Sooner or Later

by Debbie Macomber

  “Hector and the others?” he asked.

  “They were given a decent burial.” Her voice cracked slightly.

  He was almost afraid to mention his sister’s name. “Have you heard from Letty?”

  “Letty, no. Is she here? In Zarcero? How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m afraid she must be. It was the reason I wasn’t killed with the others.”

  “That explains why—” Rosita stopped abruptly, as if she’d already said more than she intended.

  “Tell me,” he ordered.

  “My uncle…the reason he let me in to see you was to tell you good-bye. Commander Faqueza has ordered a public execution in two days’ time.”

  “It’s a trap. You have to find my sister and tell her.”

  “But how? Where?”

  Luke pressed his forehead against the door. It felt cool against his skin. Cool and hard. He needed to think and couldn’t. His mind clouded with concerns and worries. Anyone he knew who might have helped Letty into the country was either dead or already in prison.

  “I’ll try to find her, Luke,” Rosita promised, “I just don’t know where to start looking.”

  “Do what you can.” He couldn’t worry about Letty now. Later, when he was alone, he’d dwell on his twin sister and pray God would keep her safe. These moments with Rosita, quite possibly his last, were too precious to waste.

  He kissed her fingertips once more. “After I’m dead, Rosita, you must—”

  “No,” she cried. “It was a miracle you were saved. You aren’t going to die, my love.”

  “We don’t have time for denials. We have to face the truth now, while we can.” If he wasn’t gunned down by a firing squad or hanged, as some of the other political prisoners had been, there was every likelihood that the beatings would kill him.

  “How can a God let this happen to us?” She wept openly. Her voice trembled with the force of her sobs. “How could He allow Hector and the others to die such a horrible death?”

  Luke had repeatedly asked these same questions himself. “God isn’t the one responsible for the hate in this world,” he assured her, wanting more than anything to hold Rosita one last time. He would die a happy man if he could feel her softness against him. If he were allowed one last opportunity to touch her sweet face and feel her heartbeat against his own.

  She glanced over her shoulder, and he saw a flicker of fear. “I must go.” Wiping the moisture from her face, she offered him a brave smile, turned abruptly, and was gone.

  Luke heard the gentle fall of her footsteps as she sped away. The physical effort it cost him to stand caused him to tremble violently. He barely made it back to the bed before he collapsed.

  He was suffocating with the weight of his worries. Norte was going to use him to trap Letty.

  Luke knew his sister well. She’d do anything to rescue him, including placing herself at incredible risk. He couldn’t allow that to happen, but he didn’t know any way to prevent it.

  Letty would come racing in on a white charger, believing she could save him, and in the process sacrifice her own life. His sister hadn’t a clue what these men were like. She’d never seen evil on this level. Neither had Luke until he’d been taken captive.

  The only way he could thwart Captain Norte was to die before the public execution could take place. With his eyes open and raised to the heavens, Luke looked to God.

  “Let me die,” he pleaded, “before its too late.”

  32

  “As of two days ago your brother was alive.”

  Her heart in her throat, Letty whirled around to face Father Alfaro. “He’s alive?” The priest had come for them bright and early that morning and led them to the home of a friend, someone he trusted. Murphy had disappeared with Father Alfaro shortly after their arrival. She wasn’t keen on their being separated so soon after finding each other, but she wasn’t given any choice.

  Murphy looked to Father Alfaro and then to Letty.

  “What is it?” she asked. She was beginning to know Murphy, and there was something he wasn’t telling her.

  Neither one seemed eager to elaborate. “Luke’s hurt,” she cried, certain the news was bad. “How seriously? Can we move him? Does he need a physician?”

  “Letty,” Murphy said, and gently wrapped his hand around her forearm. “It isn’t that.”

  “My source wasn’t able to learn of your brother’s physical condition,” Father Alfaro continued. “All he could tell me was that your brother is alive.”

  “There’s more,” she insisted, unwilling to be protected from the truth. Murphy should know her well enough by now to recognize that. “Tell me,” she insisted. “I need to know.”

  Once again the two men exchanged looks.

  Murphy was the one who spoke next. His eyes held hers and his words were low and even, without emotion. “Luke’s been sentenced to death.”

  Letty closed her eyes and held her breath until her chest tightened and her lungs ached.

  “His execution is to be held publicly at noon in two days’ time.”

  “Two days,” she repeated. The blood seemed to rush from her head, and the world started to spin. For an instant she feared she was about to faint. The need to sit down became urgent; she reached out blindly and lowered herself onto a rough wooden chair.

  “Letty?”

  “I’m okay.” But she wasn’t. She hadn’t felt right all morning. Although she’d slept better in Murphy’s arms than she had in weeks, she’d awakened exhausted, weary to the bone.

  The ill feeling had intensified as the morning had progressed. She probably should have said something, but she’d been fairly certain the feeling would pass. It hadn’t.

  “We’ve got to save him,” she said, looking to Murphy. She’d found herself doing that more and more often. Along with her heart, she’d given him her trust. In her eyes, he was capable of the impossible. As obstacles in saving Luke became more and more insurmountable, she relied heavily on Murphy’s talents.

