Cutter's Lady

by Candace Camp

  It hadn’t surprised Avery when Leslie had married Blake Westfield, a man twelve years her senior and an executive in one of her father’s companies—although Avery had personally thought Blake far too dull for his beloved Leslie.

  Nor was it surprising that Leslie had grown impatient with the lack of progress concerning Blake’s kidnapping and had decided to take matters into her own hands. Despite what had happened between her and Blake, Leslie was too loyal to let Blake languish in the hands of Central American insurgents. And she was too competent to endure the slow, fumbling movements of the two governments involved.

  What was surprising was her immediate, harsh response to Cutter. It wasn’t like her to judge a man without giving him a chance to prove himself. Nor was it like her to be so sharp and cutting and—well, frankly, rude.

  “Leslie, dear…”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you tell Cutter that Blake was your husband?”

  Leslie shrugged. She wasn’t quite sure herself. The words had simply popped out of her mouth, though she hadn’t thought of Blake that way for two years. “I don’t know. It was easier, I suppose, than saying he was my ex-husband. People always seem so surprised that I’m trying to help him when I tell them that we’re divorced. As if I wouldn’t care that he gets tortured or killed just because we aren’t married anymore!”

  “Not everyone is as loyal as you are, my dear. There are those who would feel it simply wasn’t their concern.”

  Leslie gave him a brief smile. Sweet Avery. She wouldn’t disillusion him by pointing out that it was more guilt that drove her than loyalty. Of course, she still liked Blake, even though she’d discovered long ago that she’d never really loved him. But what drove her was the knowledge that it was Leslie’s fault they had gotten a divorce. She felt guilty that, for once in her carefully curated life she had behaved so much like her mother. It was because of her that Blake had been in San Cristóbal and had fallen victim to violence there.

  Leslie had been shocked when, about two months ago, Blake had shown up on her doorstep in New York and pleaded with her to remarry him. After all his anger and blame when she left him, she couldn’t believe that Blake wanted to try again.

  Leslie had been thoroughly dismayed. Things hadn’t worked out as she’d hoped, but she had been happy living by herself in the two years since their divorce. She had just brought another new hotel to such success that she was ready to sell it, too. The last thing she wanted was to go back to Blake Westfield. Finally, when he realized that she was not going to remarry him, Blake had left her apartment, looking so defeated and weary that Leslie had been torn anew with sadness and guilt.

  Three weeks later, when her father casually mentioned that Blake had quit the business and joined a construction company on a job in San Cristóbal, she had suspected that he’d probably felt so embarrassed at his pleading and her rejection that it had been an escape from the humiliation to move so far away.

  Blake had only been in San Cristóbal two weeks when he had been kidnapped. Leslie had been stabbed with remorse. She had talked to his mother and sister on the phone, both of whom were hysterical with grief, and had promised to do everything she could to get him back safely. She had pulled every string she or her father could in Washington to find out what was going on, and she plagued the American Embassy and various San Cristóbalian government officials with long, daily calls.

  It had been the most frustrating experience of her life. Leslie was used to being in control, and she couldn’t stand having to sit idly by while others fumbled and failed. Worse, she knew that all the incompetence might cost Blake his life. So she had decided to take care of it herself. Avery had been tasked with finding someone who knew enough about San Cristóbal to do the job, but he had found it difficult. A few people knew the capital city of La Luz or the coastal resort of Costa Linda but no one knew the mountainous jungles, where the insurgents hid out. That’s why, when Avery finally found a name and address for man who knew the interior of San Cristóbal, she had been willing to travel all this way just for a chance to meet with him.

  “Great help that was.” She sighed.

  “What?” Avery looked over at her inquiringly.

  Leslie shook her head. “Just talking to myself. This thing is driving me crazy. Seriously, Avery, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Give up,” he replied succinctly.

  “Avery! I can’t do that. I’m the only hope Blake’s got of being rescued.”

  “Well, I have checked all over, and I’ll tell you frankly that Cutter is the only name I’ve come up with. Nobody else knows how to navigate central San Cristóbal and no one else has the reputation for being daring enough to even try it. If you aren’t willing to accept Cutter, then you might as well give up. You aren’t going to find anyone else.”

  Leslie set her chin stubbornly. “There must be someone else.”

  “Then you find him. I’ve exhausted every source I have.”

  Leslie’s eyes flickered toward him doubtfully. “Honestly?”

  “Honestly. I wouldn’t lie to you. Look, I realize that Mr. Cutter is not the most savory-looking character, but there aren’t any boy scouts who know that area. Ashe Harlan assured me that Cutter knows it inside out. He lived there for several years.”

  “And how do you know Ashe Harlan knows who’s an expert?”

  “He works for Stone Oil, and he’s in charge of their Central American division. Besides, his wife is Valerie Stanton; she was married to a San Cristóbalian and lived there for years.”

  “That’s right. I remember now. We went to school together.”

  “Harvard? That doesn’t sound like a Stanton girl.”

