herself right back into the thick of things. At least