Far in the Wilds. Deanna Raybourn

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      “Need a second gun?”

      “No, but you can hold my coat,” he told her, shrugging out of the tight evening coat.

      “Ass,” she said, but her usual easy tone was brittle. She was afraid for him, and he felt a quick chill brush his spine. Jude wasn’t afraid of anything. But life turned on a dime in Africa. A man could be hale and hearty at breakfast and dead by lunch, taken out by a bullet or an animal bite or a fever so savage it could turn a man’s organs to liquid. It didn’t matter how often you said your prayers or how many good luck charms filled your pockets. Dead was dead, and Africa could get you there quicker than anyplace else.

      He held her gaze a moment as he handed over his coat. He looked over her head to Wickenden whose eyes were round with fear and excitement. He gave Wickenden a brisk nod. He didn’t dare tell the fellow to take care of Jude, but they both knew what Ryder expected of him. Wickenden’s hands tightened on her shoulders and Ryder turned sharply on his heel.

      He strode through the crowd and it parted before him like the Red Sea, falling away as he walked. He knew there was a buzz of conversation and even a few muted shouts or sobs, he couldn’t quite tell which. The rifle felt good in his hand, solid and heavy, a large-bore with a bullet capable of shattering bone at a hundred yards. It was security, but security was an illusion. A cat was unpredictable as the wind and twice as changeable. In their own environment they fell into patterns, and if you watched one long enough, you might get to know him, might even get lulled into believing you understood him. But you never did. Like most everything else in Africa, lions kept their secrets. They could often be spotted near Nairobi, but it was rare to see one in the centre of town, and the fact that this one had ventured in meant that it was starving or ill or mean as hell, none of which inspired any confidence in Ryder.