Cutter's Lady

by Candace Camp

  “I know. I’m just kidding you. It sounds like you just did what you had to do. And your guilt still sounds misplaced.”

  “Well, then he made these crazy statements about leaving the company and going off somewhere in the wilderness if I turned him down. I didn’t take him seriously.”

  “That’s when he came to San Cristóbal?”

  “Right. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been kidnapped.”

  “You mean, you think you should have remarried him to keep him in the United States?”

  Leslie glanced at him, startled. She hadn’t even talked about it with another person and it sounded ridiculous when he said it aloud. “Well…no. Of course not. It’s no reason to marry someone.”

  “Then why feel guilty about it? You were reasonable—you didn’t want to marry him again, so you said no. He was the one who acted like an idiot, jumping into a job in San Cristóbal because you turned him down.”

  “You, of course, wouldn’t be upset if you were turned down. You’d simply turn to the next girl on your list.”

  “No. But I sure as hell wouldn’t pack my bags and run away from home, either.”

  Leslie had to smile at his description of Blake’s actions. “What would you do?”

  “I’d stick around until she saw things my way.”

  That brought a full-fledged laugh from her. “I imagine you would. Though I can’t quite see you wanting anyone that much.”

  “You don’t know anything about my wants.” His voice was low, almost husky, and it sent a quiver up Leslie’s spine.

  She decided that this was a subject they had better leave, and soon. She cleared her throat and cast about for a safe topic of conversation. Cutter’s steady gaze, shadowed by the brim of his hat, did nothing to help her.

  “You never did answer my question, you know,” Cutter went on after a moment.

  “What question?”

  “The one I asked you originally—why are you so upset about last night?”

  Leslie drew herself up as straight and tall as she could. “Making a fool of myself is not something I care to remember, nor to have someone else remember.”

  “Making a fool of yourself? By kissing me? Why?”

  Leslie shrugged and looked away.

  “You can’t really believe I kissed you only to stage a scene for the guys tailing us.”

  “Why not? That’s what you told me last night.”

  “It wasn’t only for that reason. Sure, I took the opportunity to throw them off our trail. Anyone with any sense would have. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy doing it. It doesn’t mean that I didn’t want you. I did. I still do.”

  Leslie shot him a quelling look. “I’d prefer not to talk about this.”

  “I know. You’d prefer not to even think about it. It bothers the hell out of you, doesn’t it? Knowing that you enjoyed kissing me…knowing that you loved my hands on you.”

  Leslie’s cheeks flamed. “I’d had too much to drink. I was feeling… wild.”

  “Wild? Like hell.” Cutter rose on his knees and leaned across the short space that separated them, his movements quick and agile as a cat’s. He planted his hands on the deck on either side of her, and thought he did not touch her, his face was only inches from hers and his eyes bored into her. “You were hot and hungry. You’ll be that way again. I plan to make sure of it.”

  Before she could move or even summon up a word to say, Cutter kissed her, his hard lips molding against hers, his tongue easing them open. Then, just as swiftly, he was gone, breaking away from her and rising in the same swift motion. Leslie watched him stride away, unable to still the unwanted tremors darting through her body. She pressed one hand against her mouth, as if she could squeeze out the taste of him on her lips. Damn him! How did he manage to affect her so?

  ***

  Leslie spent the rest of the day maintaining a good distance between her and Cutter. She’d tried to lose herself in returning emails from her phone but the reception was spotty and every time she tried to send something she got an error message. Frustrated, she finally gave up and instead strolled around the deck, and stared out at the sluggish, muddy river. She studied the plants and birds along its banks and even managed to catch a short nap amidst her boxes early in the afternoon. None of it, however, was enough to keep her mind off Cutter. It was maddening to discover that though she avoided him physically, her own mind kept him ever present.

