From the Beginning

But even as she mentally repeated the too-familiar sentiment, she knew it was a lie. She would never be strong enough to accept Gabby’s death. She’d failed her daughter, and that was not something she could get over.

Shaking again, Amanda paused for a moment and looked around the camp and surrounding desert that were as familiar to her as her own face. It was hot, the sun high in the sky as it roasted this part of East Africa. Drought and famine, AIDS and Ebola, tuberculosis and cholera, more diseases than she could count had taken their toll, year after year, until some weeks bodies actually piled up in the villages, waiting to be buried or burned.

But despite everything that had happened here in the past three decades, Africa was beautiful. The landscape was empty, barren, but there was an elegance in its stark simplicity. Endless miles of dirt and sand and desert brush as far as the eye could see, the sun reflecting brightly off the hard, arid ground. It appealed to something primitive inside of her, this country with its harsh truths and frightening realities.

There was beauty in its complete and utter devastation.

At a loss for what else to do—knowing only that she couldn’t go back to her tent and stare at the four canvas walls without losing what was left of her control—she began to walk. Without her patients, without her job, it wasn’t as if there was anything else to do out here but wander for a while, saying goodbye to this continent that had such a huge impact on her life. If things went as she was afraid they would, then it didn’t matter what Jack said. She was done here.

She walked for a long time—through the village and beyond, oblivious to the heat that was so much a part of Somalia. It was harvest time for the meager crops that this poverty- and drought-stricken nation could produce, and the men were few. Between the wars, the famine and the harvest, the village was almost a ghost town during the day. Many of the children were in the fields with their mothers; the others were in the hospital or at the government-run school that was built on the east side of the village. It was here that they learned math and history and how to read and speak English—at least until they had to give up their education to help feed the family.

She shook her head. Somalia had so many languages. Somali and Arabic were the two main ones, but each village in the line sweeping through the nation’s interior had a variation of its own. Her village, Massalu, spoke Chimbalazi, but most of the children who lived here were almost illiterate in the language of their parents. The language of their blood.

Her fatigue—a soul-deep weariness—caught up with her, and Amanda slumped onto a large rock. Her thinking rock. She’d used it so much in the past ten months that she could swear she’d worn a flat spot on it. Or maybe she wasn’t the only one who came to this desolate stretch of land to brood. God knew, there was more than enough to think about…

The sound of a faraway engine caught her attention and she looked up in time to see a Learjet coming into view. She watched it for a few minutes, until it passed over her, but she grew alarmed when the plane slowed as it approached the village.

Who could it be? Only the top government “officials”—Samatru and his crew—had access to planes like that. But even they usually arrived by car. Fuel and airplanes were hard to come by and saved for very special occasions.

The plane coasted in for a landing on the dusty road that ran about a thousand yards in front of the hospital, and though it was officially no longer her business, she couldn’t help worrying. Nor could she stop herself from running toward it as she tried to figure out what new threat the clinic was in for.

Despite the famine ravaging the country, it had been almost impossible for their organization, For the Children, to gain access to Somalia—the government frowned on outside interference. Even reporters and tourists had very restricted access to the small besieged nation—which made running a clinic here that much more difficult.

Add in the fact that the government had decided the doctors were ripe for exploitation, and it was a miracle that the hospital managed to hold on to any supplies to treat their patients.

As she ran, Amanda wondered what official had gotten a sudden “concern” about their presence here? And how much money it would take for his “attack of conscience” to be mollified.

How many people had to die so that he could wear his expensive suits and fly in his little plane? How many children had to starve?

Concern whipped through her, making her run faster despite the heat and the exhaustion. Making her incautious, when her life and the lives of the other doctors and patients at the clinic often depended on keeping a delicate balance with the current administration.

But what did she have to live for?

Gabby was gone.

Simon, the only man she had ever loved, had disappeared from her life, for good this time.

