also knew he had a tendency to hide things that might worry their parents.
“Why does he keep mentioning this South African pilot girl?” Her tone betrayed a playful disapproval. “You don’t think he likes her, do you?”
Chase raised a hand to his chin as his face took on an exaggerated expression of contemplation.
“Let me think about that for a minute.” A sly smile broke through the mask. “Umm, yes. What’s not to like about a helicopter-flying tall blond with an exotic accent?”
“Ugh, you guys are all the same!” Anna reached across the table to lightly slap her brother’s arm. “What’s wrong with us plain ol’ American brunettes?”
“You know I love you, Anna.” His smile had broken into a full grin. “But I’m going to ask Cole if that Marna chick has a younger sister.”
MUSANZE, RWANDA
12:08 a.m.
Marna Van Wyk was as African as any white woman could claim to be. Her mother traced a direct descent from Jan van Riebeeck, founder of Cape Town and considered by most Afrikaners to be the father of their country. Way back in 1652, Van Riebeeck commanded the Dutch East India Company’s expedition to establish the first European settlement on the rugged coastline of the Cape of Good Hope. Her dad’s history was a little more ambiguous, but she did know that one great-grandfather was alone among his parents’ eight children to survive confinement in a British concentration camp during the Second Boer War.
Now Marna had grown up in the new South Africa, and she embraced a slightly different take on things than most of her Afrikaner forebears. Her parents’ education and vast farms around Nelspruit still set her apart from the majority of her fellow citizens, but she couldn’t be held responsible for that, could she?
So Marna was an African. More African than Cole was American, she’d dryly pointed out when he tried to protest her claim to that title. His family had only been in the States since the late nineteenth century, when a young Aonghus McBride arrived from Scotland. Aonghus promptly enlisted in the Army and was shipped out west to join the 7th Cavalry’s questionable campaign in defense of the new American frontier.
“The only difference between my white ancestors and yours,” Marna remembered adding, “is that mine were not quite so successful in their efforts to wipe out the natives. A fact I’m quite proud of.”
He took this quite well, she thought. Even though Cole occasionally liked to brag on his cowboy heritage, Marna knew he was a little more nuanced in his understanding of the world than he usually let on. Which was one of things she especially liked about this mysterious American veterinarian who had unexpectedly crashed into her life a few months earlier.
But where was he, anyway? Marna glanced up from her book and out a screened window into the cool darkness. Across the yard, a lone shadow moved across the brightly lit window of the lab. He was still at it.
She sat back in the old recliner and adjusted her mask for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes. How did people ever get used to wearing these things? Yet another reason she couldn’t have become a vet herself. Of course, that failing grade in organic chemistry didn’t exactly help her chances, so Marna had gone another route and trained as a helicopter pilot in the South African Air Force. Every game farm and wildlife preserve in the country needed its own pilot, and she knew that these sky cowboys worked right alongside their veterinary colleagues. After her commitment to the SAAF was up, Marna landed a dream job just up the road from her parents’ farm in Kruger National Park.
And now here she was in Rwanda, doing just what she always imagined but never really thought would happen. South African National Parks had loaned her along with the helicopter to Rwanda’s fledgling park system back in March. The new president’s recent commitment of tourism training and resources for
“Why does he keep mentioning this South African pilot girl?” Her tone betrayed a playful disapproval. “You don’t think he likes her, do you?”
Chase raised a hand to his chin as his face took on an exaggerated expression of contemplation.
“Let me think about that for a minute.” A sly smile broke through the mask. “Umm, yes. What’s not to like about a helicopter-flying tall blond with an exotic accent?”
“Ugh, you guys are all the same!” Anna reached across the table to lightly slap her brother’s arm. “What’s wrong with us plain ol’ American brunettes?”
“You know I love you, Anna.” His smile had broken into a full grin. “But I’m going to ask Cole if that Marna chick has a younger sister.”
MUSANZE, RWANDA
12:08 a.m.
Marna Van Wyk was as African as any white woman could claim to be. Her mother traced a direct descent from Jan van Riebeeck, founder of Cape Town and considered by most Afrikaners to be the father of their country. Way back in 1652, Van Riebeeck commanded the Dutch East India Company’s expedition to establish the first European settlement on the rugged coastline of the Cape of Good Hope. Her dad’s history was a little more ambiguous, but she did know that one great-grandfather was alone among his parents’ eight children to survive confinement in a British concentration camp during the Second Boer War.
Now Marna had grown up in the new South Africa, and she embraced a slightly different take on things than most of her Afrikaner forebears. Her parents’ education and vast farms around Nelspruit still set her apart from the majority of her fellow citizens, but she couldn’t be held responsible for that, could she?
So Marna was an African. More African than Cole was American, she’d dryly pointed out when he tried to protest her claim to that title. His family had only been in the States since the late nineteenth century, when a young Aonghus McBride arrived from Scotland. Aonghus promptly enlisted in the Army and was shipped out west to join the 7th Cavalry’s questionable campaign in defense of the new American frontier.
“The only difference between my white ancestors and yours,” Marna remembered adding, “is that mine were not quite so successful in their efforts to wipe out the natives. A fact I’m quite proud of.”
He took this quite well, she thought. Even though Cole occasionally liked to brag on his cowboy heritage, Marna knew he was a little more nuanced in his understanding of the world than he usually let on. Which was one of things she especially liked about this mysterious American veterinarian who had unexpectedly crashed into her life a few months earlier.
But where was he, anyway? Marna glanced up from her book and out a screened window into the cool darkness. Across the yard, a lone shadow moved across the brightly lit window of the lab. He was still at it.
She sat back in the old recliner and adjusted her mask for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes. How did people ever get used to wearing these things? Yet another reason she couldn’t have become a vet herself. Of course, that failing grade in organic chemistry didn’t exactly help her chances, so Marna had gone another route and trained as a helicopter pilot in the South African Air Force. Every game farm and wildlife preserve in the country needed its own pilot, and she knew that these sky cowboys worked right alongside their veterinary colleagues. After her commitment to the SAAF was up, Marna landed a dream job just up the road from her parents’ farm in Kruger National Park.
And now here she was in Rwanda, doing just what she always imagined but never really thought would happen. South African National Parks had loaned her along with the helicopter to Rwanda’s fledgling park system back in March. The new president’s recent commitment of tourism training and resources for
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