  He was too sexy, she thought irritably. She had heard friends talk about men like that that they had dated—charmers who drew women in even though they acted like jerks. Leslie had never met anyone who had such an effect on her, and she had always secretly thought that her friends were simply being weak. Now she knew better. Cutter was that kind of man. She didn’t like him. She thought he was mercenary, dominating and irritatingly opinionated. But she wanted him. It was absurd. Yet she couldn’t seem to control it.

  They spent a second night on the boat. Though Leslie was exhausted, she had a difficult time finding a comfortable position. She tossed and turned and squirmed, but nothing could change the hard nature of her “bed.” She was glad Cutter slept on the other side of the crates; it gave her a little security—though, she could have done without the plumes of smoke that occasionally wafted over from his side. Still, it was nice to know he was there if she should need him. On the other hand, Cutter was probably a far worse danger than whatever he might protect her from. Not because of what he might do, but because of what she wanted to do.

  Finally she slept, but it was a rough, shallow sleep, riddled with confusing dreams. She was glad when the pale light of dawn pulled her from it. She rose, her knees cracking, and did a quick sun salutation sequence to stretch out the soreness.

  The river was a much slower way to travel and she wondered how much longer they would have to continue on the boat. She disliked the delay. She wanted to ask Cutter when they would be disembarking, but she stuck to her resolve to avoid him as much as possible.

  So it was a surprise to her when, almost three hours after they had gotten underway again, Cutter announced that they were getting off the boat at the next village.

  “What? Now?”

  “Straight ahead.” Cutter pointed. “It’ll come into sight in a few minutes. Better get your stuff together. The captain doesn’t want to stop long.”

  Leslie grabbed her purse and suitcase, stuck her feet into her shoes and followed Cutter across the deck, fuming. “You could have at least given me a little notice,” she snapped as she came up beside him at the railing.

  He shrugged. “Hard to get hold of you.”

  She thought about entering town and being seen by people. She looked like a complete train-wreck. Her clothes were rumpled. The wind had blown her hat off into the river yesterday afternoon, leaving her without one—she should have insisted on bringing both of her hats despite Cutter’s orders—and as a result, she had gotten a sunburn despite her frequent application of sunscreen. Her hair had been whipped by the river breeze and frizzed by the moist air. It would take a deep conditioning treatment and an hour of detangling to get it to lie right. More than that, it needed a good shampoo. None of which she had with her. She sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of grabbing a quick shower here, is there? Where are we, anyway?”

  “Tres Rocas. The captain let me use his phone when we docked last night. Someone’s picking us up later this morning, but you’ll have enough time to get cleaned up. There’s an inn, and it’ll probably have a bathroom, but there won’t be a shower like you’re used to.”

  “At this point, I think I’d take anything.” Leslie felt thoroughly grimy from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

  The boat eased up to the wharf, and one of the crew jumped off to secure the boat with a heavy rope. They laid down the gangplank, and Cutter took their bags and walked across it. Leslie, looking at the bob and sway of the walkway, hesitated. Cutter deposited the bags and then turned back and extended his hand. “
Come on. Just walk fast and don’t look down. Your momentum will carry you.”

  Leslie grabbed his hand and hurried across the narrow plank, certain that at any second she would tumble into the water. The sailor slid the plank back into the boat, untied the rope and jumped onto the boat. He gave Cutter a brief wave, and the boat pulled slowly away.

  They crossed the short pier and entered the village of Tres Rocas. Most of the buildings were made of closely tied, narrow tree trunks. The roofs were thatched palm fronds. The streets were narrow and unpaved. People stood inside the buildings or just in front of them, watching Cutter and Leslie curiously and talking among themselves. Cutter stopped and asked a group of men a question in Spanish. The senior member of the group answered, pointing emphatically.

  “What did you ask them?”

  “Where the inn is. They were happy to tell me it was on the paved road in the middle of town. Very nice, they said.”

  Leslie decided to reserve judgment. They walked on, circling a group of pecking hens, and after another block came upon the paved road of which the men were so proud. She had to agree it was quite nice compared to the one they had been traveling on.