She had shut out everyone who cared about her until she was alone, isolated.

And now that Jack had stripped her of the only reason she had to get up in the morning, maybe she was better off dead.

Despair swamped her—black and overwhelming—but her long strides didn’t falter. Jack was a good doctor and a hell of an administrator, but even after ten years in these war-ravaged conditions, he had no tolerance for the way the country—and its corrupt officials—worked. If he lost his temper, he could bring everything they’d accomplished down around their heads.

Not that she blamed him. Every dollar he paid the rulers was one less to buy medicine and food for the people who desperately needed it. All the money he’d paid through the years meant days and weeks off the lives of Mabulu and all the other boys and girls like him.

But as Amanda approached and got a glimpse through the small crowd that had gathered when the plane landed, she realized that this was no government official. Dressed in jeans and a clean, white Aerosmith T-shirt, the newcomer stuck out like a sore thumb among the impoverished villagers who had come to observe the landing.

The sun glinted off too-long wheat-blond hair, but it wasn’t until she caught sight of the worn leather backpack over the visitor’s shoulder that the truth occurred to her.

She stopped breathing, shock holding her lungs and rib cage immobile.

Still, she told herself that she was wrong. It couldn’t be him.

He was in Haiti, putting together a documentary about earthquake victims.

In Colombia, investigating the cartels and their negative influence on the indigenous population.

In Cambodia, uncovering shady CIA deals. Anywhere and everywhere but here, where she’d been safe from thinking about him, insulated against her past by the immediacy of the present.

But the build was right—tall and rangy with a lean, long-legged frame that was deceptively strong. The shaggy blond hair worn too long—more from carelessness than fashion. Even the T-shirt advertised his favorite band.

Her breath caught in her throat, but her brain refused to accept what her eyes were seeing. That Simon was here—here—when years ago he’d decided that he’d had enough of Africa’s endless suffering.

But if it was him, what was he doing here? There had been no coup, no newly reported human-rights violations, no recent massacres. Only the ongoing famine that was neither glamorous nor seedy enough to attract the Western press here.

To attract Simon here.

For a moment, Jack’s guilty expression flashed into her mind, his warning that he had contacted someone. She’d ignored him at the time, but now, as her stomach constricted, she wished she’d let him have his say. At least then she would have been prepared.

Even as the idea formed in her mind, she told herself that she was being paranoid. There was no way Simon would fly this far to see her after the way they’d parted. She’d completely ignored his existence—and his pleas—in the days after they’d buried their daughter.

The argument was a good one and she’d almost convinced herself that she was mistaken, that her mind was playing tricks on her. She’d even managed to suppress the instinctive, involuntary response that took over her body as it had every single time she’d seen him in the past ten years.

Then the man turned and everything within her stilled. It was him. She was sure of it, especially when his bright green eyes met hers as he scanned the crowd, looking for something. Looking for someone. At first, he looked right past her, but then he froze. His gaze returned to her. Clung.

Amanda wanted to look away, but she was caught. Ensnared. A rabbit in a trap. And she’d do anything to escape. Because he was the one person she didn’t want to see her like this, the one person in the whole damn world guaranteed to make the soul-crushing pain she felt even worse.

SHE LOOKED LIKE HELL. Jack hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d emailed three days before. Even from this distance, Simon could see that she was much too thin. Tall and naturally slender, Amanda always lost weight when she was on location, refusing to take time to eat when so many people needed her help. Refusing to take any more of the essential supplies than she absolutely needed to stay alive.

“I can eat when I’m home,” she used to tell him. “I’ll curl up on the couch with a loaded pizza and a gallon of ice cream and eat it all.”

“But you never go home,” he would answer. “It’s been two years.”

She’d smile at him, her smoky eyes twinkling silver in the moonlight. “Soon,” she’d promise. “I just need to do a few more things here.”

