Then he stepped away and became the lead ranger again.
Unfortunately, I knew too intimately what that uniform concealed.
By the time we stepped into the lodge, Mara Khaya had arranged itself into breakfast-table perfection: white linen, polished teak, and bowls of fruit sweating under the early light. Silver tongs waited beside warm pastries as if no one in the world had ever come apart in a glamped-up tent and then been expected to make polite conversation over coffee.
The veranda smelled of citrus oil, toast, and overconfident dark roast. Guests leaned over plates and tablets, their voices blending with the low clink of silver against porcelain. Somewhere beyond the rail, a bird called once, sharp and cheerful, then disappeared into the trees.
The lodge had folded us back into its rhythm before anyone could decide we had disrupted it.
A hostess paused beside Nick with a tray of coffee cups. “I saved you two muffins before anyone else discovered them.”
“You’re the only competent person in this building,” Nick said.
“That’s what I keep telling them.”
His mouth almost moved. It was barely a smile, but it changed his face enough that I looked away first.
Then Graham chose that moment to find his voice. “Well,” he said from the corner of the long table, his fork suspended over a plate of eggs. “There they are. I was beginning to think the bush had refused to give you back.”
Graham had the posture of a man who believed every silence needed a sponsor.
I crossed toward the coffee station. “Careful, Graham. The wildlife showed better restraint.”
Alina’s mouth curved over the rim of her cup.
Near the end of the buffet, a young server fumbled a tray. I reached out and steadied the nearest cup before it could slide.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Excellent save,” I said. “No casualties.”
Her nervous laugh followed me as I collected my coffee and returned to the table, and the tightness in my chest gave one reluctant inch.
Victor looked up from a neat square of toast. He was wearing cufflinks again. Still in the middle of the South African wilderness. His shirt had been pressed with the grim resolve of a man who did not believe in surrender, moisture, or casual fabrics.
Tragic, really.
Naomi lowered her sunglasses just enough to look over the top of them. “Good morning, Juliette. You look very… restored.”
The pause was surgical.
“Do I?” I poured coffee with the steady hand.
“You look awake,” Owen offered.
“Awake is generous,” I said. “I’m vertical.”
Naomi tapped the folded itinerary beside her plate. “We have a surprise today.”
Graham brightened. “Please tell me it involves air-conditioning.”
“It involves wine.”
Graham sat up straighter. “I withdraw my complaint.”
Cufflink glanced down at the itinerary. “A vineyard?”
“Conservation partner estate,” Naomi corrected. “Private tasting, behind-the-scenes tour, lunch on site. Mara Khaya partners with the estate on habitat corridors and ranger traininginitiatives. The wine program underwrites a remarkable amount of conservation work.”
