The Joy of the Morning: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 6) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Freedom

  Epilogue

  Book 1, Rocky Mountain Oasis

  www.lynnettebonner.com

  By Lynnette Bonner

  The

  SONNETS OF THE SPICE ISLE SERIES

  is a serialized historical Christian romance novel

  by Lynnette Bonner

  Episode order:

  — Find All the Episodes Here —

  On the Wings of a Whisper, Episode 1

  Lay Down Your Heart, Episode 2

  Made Perfect in Weakness, Episode 3

  A Walk Through the Waters, Episode 4

  The Trail of Chains, Episode 5

  …and the final episode, The Joy of the Morning

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  Other books by Lynnette Bonner

  PACIFIC SHORES SERIES

  — Contemporary Christian Romance —

  Beyond the Waves, Book 1 — Also available in audio

  Caught in the Current, Book 2 — Also available in audio

  Song of the Surf, Book 3 — Also available in audio

  Written in the Sand, Book 4 — Also available in audio

  ISLANDS OF INTRIGUE: SAN JUANS

  — Christian Romantic Suspense —

  The Unrelenting Tide — Lynnette Bonner — Also available in audio

  Tide Will Tell — Lesley Ann McDaniel

  Deceptive Tide — Janalyn Voigt

  THE SHEPHERD'S HEART SERIES

  — Christian Historical Romance —

  Rocky Mountain Oasis — Also available in audio

  High Desert Haven — Also available in audio

  Fair Valley Refuge — Also available in audio

  Spring Meadow Sanctuary — Also available in audio

  HEART'S OF HOLLYWOOD SERIES

  — Contemporary Christian Romance Novellas —

  My Blue Havyn

  Mistletoe & Mochas

  Find out more at LynnetteBonner.com

  The Joy of the Morning

  SONNETS OF THE SPICE ISLE, Episode 6

  Published by, Serene Lake Publishing

  Copyright © 2016 by Lynnette Bonner. All rights reserved.

  Editing by Dori Harrell of - Breakout Editing

  Cover design by Lynnette Bonner of Indie Cover Design - www.indiecoverdesign.com

  Images ©

  www.depositphoto.com, File: #18927267, Beach

  www.periodimages.com, File: #2013-01-30_22.34.33b, Couple

  www.bigstock.com, File: #26740817, Old Map of Equatorial Africa

  Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  The Joy of the Morning is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Published in the U.S.A.

  Psalm 30:5

  …weeping may endure for a night,

  but joy cometh in the morning.

  Freedom

  On the Plains of the Savannah

  RyAnne sank to her knees and relaxed back against her ankles. The cook fire she’d been bent over for the past several hours was naught but smoking coals now. She rubbed her fingers into the cramping muscles of her lower back. Despite the pain, she couldn’t feel anything but relief to know that all the people of the encampment had now been fed. Several parties had even already departed to return to their villages. As different chieftains located what was left of their people, many hadn’t wasted time in taking leave of the white man who, to their way of thinking, might change his mind at any moment and clap them back in irons.

  This morning, after Trent rescued the captives, Kako had located the men and women of his tribe and freed them from their shackles. Some of the men he had taken with him on a hunt. The others had been set to releasing the rest of the captives, building up cook fires, and fetching water for those who were too weak to go to the nearby creek themselves.

  RyAnne had cleansed and tended, as best she could, more wounds caused by the chafing of manacles than she could stomach. Partway through the day, after she had washed the ankles of a vacant-eyed girl of no more than five years of age, the frustration and heart-wrenching empathy had taken the last of her composure. Trent had discovered her with tears streaming down her face as she cleaned the wounds of the next child, and had made her change jobs with June, whose task it had been to make porridge.

  RyAnne couldn’t deny that the change of scenery—from blood and blisters and glimpses of white bone through ebony skin, to bubbling porridge with steam wisping from it—had been a most welcome contrast.

  With Bagamoyo only a couple days ahead of him, Khalifa had nearly depleted the supplies he had been feeding the captives. RyAnne hated to think what the meals would have been like over the next few days.

  She and Trent had found a meager supply of cornmeal, however. The porridge had been thin to make it stretch further, but they had done their best to make sure every person ate a decent meal by including pieces of game from the gazelles Kako and his men had bagged.

  Trent had broken up two fights between parties when fear had made them grapple over scraps. The first sight of food on the heels of weeks of near starvation had the tendency to transform people into hoarders. It had taken some convincing on the captain’s part for everyone to share equally.

  RyAnne knew the portions had been insufficient, yet even at that they were much more plentiful than the people had been fed for the past weeks. Some of the captives had been so hungry that they hadn’t even waited for the meat to cook, but had simply devoured their portions raw.

  RyAnne shuddered. She was hungry, but she didn’t think she would ever be that hungry. The thoughts of food penetrated her consciousness, and her stomach loudly protested its emptiness. She had doled out the last of the thin gruel as a second helping to Moyo, and there was nothing left in her pot.

