Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

A long while later, Ian appears on the same path Shona had taken. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt and khaki pants, and a rifle is slung over his shoulder. His hair is tied in a man bun, exposing the shaved bottom half. A short distance behind, the same man in the green khakis from earlier follows. They stop at the Marula tree. The monkey screams and swings to a smaller tree. Ian says something to which the man nods. The man takes a position by the tree. Ian hands him the rifle before making his way up the deck steps.

The double doors shut behind him with a click. He turns and faces me. He doesn’t smile, but the lines around his eyes crinkle a little in the corners. How old is he? He said his sister is ten years younger than him and that she’s twenty-five. That makes him thirty-five. Old enough to have cultivated a lot of patience and calm. The kind of control he owns only comes with experience.

He shoots a glance at the tray on the table as he crosses the floor. Stopping in front of me, he says, “I hope the breakfast was to your liking.”

“Delicious, thanks. Just way too much.”

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I told Shona to prepare a spread.”

I can’t help the sarcasm in my tone. “That’s most considerate of you.”

His lips tilt as if he finds my passive-aggressive defiance amusing. “The monkeys can be pests. I hope they didn’t bother you.”

“At least one of them drooled over my breakfast.” I smile at the thought.

He hooks his thumbs into his waistband. “You shouldn’t feed them.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Good.” He tilts his head toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you the property.”

Eager to escape the confines of the room, I get to my feet. I’m mindful to keep my weight off my sore ankle. “Where’s my phone?”

Turning his back on me, he says, “You’ll get it back soon.”

He’s already by the door when I come to my senses.

“Wait.” I rush after him, but he doesn’t slow down.

I shut the door so the monkeys can’t get in and hurry to the path where Ian is taking back his rifle from the man.

“This is Wataida,” he says, nodding his head toward the man. “He takes care of the grounds.”

The man inclines his head and lowers his eyes as per the custom of showing respect.

I offer a hand. “Cas.”

He accepts, gripping his right elbow in his left hand as he shakes mine.

We walk for a good ten minutes with me sandwiched between the men before crossing a wooden bridge over a stream. After another five minutes, a big building with clay walls and a steep thatch roof comes into sight.

“That’s the main building,” Ian says. “It was the dining room and reception area when I bought the place.”

Just as I thought. It had been a tourist lodge. “How many bungalows are there?”

“Five, including mine.”

I want to ask who lives in the others, but we’ve reached the wooden deck of the large building where Shona is setting a table.

“Outside?” she asks Ian as we pass. “It’s cool in the shade.”

“That’ll be good, thank you,” he says.

When we enter the foyer, he hands the rifle to Wataida who disappears through a doorway on the right. I glance through the open door. A man wearing a white Safari style suit sits behind a desk, writing in a large book. He doesn’t look up when Wataida enters. Wataida goes to a cabinet against the wall, takes a key from his pocket, and unlocks the cabinet. It’s a gun closet stocked with rifles. He places the rifle in a vertical gun rack and locks the cabinet again.

“The place had fallen into ruins when I bought it,” Ian says.

I turn to face him. He’s looking around as if seeing the big foyer for the first time. It’s hard to miss the pride shining in his eyes.

“Why does the place mean so much to you?” I ask.

He fixes his attention back on me. “I didn’t say it does.”

I shrug. “It’s obvious.”

“We built it up from scratch.”

“We?”

“The community who lives here helped.”

“So, it’s like a pet project.”

His eyes soften. “It’s more than that. This is the first place that feels like home.”

“What makes it different from your other hideouts? I’m sure they’re all stunning.”

“I prefer the company of the animals,” he says in brush-off kind of manner, like the statement isn’t huge. “Come.”

He takes my hand and leads me across the foyer to a door on the other end. It opens into a dining room with a window overlooking the river. A few round tables and chairs are scattered around one large table in the center. It’s big enough to cater for the ten tourists that would’ve eaten here before Ian bought the place. In the far end, two men sit on stools at the counter of an open bar. A wrestling match is playing off on the television screen mounted on the wall.