  Leslie chuckled. “Definitely not. It was at Chapin.” Leslie gave a wry smile as she named the exclusive New York City girls’ school. “I don’t remember her well; I think she was a year behind me. I do faintly remember seeing posts about her wedding on social media—looked like a lavish affair. Back then, I hardly knew anything about San Cristóbal.” She frowned and looked down at her hands. “So you think Ashe Harlan can be trusted?”

  Avery shrugged. “As much as anyone, I’d say. I wouldn’t think there’s anything in it for him either way. Why wouldn’t Ashe tell the truth? He said Cutter once worked for the army or some government agency in San Cristóbal. Not the diplomatic corps.”

  “I’m sure,” Leslie commented dryly.

  “When he quit that, he worked for various private corporations there. I think he’s been back in the States only a short time, less than a year.”

  “You think he’s really into smuggling?”

  Avery made a noncommittal noise. “He’s never been arrested. But Mr. Harlan seemed rather positive that Cutter personally knew one or more of the insurgents’ leaders.” He shot her a significant glance.

  “Meaning he’s a gunrunner.”

  “Also meaning he has access to the very people who are holding Blake.”

  “I see.” Leslie was silent for a moment as she chewed thoughtfully at her thumbnail. “You think I ought to hire him, don’t you?”

  “If he’ll do it, yes. He doesn’t seem to be exactly eager.”

  Leslie made a dismissive gesture. “He’s just holding out for more money. He’ll take it if I offer him enough.”

  “Such cynicism in one so young.”

  “But you know he’ll demand at least part of his payment before he leaves. How can I trust him to go down there and look for Blake? How do I know he won’t cheat me?”

  Avery shrugged.

  “You’re a lot of help.” She rolled her eyes but then sighed and patted Avery’s hand. “I’m sorry. You have been a tremendous help. You’ve gotten me further with this than any other person or even government agency.”

  “I appreciate that, Leslie. But I don’t have any magic answers. You’ll have to take it on faith, I suppose—or not take it at all.”

  “I don’t like the odds.” She leaned her head back against the seat. “I
’ll have to think about it tonight. By the way, exactly where are we going to spend the night?”

  Avery chuckled. “I’m driving back to San Antonio. It’s only an hour away, and it seemed worth the drive to find something better than Zymchek’s Lone Star Motel.”

  “Amen.”

  ***

  Cutter made his way across the graveled parking lot to the U-shaped band of motel rooms behind the bar, his footsteps only slightly unsteady. He’d been here so long that he hardly noticed the bleak, threadbare look of the motel anymore. He’d lived in rough places most of his life, it seemed—his adult life, at least. His quiet upbringing in a small Texas town was a dim memory now, with little evidence except the faintest trace of accent on his tongue. At thirty-six, he’d lived away from home as long as he’d lived there, and he no longer found much of the small-town doctor’s son in himself. Even the proud, flight-hungry boy who’d gained admittance to the Air Force Academy was pretty well buried under the years of reality since.

  Once he’d wanted to fly only the fast, fierce military jets. Now here he was in Purcell, shuttling one lumbering cargo plane and a six-seater Cessna. Dreams had a way of burning off like mist in the morning sun. He’d spent the past few months trying to salvage what Jacky had left him—fixing up the planes, the hangar and the airstrip—and picking up jobs where he could find them, all the while arranging another run to Ixmal. It had taken all his time. Jacky had left things in his usual mess; even dying, he’d been a screw-up. Cutter did little but sleep in his motel room, and then he was usually too tired to notice its shabbiness.

  But tonight he noticed. He saw the peeling paint on the stucco walls and the neon sign out front with three letters unlit. He saw the dinginess of the room and the naked bulb hanging in the bathroom, the rust stains around the sink drain and the ancient, cracking linoleum on the floor. He saw it with new eyes, as Leslie Harper would have seen it, and it was a depressing sight. A seedy motel. And a drunken flyer with engine grease still under his nails. No wonder she’d screeched when that Avery character tried to get him to take the job.

  Cutter grinned. He could always see the comedy in even the worst situation, and this one was more comic than bad. He lowered himself onto the bed with the exaggerated caution of one who had imbibed too well and rested his elbows on his knees. Leslie Harper. Damn, but that woman had a sharp tongue on her. It was obvious she thought he made a habit of getting tanked every night. He hadn’t been about to excuse himself to her or try to explain that months of Purcell, the Lone Star Motel and Jacky’s miserable business had finally gotten to him, so he’d decided to forget it all for just one stupid night. Let her think the worst of him; she wanted to anyway.

  She was judgmental. A snob. He didn’t want to work for her, no matter how much he needed her money. It wasn’t a job he cared for; no one in his right mind would expose himself willingly to the guerrillas. He had had enough of danger and violence during his years in San Cristóbal. He didn’t want that kind of life anymore; he had cut all ties, gotten rid of anything that could possibly be used to monitor him and come to Purcell and taken over the flying service precisely to escape his past.