  She should go see if any meat was left, but she couldn’t seem to work up the energy to rise now that she’d relaxed for a moment.

  She glanced over and noticed Moyo and Nyimbo seated together on a rock. Their heads were tipped together, and Moyo was sharing her bowl of porridge.

  A smile tugged at RyAnne’s lips even as exhaustion draped her shoulders. Though she’d been watching the two of them off and on all day, she could still hardly believe that her long nightmare was over. They were all reunited.

  Weeping may last through the night, but joy cometh in the morning. The verse soothed her in that moment. Perhaps her morning had finally dawned.

  A bee buzzed around her shoulders, and she swept a hand at it. As she twisted to make sure the bee was flying away and wouldn’t get caught in her hair, one of her ankles pressed against a sharp stone. She gasped and shut her eyes at the severity of the pain.

  She eased her hip to the ground and carefully lifted the hem of her skirt to examine the ankle. It was red and swollen, and looked like it was getting infected. On the long trek, she’d tried her best to keep the broken skin clean, but it appeared she was losing the battle.

  Footsteps sounded, and she quickly tossed the hem back over the injury.

  Trent sank down, balancing on the balls of his feet beside her. Resting his forearms against his knees, he clasped one wrist with his other hand. His gaze flicked down to the torn lac
e edging near her ankle. “Are you okay?” A furrow tucked into his brow.

  “It’s nothing.”

  He studied her expression for a moment, and then in one swift move, he reached out and flipped back the hem.

  “Captain!” She slapped his hand away and clamped the material firmly in place over her throbbing joint. But she could tell that he had seen all he needed to see.

  He pinned her with a stern look. “It’s infected.”

  Another wave of exhaustion swept over her. “I’m well aware of that. Perhaps Jabir will have left something in his tent with which I can treat it.”

  He reached for her hem again. “Let me get a better look.”

  She refused to budge. “It would be most improper.”

  His mouth pressed into a thin line of irritation. “What was it your father used to say? ‘Let us leave proper for Stone Town parlors and consider what would be safest and most prudent on the savannah.’”

  She could almost hear Papa’s voice saying it, and she couldn’t help a sad smile as a bittersweet pang of nostalgia gripped her.

  Apparently sensing he’d put her in a melancholy mood, Trent lifted one hand and touched her cheek. “You look done in. Did you eat?”

  “I will in a moment. My porridge pot is empty. I was just resting for a bit before I went in search of some food.”

  Concern crinkled his eyes. “Please tell me you stopped at some point today to eat at least a little something?”

  She plucked a pebble from the ground and rolled it between her fingers. “I’ll be fine. There were so many hungry people. For weeks I’ve wanted to feed them. Today I got to see that dream come true. What are a few hunger pangs in the face of that?”

  He bent forward and pressed a kiss onto her forehead. “You have one of the most beautiful hearts of any woman I know.” He eased back and tipped her a chastising look. “But in order to care for others, you also have to care for yourself. Wait here. I’ll bring you a plate, and while I’m gone, I want you to prepare yourself to let me look at that abrasion. I have a feeling it might be worse than you are letting on.”

  She bit her lip, unable to deny now that she pondered on it, that her ankle had been shooting small pains up her calf all day. “Perhaps a little.”

  “Ry…” There was despair and displeasure with her all wrapped up together in that one little word.

  All the love for this man that had been building inside of her over the past months surged to life in her chest. It was almost too painful to breathe. She reached out and curled her fingers into his beard. “I can’t believe you are here. Close enough for me to touch.”

  He caught hold of her hand and kissed her palm. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  True to his word, he returned with a plate filled with scraps of meat, several loquats that some children had discovered in a nearby grove, and a gourd full of steaming broth.

  The broth smelled heavenly, but she wondered where it had come from. At her questioning look, he shrugged. “There was no porridge left, but June had set some of the bones to boiling for a meal later this evening. It likely won’t be as tasty now as it will be later, but I figured you needed the nourishment.”

  The broth tasted like a bit of heaven when she sipped it. And the first morsels of meat… She gobbled much too quickly for propriety. Her hand trembled when she reached for the first golden loquat.

  A muscle in Trent’s jaw bunched. “I failed you yet again. I did not realize you were so hungry.”

  She smiled around the bite of luscious plummy fruit. “I didn’t realize it either until I started eating. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “But I am.” He snatched a blade of grass in disgust. “I should be!” He transferred his troubled gaze toward the horizon.

  RyAnne cleaned her plate and then set it aside and reached over to clasp his hand. “I’ve just been pondering on a verse. ‘Weeping may last through the night, but joy cometh in the morning.’” She squeezed his fingers. “Once the dawn arrives, not many look back and consider what they endured during the night hours. They simply move ahead with their day. So let it be with us? We have come through the night, both slightly scathed but whole. And now the day stretches out before us.”

  Trent stood to his feet and pulled her with him. “Aye, that it does.” He scooped her up suddenly.