It hadn’t taken him long to realize that soon almost never came. There was always one more country, one more disaster, one more person who needed her. In that, she was very much like him—except, Amanda had spent the past decade of her life getting her hands dirty, while he’d done exactly the opposite.

But he couldn’t do that anymore, couldn’t hide behind his camera lens and maintain his objectivity. Not with her. Not when she so obviously needed him. For a man who’d built a career around making sure no one got too close—even his lovers or, God forgive him, his daughter—it was a frightening state of affairs.

But what else could he have done? He hadn’t been able to walk away, not after reading those few heart-stopping lines.

Close to a breakdown, Jack had written. Strung out. Making herself sick.

He had been in an open-air market in the middle of the Andes when he’d gotten the message. Jack wasn’t prone to exaggeration, so Simon had literally forgotten everything but Amanda, had dropped his story and his deadline without a qualm, to get here before it was too late.

In the end, it had taken him three hellish days of travel by everything from donkey cart to airplane to reach this small, secluded village. But looking at Amanda now, almost as frail and sick as the patients who waited in a long line outside the clinic’s canvas doors, he couldn’t help thinking that he was already way too late.

Weaving his way through the curious onlookers, he walked toward her—his gaze still glued to hers. But the closer he got, the more concerned he became. Her beautiful eyes—usually so filled with life—were bruised and sunken. Her cheekbones were razor sharp, her skin pale and waxy despite the strong African sun. And whatever small amount of color she’d had in her face had drained the moment she realized he was here for her.

She looked like hell. Anger began to churn inside him. How had she gotten herself into such a state? And why had Jack waited so long to tell him about it?

He stopped a couple of feet in front of her, reached a hand out to stroke her cheek and maybe push one of her short corkscrew curls out of her face. But she flinched away before he could touch her, freezing him in midmotion.

So, she hadn’t forgiven him. But then, why should she, Simon asked himself viciously, when he hadn’t even begun to forgive himself? Most days, he brushed his teeth in the shower because he couldn’t stand the sight of his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Doubts assailed him for the first time since he’d gotten Jack’s missive, and he let his hand drop to his side. Maybe he shouldn’t have come, no matter what the surgeon had said. Maybe he was destined to make things worse for her.

But as he stood there, his eyes locked on her red-rimmed ones, the truth was a no-holds-barred punch to the gut. She had been crying. Amanda, who had never shed a tear in the twelve years he’d known her, had cried hard enough—and recently enough—to make her eyes bleary and bloodshot.

“Oh, sweetheart, look at you.” The words tangled up on his tongue and he could barely get them out. “What have you done to yourself?”

She stiffened even more. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just passing through…” He recited the old cliché in the hopes that she would call him on it—which she did.

“Yeah, right. You hate Africa.”

“No. I hate the suffering here, when I’m so ill-equipped to do anything about it. That’s a totally different thing.”

“Is it?” If possible, she looked even more disgusted, and he felt the familiar shame start to creep up his spine.

“Absolutely. Besides, I’m not here for a story.”

She didn’t move, didn’t betray her emotions by so much as an eyelash flicker, yet her entire being somehow, impossibly, grew even more wary. “So, once again, why are you here?”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Amanda, or you wouldn’t be looking so upset.” He watched her steadily. “I’m here to take you home.”

The look she gave him was a mixture of disbelief and dare—with enough repugnance thrown in to let him know she ranked him in the same category as pond scum. “Are you, now?”

“I am. Amanda, you can’t—”

“Oh, no.” Her voice sliced like a whip. “You don’t get to tell me what I can or cannot do. You’ve never wanted that right and you don’t suddenly get to change the rules just because you don’t like the final score. Besides, I would rather swim back to the States under my own power than go anywhere with you.”

He grinned. “It’s a big ocean, baby—and filled with sharks.”

“That’s rather telling, then, isn’t it? That I’d rather take on an entire shiver of sharks than spend one second longer than I have to in your company.”

