Page 62 of Cutter’s Lady

Cutter followed Leslie to a nearby patch of trees on the other side of the house. He was awkward and unsure what to do, yet he felt compelled to comfort her. He laid a gentle hand on her hair, and she leaned back against him gratefully. He curled his arm around her waist, holding her to him and wrapping her with his warmth and strength. “I’m sorry, darlin’,” he murmured. “I wish it hadn’t turned out this way.”

Leslie rubbed her cheek against his shirt. It was so soothing to rest against Cutter, to be supported by him and to hear the tenderness in his voice. Leslie turned in his arms, and he held her for a long moment. Finally she stepped back and looked up at him.

“I have to make sure. I can’t abandon Blake if there’s a possibility he might be alive. I can’t let his mother and sister go on living with this doubt. If the San Cristóbal government really is responsible for it, I want to prove it. I want to make sure the U.S. and the world know about it.”

Cutter frowned. “But darlin’…”

“Please. Please help me. If we could locate the men who kidnapped him, maybe we could find Blake’s—” Leslie took a steadying breath. “The body—or at least discover whether they worked for the government.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“I know. But I have to try. Please, help me.”

Cutter didn’t want to do it. It would be difficult and probably fruitless, and quite frankly, he didn’t give a damn about what had happened to Blake Westfield. But he couldn’t refuse the look in Leslie’s eyes. “All right. We’ll go to Costa Linda and see if we can track down his kidnappers.”

Leslie smiled. “Thank you.”

In that moment neither Mora nor the rest of the world existed for Cutter.

After Leslie had gathered herself, Mora insisted that they eat a breakfast of flat corn tortillas and beans with him. As they ate, he and Cutter reminisced, recalling old friends and incidents long past. Mora asked after Sister Mary Margaret, and Cutter told him about the mission.

“I have heard it is doing well,” Mora agreed, nodding his head. “She is a very unusual woman. A little like Teresa, yes? But without her fire.”

Cutter smiled. “Perhaps. I’d never thought of her that way.”

“She is strong. A fighter.” Mora looked over at Leslie and grinned. “Like the señorita here. I see Teresa’s fire in her. Am I right?”

“Well, we argue, that’s for sure.”

Mora laughed. “Ah, now that is like Teresa.”

Jealousy pierced Leslie at their mentions of Teresa. Teresa had known all the pleasures of Cutter’s body that Leslie had experienced last night. But she had had far more of Cutter than Leslie ever would—she had known his love, as well as his passion. It was crazy to be jealous of a dead woman, Leslie told herself, yet she couldn’t quite suppress the dark feeling.

Mora and Cutter lapsed into Spanish, and Leslie was lulled by their deep voices and the melodic language. She covered a yawn, realizing suddenly how sleepy she was. The excitement of meeting Mora, then the disappointment of finding that Blake was not with the guerrillas—and was, in all likelihood, already gone—had drained her of energy. She hadn’t got much sleep last night, either… she smiled a little at the thought.

There was a sudden, piercing whine outside followed by a loud crash, and the earth trembled beneath them. Leslie raised her head, puzzled, and looked at the men. Mora and Cutter were already on their feet and running to the door. There was another crash. Just as they reached the door, Mora’s guard flew into the room, a rifle in his hand. “Militar!” he shouted.

Mora cursed and shouted something in Spanish. He ducked out the door and ran across the median with the guard.

There was another crash and another, exploding with ever louder noise. “What’s happening?” Leslie cried, running to Cutter.

He glanced at her, his face grim. “The army’s bombing the encampment.”

Leslie gasped, her eyes widening, and peered out the door. A house burst into flames before her eyes, and she let out a cry of horror and revulsion. There was thick black smoke everywhere, and people ran here and there frantically. Three planes droned overhead, banked and turned for another run.

“Stay here,” Cutter told Leslie tersely. “I’ll be back.”

He ran out into the village, and Leslie watched in terror. The planes were over them again, and there came the fierce whine and explosion of more bombs. Great chunks of earth flew up and fire burst in the street. Leslie heard the rapid, staccato firing of a gun and saw bits of dust spray up in the street. They were shooting out of the low-flying planes, too! Her eyes were glued to Cutter’s running figure. Gray smoke swirled out of a building, and the ground spurted up behind Cutter as a plane buzzed over him. Leslie gasped as Cutter disappeared into the smoke and bullets.