  “I gave you my word I’d find your brother, Letty, and I will.” His jaw was clenched with grim determination.

  The need to touch him was strong. To flatten her palm against his cheek and thank him. Those two days wandering about the city without him had taught her valuable lessons. As much as she wanted to find and free Luke, she could do nothing without Murphy.

  The priest cast the mercenary a worried glance. The atmosphere in the small adobe house reeked of tension. Not understanding, Letty looked to Father Alfaro.

  “We fear the execution might be a trap,” the priest explained.

  Murphy chuckled. “Norte wants us. And really, can you blame him? We made him look like the fool he is. What he doesn’t realize is that he hasn’t got a prayer. Not only are we going to escape his clutches, but we’re going to steal Luke right from under his nose.”

  “The word on the street is that Commander Norte will richly reward the person who captures either of you.”

  “I see.” And Letty did. As Father Alfaro had told them the night before, Captain Norte didn’t make for a good enemy.

  “You should be prepared for the worst,” the priest told her gently. “We’ll do everything within our power, but it’s possible we won’t be able to save your brother.”

  “You must,” she cried. Her heart desperately wanted to believe it was possible to rescue Luke. Her brother deserved so much better than this. He’d given his heart to the people of Zarcero, dedicated his life. Without Luke, she’d be completely alone and lost. Without him, her anchor would be missing.

  “You have my word that I’ll do everything I can to free Luke,” Murphy said, the intent look back in his eyes.

  “I can’t ask for anything more than that,” she returned.

  The rest of the morning was spent with Murphy and Father Alfaro talking and making plans. The two appeared to come to some form of agreement, and soon afterward Murphy left. He didn’t tell her where he was going or how long he’d be
away.

  Letty sat in the shade of a tree, trying to analyze what was wrong with her. The achy, restless sensation persisted into the afternoon. She attempted to put some name to what she felt. The physical symptoms resembled a low-grade case of the flu, but she knew it was more than that. In some ways it seemed as if this queasiness were connected with her twin.

  Letty waited impatiently for Murphy’s return. Several matters needed to be discussed and decided. Her mind was so occupied with that, she wasn’t aware of the subtle changes going on about her.

  At first.

  It came to her all at once that she was being watched. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she trusted this sixth sense. For a long time she remained motionless, afraid to move, fearful of attracting attention to herself. The same sixth sense that told her she and Father Alfaro were no longer alone warned her that if she did move, she’d be a dead woman.

  As soon as the thought went through her mind, fear drifted in like a thick fog, the haze of it making it difficult to reason out exactly what was happening.

  With her breath held tight within her chest, she glanced across the yard. Father Alfaro sat inside the house at a table. He appeared to be reading.

  A vision flashed into her mind of a jail cell, of torture and death. For one single instant she could smell the filth, taste the horror, and feel the pain. Then it was gone.

  The next moment, a picture of Murphy hell-bent for leather surged like gangbusters into her mind. She seized the image and held on to it, needing him just then. If he were here, he’d know what to do. She had the pistol with her—he’d insisted she carry it at all times—but reaching for it now would be useless. She’d be dead before she could even point it. And even if she could get her weapon without drawing attention, she wasn’t sure about firing it. She’d done so the one time, and only because Murphy had insisted. She wished she’d paid more attention now.

  Maybe it was because she was thinking of Murphy and the gun that she was prepared for what happened next. His voice, soft and urgent, drifted from behind her.

  “Letty, when I shout I want you to drop to the ground and cover your head. Have you got that?”

  She gave a small, imperceptible nod. Every muscle in her body went tense.

  Soon after Murphy whispered, Letty saw three soldiers hiding in the vegetation close to the house. Two of them had pointed their rifles directly at her. The other man had his trained on Father Alfaro, through a window.

  Dressed in camouflage, they blended in perfectly with the scenery. It was a wonder she’d been able to pick them out at all.

  The taste of fear filled her mouth, attacked her senses. A humming sound roared in her ear, and the scent of anticipation, the choking swell of the afternoon heat, settled over her like concrete blocks. Her throat felt as dry as a crusted, empty lake bed.

  “Do it!” Murphy’s cry cut through the hot, still afternoon air like a razor-sharp scissors through paper. Swallowing a scream, Letty fell face first into the dirt. Remembering what he’d said about covering her head, she brought her arms up to protect herself.

  The quick, staccato bursts of Murphy’s weapon roared over her. Letty froze with fear, unable to scramble to safety even if he asked it of her.

  Three soldiers lay dead outside the adobe structure. Three good men, downed by their own sloppy work, Murphy mused. Letty and the priest had been sitting ducks. The guerrillas could have had them any time, but Norte’s men had been overly confident and forgotten one small thing. Him.

  When Murphy had arrived on the scene, he’d recognized instantly that Letty had sensed the soldiers’ presence. Their interest had seemed to be focused on the priest. Not until later had they realized Father Alfaro wasn’t alone.

  Murphy thanked the powers above that Letty had had the presence of mind to remain silent and still. He was convinced it had saved her life.