“Well, then, I guess we’re both in for a bumpy ride—because this time you aren’t getting rid of me.”

“Since when have I ever had to get rid of you?” Her smile was as sharp as her cheekbones. “I’ll just wait five minutes until a better opportunity comes along. You’ll be in the air before I even get my suitcase packed.”

CHAPTER THREE

WITH THAT PARTING SHOT, Amanda turned away and headed toward the sleeping tents. And though every instinct he had demanded he follow her, Simon chose instead to stay where he was and simply watch her walk away. He’d known her long enough to recognize when she needed some time alone.

But the hollow feeling that had haunted him for the past eighteen months grew stronger with each step she took in the opposite direction.

Was this how she’d felt, he wondered, all those times when he’d been the one to walk away? When he’d chosen a story over her—and over their daughter? If so, he had even more to feel guilty about than he’d imagined.

He watched her until she disappeared inside one of the small tents set aside for the doctors, then watched some more—waiting, he supposed, to see if she was going to come back out and finish their discussion. It wasn’t likely, of course, but hope hung around—for a little while, anyway.

Right when he’d decided that he was going to have to go after her, he felt a large hand clap him on the shoulder. He turned to see the man who had started them down this path so many years before—and who was also responsible for this latest detour—standing in front of him with a definite scowl on his face.

“I had decided you weren’t going to come,” Jack said as he shook his head. “If I’d known you were due in today, I might have gone a little easier on Amanda earlier.”

Simon thought of Amanda’s red-rimmed eyes and felt every muscle in his body tighten. Jack was one of his closest friends, as well, but no one had the right to turn Amanda inside out like that. “What did you say to her?”

Jack eyed his clenched fists with interest, and Simon could feel himself flush. There was nothing quite like laying all your cards on the table for the world to see.

“I told her the same thing I told you. That she was exhausted and had to go home for a while.”

“She’s not going to want to go. That house—” His throat started to close up, so he stopped and took a few deep breaths. “That house is filled with memories of Gabby.”

“Hence the reason I didn’t sideline her sooner. She needs a reason to get up in the morning, and without her work, I don’t think she has one anymore. That’s why I emailed you.”

Simon wanted to think that Jack was exaggerating, but he couldn’t now that he’d seen Amanda himself. “I’m not that reason, never have been. Besides, it’s pretty obvious she can’t stand the sight of me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to find a way around that.”

Simon snorted. “I’m sorry. Have you met Dr. Amanda Jacobs? She’s not exactly the easiest person to get—”

“Listen to me, Simon. I know what I’m talking about. She can’t be on her own right now. If she goes back to the States by herself and rents some small apartment somewhere because she can’t deal with the memories, I don’t think she’s going to make it.”

Everything inside of him went cold at Jack’s assessment—so cold that he actually shivered, despite the harsh rays of the sun beating down on him. “You think—” Simon’s voice broke for the second time in as many minutes and he had to clear his throat a few times before he could force any words through. “You really think she’s suicidal?”

Jack paused, looked past him to the barren desert that surrounded them. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”

“It isn’t that difficult. Either you think she’ll try to kill herself or you don’t.”

“It’s not that simple. Do I think Amanda will actively try to kill herself? No. But—” he continued, before Simon could relax “—I don’t think she wants to live, either. I think she’s gotten to the point where she’s too apathetic to do anything about it, one way or the other.”

Simon tried to read between the lines. “So what are you saying? You don’t think she cares enough to kill herself? Is that even possible?”

“I’m not a psychiatrist, Simon. I’m not sure what’s possible or what isn’t in this case. I’m just telling you what I think, what I’ve observed over the past few months. Amanda gave up caring about what happens to herself a long time ago. That’s why I let her stay here this long, even though I’ve known almost since she got here that she was eventually going to break.

