Noble Hearts (Wild Hearts Romance Book 3) by Phoenix Sullivan Page B

they insisted on leaving, I had an obligation to help them with the transition. I returned to them with a handful of Congolese francs, which I handed to Mosi, who seemed comfortable acting as the deputy leader in the foreman’s absence. “Divide it up.” I left it to him to determine the equitable division, whether by family or per person. “You can use the van to move your things.” The van was a hard-paneled cargo truck with side ventilation windows that we used to haul sacks of the harvested arabica cherries to the washing station. It was probably 40 years old—certainly a lot older than me—but the men of the cooperative somehow kept it in top working order.
    “ Marahaba, jumbe ,” Mosi said, adding a grateful half-bow to his blessing that was echoed by the other workers.
    “ Assalamu alaykum ,” I replied. Peace be with you . The words were rote, but I truly meant them, even though it broke my heart to utter them, knowing they meant goodbye.
    “All troubles pass,” Mosi assured me. “We will be back before harvest.”
    Watching them hurry off to pack up for the city, I fought down tears in the shadows of intuition that fluttered ominously around me. I trusted that if they could return they would.
    It was the long, dark cold between could and would that held that trust like a hostage in my heart.

CHAPTER 13

MARK
    Three times Kayla and I helped load belongings into the small van that smelled of overripe fruit. Each time it rumbled away to be offloaded in the city before returning three hours or so later. I wouldn’t go into Hasa and Kayla chose not to, but there were apparently plenty of family hands to help unload on that side so our aid there wasn’t needed.
    Through it all, Kayla hung tough, although it was clear the evacuation was breaking her heart. Never once did she slack in the work, and each time before the long-bedded pickup trundled off behind the van, filled with children and adults clutching their favorite toys or household items, she hugged every one of them closely and exchanged well-wishes in Swahili.
    Sefu’s brother showed up with an old-model Range Rover, and we helped his family off too.
    Nine hours, three van loads and seven households later, our part was done. The men would return the pickup and van in the morning, but even I could feel just how empty the plantation seemed now. Only two couples remained to watch after the crops, the guineas and the cows. The first was a younger couple who dressed in Western clothes that sported the bright colors of tribal Africa. When the van pulled away for the last time in the early evening, they popped earbuds in and listened to private soundtracks as they walked hand-in-hand back to the curved concrete dome that was their home.
    The second couple, perhaps in their late 50s or early 60s wore more traditional tribal clothes—the man in a long, striped, sleeveless tunic over short pants, and the woman in a ground-length, wraparound skirt with row after row of bold geometric patterns. They stood arm-in-arm with brave, patient expressions as the last family leaving left. Perhaps they’d had plenty of practice saying goodbye. Kayla had said their own three children had each left the plantation already to define their futures elsewhere.
    “ Leo tunaona, kesho si yako,” Kayla called to them as we turned back to her house and to preparations for the evening feeding. “We are only seeing today, tomorrow does not yet belong to us,” she translated for my benefit, perhaps even advice, a platitude meant to impart hope and possibility for change. A reminder that the future would come no matter, and it was up to us whether we waited passively for its arrival or met it with aggression.
    I asked her which she intended to do.
    “Honestly, I’m too numb right now to think about tomorrow. I have contingency plans for floods and crop diseases. But for all the workers bailing at once? Who plans for that?” She batted at a mosquito as the cooler temperatures