  Cutter pulled out his pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. Leslie wanted to say something, but he had been respectful of her wishes not to smoke in the car or any enclosed spaces, even though most places obviously allowed it. She decided that was enough of a win and she should just hold her tongue. Besides, they were getting along right now and she had no interest in starting a fight.

  There were a few adobe buildings mixed among the thatched ones. The inn turned out to be one of the adobe structures. Cutter rented a room, small but light and airy, with a lumpy bed in the center. Leslie quickly declined Cutter’s offer to lie down and catch up on the sleep she had missed on the boat.

  The bath was just what she needed, though. There was only the one bathroom for the inn’s six rooms, and the bathtub was an ancient, long tin container that the maid filled up with pails of cold water and warmed with steaming water from a kettle. Leslie was intrigued. She had never seen such an arrangement except in the old western movies her grandfather had loved. It was awkward for washing her hair, but she managed it. It felt delicious to have clean hair and skin again, and the uniqueness of the bath more than made up for its lack of convenience.

  She scrubbed herself clean, dried off with the thin towel the maid had left on the chair beside the tub and dressed in jeans and a white cotton T-shirt. She toweled her hair and combed it out to let it dry hanging loose. When she returned to the room, she found Cutter stretched out across the bed, his long legs hanging off the side. He opened his eyes and smiled at her entrance. “You look slightly more ready for the jungle.”

  “If that’s a compliment, thank you.”

  “It’s a compliment. You also look relaxed and happy.”

  “I am,” Leslie admitted with a laugh. “It’s amazing how wonderful something as simple as a bath can be when you’ve been without one for a while. It was an interesting experience. There’s no running water, apparently. The tub’s the kind that people used long ago. I’ve never had a bath like that.”

  Cutter watched her, a smile hovering on his lips. She looked fresh and pretty, her hair down and wet, her skin scrubbed clean and glowing. He would have liked to take her into his arms and kiss her, but he was dirty, sweaty and uncertain of her reaction. She was too friendly right now for him to risk spoiling her mood by offending her.

  Leslie had surprised him. He had expected her to have given up by this point, revolted by the primitive living conditions and the physical hardships of the journey. She was wealthy and pampered, spoiled. He had been certain she would turn back once she’d spent a couple of days on the road. Yet after being pursued by government spies, sneaking out of a hotel in the middle of the night, sleeping two nights on a hard deck, eating the unappetizing fare aboard the river cargo boat and finally landing in an inn without indoor plumbing, here she was, beautiful and undaunted, happy simply to have been able to bathe. Not only that, she viewed the antique bathtub as an “interesting experience!” He had been wondering what it would take to get her to return to La Luz, but he now discovered that he no longer wanted her to.

  Surprised at his own thoughts, Cutter frowned and sat up. He pointed to the small washstand against the far wall. “I went shopping while you were bathing.”

  “Oh? For what?” Leslie turned to look where he pointed. “A hat?”

  “Yeah. You need a new one. Can’t have you getting sunstroke.”

  “Cutter! Wow. Thank you.” Leslie smiled at him, eyes soft. She picked up the broad-brimmed straw hat. She set it on her head and turned, striking a pose. “How does it look?”

  “Beautiful.” To have said anything else would have been a lie. The straw hat framed her face charmingly.

  Cutter rose and pulled the tails of his shirt out of his jeans. Leslie’s eyes widened. She could see the flash of desire in his eyes. He was going to kiss her. She took a step backward and bumped into the washstand. Cutter leaned over and picked up his clothes from the bed. “I’ll take a bath now.”

  He walked out the door. Leslie relaxed, letting out a sigh. For one panicky moment she had been positive Cutter was about to hit on her again, and she told herself she was relieved he hadn’t. Leslie let out a sigh as she leaned against the rickety stand, wishing she didn’t feel so disappointed that he had not.

  Chapter 7

  It was almost noon before their expected ride arrived. Leslie and Cutter were seated at one of the small tables in front of the inn, shaded by the thatched roof. They had just finished a late breakfast when a battered old truck roared into the village plaza. It looked like a World War II vintage vehicle to Leslie; short and squat, with the unmistakable Mercedes-Benz emblem stuck atop its snub nose. Where the little paint remained on it, the truck was brown. Most of it, however, was a dull lead gray.

