Page 47 of Love in the Wild

Cameron Haywood droppedhis mobile onto his desk and buried his face in his hands. How dangerous a thing it was to hope. For a brief moment he had been full of it, hope of knowing the truth of Jacob, Amelia, and Thorne. But the young woman was just another charlatan. She’d lied with an exquisite perfection that had tricked him, until she grew too greedy.

Thorne, alive? Preposterous. It had to be some ploy, like Anna Anderson claiming to be the lost Princess Anastasia in the early twentieth century.

His phone vibrated, and he dragged his hands through his dark hair, pulling at the strands. Reluctantly, he looked at his phone. It was another text from Ms. Matthews, with an attachment. He knew better than to look, but damnation, hope was a hard thing to crush. He opened the text and saw a photograph.

For a second he simply stared at the picture’s subject. Then he reached for his glass of brandy on the desk. A good stiff drink would do him some good. But the second he lifted the glass up, his hand began to tremble so badly that he dropped the glass. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered.

His wife rushed into his study a few seconds later. “Darling?”

Cameron looked up from his phone. His wife joined him at his desk and bent to pick up the broken glass. Her gaze strayed to his phone.

“Is that a photo of Jacob? I haven’t seen that one before.” Isabelle smiled and then chuckled. “That hair ... I bet when he met Amelia he had to cut it. He looks like he would have been at Woodstock.”

Cameron’s eyes drifted back to the phone and the face of the young man who looked exactly like Jacob except for his smile. It was softer, less rakish than Jacob’s, though it was no less charming. But it held a boyish innocence. It was a smile that reminded Cameron more of Amelia.

“No, it isn’t Jacob. You think it looks like him?” he asked Isabelle.

“Of course. You’re sure it isn’t him?” His wife picked up his phone and examined it closely. “I suppose it’s not, but look at that cleft chin, those blue eyes.” She placed a loving hand on his shoulder. Then she bit her lip. “If it’s not Jacob, then who is it?”

He took a long, slow breath. “It just might be his son.”

Isabelle gasped. “Cam, what on earth ...?”

Cameron pulled his wife down on his lap, suddenly desperate to hold her, as he told her about the call from Eden Matthews. He showed her the photos of the artifacts and admitted how he’d hung up when Ms. Matthews had said Thorne was alive.

“I didn’t believe her. How could I? Wouldn’t we have found him by now? How could he have survived all these years if he was alone?”

“But he wasn’t—the woman said he was raised by gorillas.”

“Isabelle, you can’t believe that, surely. Wild animals don’t just raise human foundlings. Thorne did not grow up like Mowgli from Kipling’sThe Jungle Book.”

“Mowgli was raised by wolves,” Isabelle noted. “But I see your point. It’s difficult to believe. And yet ...” His wife stared at the photo of the young man with long hair and was silent for a moment. Then she tapped the screen. “As impossible as this may seem, darling, I think we need to call Ms. Matthews back and arrange for a DNA test with this man. It would tell us straightaway what we have. If it’s a confidence game they’re playing at, they will look for some excuse not to allow it, and no doubt will miraculously forget how to find the plane.”

Isabelle was right. And if this was an elaborate ruse, by God they would feel his wrath and see the next years of their lives in prison. But if it wasn’t .. .

“Very well.” Cameron dialed the number, but it went to voice mail. “Ms. Matthews, this is Cameron Haywood. I’ve seen the picture you sent of the man. I would like to arrange for a DNA test to be run at your earliest convenience. I would also like a team to be sent to the plane crash site to verify the wreck. Please call me back.” After he hung up, he placed the mobile on the desk and wrapped his arms around his wife, holding her close.

Was it possible that Thorne might be alive, after all these years? Cameron’s heart quivered at the thought. Jacob’s little boy might come home. He would be the Earl of Somerset, and Cameron could, over time, release some of the duties of the title to the boy, until he was ready and able to fully assume his position as the earl. Cameron had never wanted the title, nor had his wife. All he’d wanted was for his family to be alive. Jacob and Amelia were gone, but Thorne? Thorne could come home.

Hope could be a dangerous thing, like tinder beneath dry logs. Once a spark was lit, it caught fire, burning brightly into the night.

* * *

Jean Carillet followedArchibald Holt through the jungle, toward the site of the killings. Even though Holt hadn’t been there with him, he seemed to know where to go better than Jean did, even without the expensive GPS devices they both held, but that shouldn’t have surprised him. Holt had lived in Uganda for more than twenty years. Holt had a fancy manor house in England, but he spent nearly all his time here in Uganda. He’d been only twenty when he’d first come here to hunt for gold and diamonds.

“Up there!” Jean recognized a peculiar growth hugging a tree that was shaped like a fork. Holt pressed on, and in another dozen feet, a rotting smell overwhelmed them as the hum of hundreds of flies grew so loud that Jean nearly emptied the contents of his stomach.

The bodies of the tourists mixed with those of Holt’s men lay strewn everywhere. Decay and the environment had set in, bloating the bodies, though no large animals had scavenged them as of yet.

Holt examined the surroundings, unmoved by the sight of so many corpses.

“You bloody fool,” Holt growled as he kicked Cash’s leg.

Jean flinched at Holt’s impotent anger, which was unmarred by any other emotions than frustration and disappointment.

“We need to move Cash’s body. He’s the only one who could be tied to my company.” Holt nodded at Cash’s body. “Leave the rest where they lie.”

Despite the corpse’s bloating, it was clear that Cash’s neck had been snapped. Holt seemed to notice the same thing.

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