  When he’d happened upon the scene, he’d been scared spitless. Letty in grave danger. He’d strongly suspected his feelings for her had changed. Little by little she’d chipped away at the wall of his defenses until he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. The moment he’d recognized he could lose her to a guerrilla’s bullet had removed all doubt of the sentiment he felt for her.

  Murphy wasn’t being immodest by claiming he was a good soldier. Furthermore, he understood the reasons that made him good. Death had never been any big threat to him. It held no terror. His world consisted of a few carefully chosen friends and Deliverance Company. And that was it. The full extent of his existence. He was a man with little to lose.

  His life to this point had been devoid of contentment, of joy, and, most profoundly of all, of love.

  He wasn’t particularly happy to own up to the fact he loved Letty. It wasn’t an emotion he was comfortable with. He feared loving her might mean he’d need to surrender a part of himself, and frankly that worried him. He’d die for her in a heartbeat. Stop a bullet in order to save her life. But he wasn’t sure he should let her know how much he cared.

  The silence that followed the blast of gunfire was louder than a cannon burst. He stepped out from behind Letty and walked over to where the guerrillas lay. With the boot of one foot, he turned them over and checked to be sure each one was dead. They were.

  He experienced no emotion, no sense of regret, no sense of loss. This was what he did. He found no pleasure in killing, no thrill.

  “Murphy…” His name was a weak cry from Letty’s lips as she raced toward him and into his arms. He scooped her up and held her against him. She trembled violently, her arms holding his neck so tightly that it was close to becoming a stranglehold.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart.”

  He derived such a simple enjoyment from holding her that he momentarily forgot about the priest.

  Father Alfaro looked pale and drawn as he walked outside the adobe house. Murphy noted that the other man’s steps weren’t any too steady. The priest removed a white kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.

  “Mother of Jesus,” he whispered, staring at the dead men.

  “You all right, Father?” Murphy asked, releasing Letty.

  “Fine. Fine.” He glanced over at the dead soldiers again. “They’re Norte’s men.”

  “Then he knows where we are.”

  The priest closed his eyes. “Alphonse,” he said as though in deep pain. “He would never have betrayed me without first being tortured.”

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Murphy said, in a hurry to get Letty to a safe place. Only he wasn’t sure where.

  “Letty,” he called. Only seconds earlier she’d been in his arms. Now he caught a glimpse of her inside the house, sitting with her face in her hands as if the scene outside the door were more than she could bear to view.

  He wanted to comfort her, explain that he would have spared her this if it had been within his power.

  “Letty, we’ve got to get out of here,” he called again. He knew he sounded gruff and impatient, but it couldn’t be helped. She was in danger, and he’d die before he’d let anything more happen to her.

  Suddenly he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He threw the priest to the ground and fell for cover himself, but he couldn’t reach Letty.

  Rolling in the dirt, firing as he went, Murphy counted two other guerrillas. He heard one muffled shout of pain, then silence. The eerie, unnatural silence that often followed gunfire and death.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” he shouted, eager to get Letty and the priest to safety. His steady gaze scanned the jungle, his senses on full alert.

  Letty’s scream caught him off guard. The sound of a single gunshot filled him with a crippling terror. Dear God in heaven, not Letty. Please, don’t let them have Letty. He bargained with everything he had. His life. His heart. His soul.

  He roared to his feet with a cry of outrage and raced into the house. He was ready to kill or die, whatever the situation demanded. He discovered Letty standing with a .45, the one he’d given
her at the start of the mission. The pistol dangled from her hand.

  A soldier lay dead no more than five feet from her.

  She looked to be in a state of shock. Deathly pale, she stared sightlessly at the dead man on the floor. He lay in a pool of blood, his eyes open. The rebel was dead, but even then Murphy could feel his hate.

  He walked over to where she stood and gently pried the pistol free from her fingers.

  “You all right?” he asked gently.

  She shook her head, walked outside, and promptly vomited.

  33

  Rosita walked into the dimly lit room and looked at the body of the man stretched out on the table. A piercing pain cut through her heart as she realized what her uncle had told her was true.

  Luke was dead.

  A sob wrenched itself from her throat, and she covered her mouth in an effort to hold back a cry of bitter anguish. It wasn’t supposed to have happened like this. They should have been married, she should have borne his children, and they should have spent many long, happy years together. He’d loved her, and she’d loved him more than any man she’d ever known. More than she would ever allow herself to love again.

  “Quiet,” came the husky voice of her uncle. “If anyone finds you here, I’ll be in trouble.”

  She answered him with a strangled sob of grief. “What happened?” she asked, needing to know.

  “The guard told me he died in his sleep.”

  “His sleep?” Rosita didn’t believe him, although he was her uncle and the one who’d helped her see Luke two other times before.

  “No one knows the exact cause of his death. He was alive when the lights went out, and then in the morning he was dead. Commander Faqueza questioned the guards, and no one went into your friend’s cell all night.”

  Gently, in a gesture of farewell, Rosita touched Luke’s face. He looked serene, at peace. Beautiful in a way that words could never describe.

  “Captain Norte is said to be very angry,” her uncle informed her. “He’d planned to use your friend to trap the others.”