  With a clanking of gears and a few loud pops from its exhaust, the truck pulled to a stop beside the plaza. A slightly gangly young man with a scruffy beard and long, blond hair tied up in a topknot hopped down from the cab and glanced around the square. Cutter stood up, put two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Leslie glanced up at him in surprise. Though she had been expecting someone to pick them up any moment, she hadn’t suspected for an instant that it would be in a truck. “Is he the one meeting us?”

  “Yeah.” Cutter waved to the man and sat down, and the blond boy trotted across the street, his bun bobbing on his head.

  “Hey, Cutter,” the young man greeted him as he came up to their table, sticking out his hand to shake Cutter’s and plopping into a chair, all in one motion. “Man, what a drive! What are you doing in this godforsaken place?”

  Cutter shrugged. “It was more a question of getting away from where we were.” He turned toward Leslie. “Leslie, this young man is John Mecklin. Johnny, this is Leslie Harper.”

  “Hello, John. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Hi. Sorry about your husband.”

  “Ex-husband,” Cutter stuck in.

  “Oh. Sorry.” Johnny scratched at his beard, looking like he felt a bit awkward. “Is there anything to drink around here? I’m dying of thirst.”

  “Sure.” Cutter signaled to the waiter and ordered a bottled drink. “You can drink it on the way. I want to get on the road.”

  “Whatever you say. It doesn’t look like there’s much to do here, anyway.”

  “There’s not.” As soon as the drink arrived, Cutter paid the bill, picked up their bags and hustled them over to the truck. He opened the back and tossed the bags inside. Leslie sneaked a peek inside the trailer; it was empty.

  “Cutter,” Leslie remarked as they walked around to the cab, “I’m not sure we need quite this much luggage room.”

  He smiled. “It’s the only transportation John had.”

  “So is this going to be our mode of transport all the way into the mountains, then?”

&
nbsp; “No. After a while, we’ll still have to go by donkey.”

  John drove, with Cutter on the outside and Leslie sandwiched in between them, her legs slanting over into Cutter’s side to avoid the tall stick shift. Mecklin drove with gleeful abandon, going a speed that would have been normal in the States but on these roads seemed almost suicidal. The road, though paved, was narrow and full of potholes.

  “Now I know how popcorn feels,” Leslie said after the fifth time she bounced several inches off the seat.

  Cutter laughed and grabbed her arm to keep her from sliding onto the floor as they rounded a curve. “You’re riding on the best road you’ll see the rest of this trip.”

  Leslie groaned comically and braced herself for another mudhole.

  Cutter nodded approvingly. “See? You’re learning.”

  After three hours of the jouncing, jolting ride, Leslie had reconsidered her opinion of the boat journey up the Rio Miedo. It now seemed quite placid and comfortable. They left the paved road behind and continued on a deeply rutted dirt road. As they roared through several tiny villages, hens and pigs scattered at their approach. Leslie gritted her teeth and held on to the seat with both hands. She felt as if her spine had snapped in at least three places.

  At last John slowed down fractionally and turned off onto an even narrower dirt path. Tree branches brushed against the top of the truck’s trailer. Soon the branches were hitting the cab and then the windshield. Leslie could see nothing in front of them but the green and brown of branches.

  Then, suddenly, they were through it and into a flat, cleared meadow. In the middle of the area sat a large airplane. It looked as if it had come out of the same movie as this truck. Leslie stared, wondering why they were going to the plane. There was something familiar about it. On the side, in big blue letters, it read Flying Service. The word before Flying had been obliterated. Leslie frowned.

  Of course! She straightened up and leaned forward, peering out the window. It was the plane Cutter had been working on in the hangar the day she had gone to talk to him—or one exactly like it. She swung toward Cutter, her brow thunderous. “Is that yours?”