“I tried to get through to her, tried to keep her busy. Let her work almost exclusively with the children—the only thing that brings her around is when she’s working toward healing a child.” He shook his head. “But it’s not enough. Things are dire here and getting worse every day. She lost a patient today—the third this week—and she didn’t handle it well.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she almost had a nervous breakdown in the middle of the O.R. And I believe, really believe, that if she could have crawled onto that gurney with Mabulu and died alongside him, she would have. I’ve never seen her like that before, not in all the years we’ve known each other, and it scared me—so much that I relieved her of her duties and told her I’d block any application she made to work with another clinic. At least for a while.”

Simon was having a hard time getting his mind around what Jack was saying. The picture the other man was painting was of a woman so far removed from the Amanda he knew that she was almost unrecognizable. Amanda was the one everyone turned to in a crisis—she was the one who never fell apart, who always knew what to do.

That had obviously changed, and he was suddenly at as much of a loss as Jack was. How the hell was he supposed to fix a woman who’d never been broken before, especially when she couldn’t stand the sight of him?

What was he supposed to do?

He hadn’t been aware that he said the last aloud, until Jack grimly responded, “My best advice? You get her out of here—tonight. You get her home, get her to a doctor and to a counselor. And then you wait.”

“For how long?” Waiting wasn’t exactly Simon’s strong suit.

“For as long as it takes. It took her at least a year and a half to get into this state. She isn’t going to come out of it overnight.”

Simon thought, briefly, of the stories he had lined up. Of the exclusive access he’d managed to finagle behind the Israeli wall after six years of pulling in favors.

Of the upcoming Middle East peace talks in Europe that he was supposed to cover.

Of the story he had started investigating in South America, and of the documentary he had already gotten footage for in Afghanistan. He’d been putting that story together, off and on, for months now, and it had Edward R. Murrow Award written all over it. He could almost taste the award and so could his director.

He closed his eyes and with a sigh let them all go. For more than a decade, Amanda had taken second and third and sometimes even two hundredth place to his work. This time, everything else was going to have to wait.

DESPITE HIS BEST INTENTIONS, the sun was setting before Simon finally caught up to Amanda again. Wanting to give her some space, he’d spent part of the afternoon shadowing Jack in the clinic. But by the time he went to the tents to find her, she’d been long gone and he’d spent much of the early evening searching the clinic and village for her—and cursing himself for letting her out of his sight. Especially after what Jack had told him.

In the end, he’d had to ask the other doctor where Amanda might have wandered off to—which had grated, since every time he opened his mouth it felt as if the other man was condemning him for his callous treatment of her through the years.

Then again, maybe it was his own conscience doing all the condemning.

The surgeon had pointed him toward the desert, and Simon had followed his directions until he’d happened upon her, about a mile and a half away—in the middle of an empty stretch of dry, cracked sand.

She was sitting on a large, flat rock, her knees drawn up so that she could rest her chin on them, and she looked so young, so vulnerable, that it was hard for him to imagine it had been so many years since he’d first met her.

Five years since he’d last held her, loved her.

And before today, eighteen months since he’d so much as laid eyes on her.

Part of him wanted to rush up to her, to wrap her in his arms and pretend that everything was the same. That they were still lovers, still friends.

Still parents.

But another part, the one that was buried under guilt and pain and his own anger, couldn’t help wondering how much more rejection he could stand.

At Gabrielle’s funeral, Amanda had frozen him out so completely that he still hadn’t thawed a year and a half later. It had been a defense mechanism, a way to bury her own pain—but knowing that hadn’t made it hurt any less.

They’d stopped being lovers not long after Gabrielle was born. Amanda had feared that what they’d had together wasn’t stable enough to raise a child and he’d gone along because he hadn’t wanted a relationship that would tie him down. But they’d remained friends, right up until their daughter had died.

Then Amanda had excised him from her life with such brutal efficiency he swore he could still feel the blade.

But this wasn’t about him, he reminded himself fiercely as he struggled for something to say. This was about Amanda, about getting her well again.