  She gasped and threw her arms about his neck.

  He strode toward the tent that the healer Jabir had used on their eastward trek. It was pitched at the center of the encampment, as usual. He ducked through the entryway and then set her on the cot inside. He left the flap of the tent open, but they were mostly concealed from the prying eyes of the few left in the camp. He lit a lantern and then held it high, searching the contents of the tent. “Jabir departed with one of the parties earlier this afternoon. But all of his supplies are still here.” There was a leather satchel on a nearby table. He opened it and probed at the contents inside. “You are the nurse. What should I be looking for to sooth that infection?”

  Weariness clung heavily to RyAnne’s eyes. “Honestly, the best thing I know to do is just what I was doing this morning for the wounded. Clean the area with soap and water. And then it should be wrapped in a clean boiled bandage, but of course we don’t have any of those. A light application of carbolic acid would be good if any could be found.”

  “None of these vials are labeled.” Trent slapped the bag closed in frustration.

  RyAnne hung her head and worked at the muscles along her neck. She didn’t want to have to make a decision right now. Yet if she didn’t do something, the infection would only grow worse.

  Trent was suddenly back by her side. He squeezed her shoulder. “Rest. I will return in an hour with hot water for a bath.”

  She eyed the empty space of the cot next to her. Jabir must have taken his bedroll, as there were no blankets, but the cot did look ever so inviting.

  Trent slipped out and let the flap of the door fall closed, enveloping her in semidarkness. She slumped onto her side, and let the oblivion of sleep claim her.

  Feeling a helpless roil of frustration, Trent stalked across the encampment to put water on to boil. She needed bandages. Where was he going to find something to suffice?

  He looked around as he walked. Other than the areas of still-crushed grass littered with a few abandoned ivory tusks and discarded manacles, and the two tents that remained standing, one would never know that just this morning hundreds of poor souls had been chained up in this field. Most of the captives had scattered immediately after receiving their allotment of food, just as he’d suspected they would. His goal had not been to fill them really, but to give them enough sustenance to go on their way with the energy to do their own hunting and picking as they journeyed back to what was left of their homes.

  June was still by one of the fires, seated on a rock.

  He smiled at her as he approached. “Did you eat?”

  She nodded.

  He gestured to the fire. “Can you build it up while I go fetch some water from the creek? Miss Hunter will need to bathe.”

  June nodded.

  And once he had the large pot over the fire, he decided that now was as good a time as any to see if Khalifa’s tent would reveal any of the man’s secrets. Frustration coursed through him as he stomped toward the tent. If only he’d had more time to question the man, he might have learned whom he worked for.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but when he flipped back the canvas, he knew he hadn’t been expecting the well-supplied, meticulously organized environment that greeted him.

  The cot had a feather mattress on it beneath sheets that were still rumpled due to Khalifa’s hasty exit this morning. A large silk rug covered most of the floor space inside. An extra pair of boots were tucked neatly beneath the end of the cot. There was a small portable desk with a lantern atop it, a fountain pen lying to one side, and a chair before it that sported a feather cushion. Next to the lantern rested a silver flask. He sniffed the contents
—whiskey.

  He grunted in satisfaction at that and set the flask back down. RyAnne’s wound would have its disinfectant.

  The only other thing atop the desk was a shaving kit. Trent scratched at the itch of his beard with another noise of satisfaction. It would be good to rid himself of the annoyance of it.

  Beneath the desk and off to one side were two freestanding wooden drawer units stacked one atop the other. Each had a keyhole. And both were locked when he tugged on them. He glanced around. He didn’t see any keys. And there was nothing else in the tent.

  Taking the knife from his belt, he pried at one of the drawers. The locks were not strong, and it only took him a few moments to open a crack large enough for his fingers to get a good grip, and then he wrenched it open. The drawer had no stop and came completely out of the casement, slipping from his grasp.

  Rolled-up pieces of parchment and folded letters tied together with ribbons flew everywhere. Trent growled and set to picking them up. He went to work on the second drawer then, and opened it more carefully. It contained more of the same—letters and parchments.

  Lips pinched in curiosity, Trent lit the lamp, sank onto the chair, and started reading. Most of the letters were from a woman—a guess only, since they were written in Arabic that Trent couldn’t read. But the script was delicate, and the pages smelled of sandalwood and a sweet citrus-like perfume. A mother? A wife? Trent tapped one of the missives against his palm. Keeping correspondence from a woman was a rather sentimental gesture. Not something he would have credited to Khalifa. He studied the stationary again, more carefully this time, yet found nothing out of the ordinary. With a grunt of frustration, Trent stacked the letters together and set them to one side. Several parchments contained drawings of slave ships with instructions for how to best load the ships to ensure maximum capacity of “cargo,” depending on the type of vessel. The drawings, depicting people lying side by side on shelves that left not even enough room to sit up all the way, made his stomach curl in disgust. He tossed them down, one after the other.