  Still, he reasoned, it wouldn’t be that dangerous. After all, he knew Mora; they wouldn’t shoot him on sight—provided it was the Moristas who had her husband, of course, and not the NLF. And if she wanted the guy back alive, she better hope it was the Moristas.

  He knew the jungle, too. It would involve a little sweat, a little danger, but he could probably pull it off. If it hadn’t been for her attitude, he might have considered it.

  Then there was the job he had down there. Funny she had turned up right now wanting to send him to San Cristóbal. He’d probably have the cargo ready to fly by the end of the week. Yeah. If it hadn’t been for her attitude, he might have been tempted to take the job.

  But the scorn with which Leslie had regarded him had set Cutter against her immediately. Well, perhaps not immediately. There had been that flash of desire deep in the pit of his abdomen when he first looked up and saw her standing beside his table. She’d looked beautiful and classy and totally out of place in Zymchek’s bar. A challenge. The kind of woman who made you want to take down her hair and sift it through your hands, to ignite that cool, perfectly modeled face with desire and turn the stiff body pliant and soft.

  But then she’d raked him with those hard, contemptuous dark eyes, and he’d known he didn’t want a thing to do with her. She was wealthy and spoiled, used to getting her own way; it was written all over her. No doubt all the men in her life were little lapdogs like Avery, who jumped at her every command. She’d be a huge pain to work for, even separated by thousands of miles.

  He wondered what kind of money she was willing to pay. He sighed and shook his head against the thought. It couldn’t be enough. Not to get involved with a woman like her.

  He reached in his pocket and withdrew the envelope Avery had handed him as he was leaving. He ran a forefinger beneath the flap and ripped it open. There was a single sheet of lined yellow tablet paper within, much folded. Cutter opened it and squinted to read the scrawled words in the poor light.

  “Cutter,

  Hope you don’t mind my sending these folks to you. They’re desperate for someone who knows San Cristóbal, so I thought of you. Val says she went to some fancy finishing school with Leslie Harper and that she’ll be plenty able to pay the price. I figured it’d probably make a good cover for your other business, as well.

  Ashe”

  Carefully Cutter folded the piece of paper again and again until it was a tiny square, studying his hands as if they held all the answers. Harlan was right; it would make a good cover. The authorities down there were plenty suspicious of him. It wouldn’t hurt to have an excuse for going into the interior, should they discover he was there. In fact, he could hire another guy to fly the plane into the interior while he entered through La Luz legally. That’d divert the government’s attention from the real shipment. Then he’d go in search of this Blake character, and along the way he could pick up his supplies and deliver them. The government would doubtless put a tail on him, but he had no doubt that he could shake them.

  He shredded the small note in the shredder he had bought and placed next to the rusted hotel trash can and then lay back on the bed. He didn’t want to work for Leslie Harper, and it would be galling to accept the offer tomorrow after tossing it back in their faces tonight. Still… there was the money. And the cargo.

  He grimaced and rubbed his forehead. An ache was already beginning to grow there. There’d be hell to pay tomorrow for the amount he’d drunk tonight.

  Cutter wondered if the deal would seem more palatable when he was sober. He doubted it. As he’d told Avery tonight, it would probably seem even crazier. He thought of Mary. Of wide, glowing brown eyes. Maybe he ought to do it. After all, after the initial meetings, he would be away from Leslie Harper, beyond the reach of cell phones once he was deep enough in the interior. He might not keep a cell phone himself, but Leslie seemed like the type of person who would track down a companion or someone who could bring him a message. But even that would halt in the jungle. He could find the Moristas and negotiate with some degree of safety. He could pull it off and deliver the goods, as well. With a little bit of luck.

  He threw one arm across his eyes and drifted into sleep, his booted feet still hanging off the edge of the bed, the light burning on the nightstand. The last thing he thought of was a woman’s face, beautifully sculpted, hair pulled tightly back and dark eyes staring at him, tinged with contempt. And as he fell into darkness, he reached for her, pulling her to him and seeking out her mouth. It was warm and soft and melting, and he made a low noise as he slid into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 2

  Leslie and Avery were sitting in the corner booth of the Purcell Café when Cutter came in. They looked as foreign there as they had last night Zymchek’s dingy bar. Leslie wore an ivory skirt and sweater, with a silly little 1920s-style hat perc
hed on her sleek hair, and she looked unbelievably good to Cutter. It was the soft clothing, the kind that invited touch, and her dark hair and eyes and pinkened cheeks were vivid against its paleness. She was even lovelier in the light of day. Sunlight through the window picked out the satin gleam of her hair and the perfection of her creamy skin. Her eyes were wide, luminous. She was so beautiful that for an instant Cutter forgot how bad he felt.

  Leslie glanced up and saw Cutter standing just inside the door, and her eyes flashed. She glanced pointedly at her watch. Cutter’s throbbing headache came back in full force, and, sighing, he strolled across the linoleum floor to their booth.

  Leslie shoved up the sleeves of her sweater almost to her elbows. The pink in her cheeks was as much due to heat as to natural coloring; the skirt and sweater were stifling. When Avery had called about the lead in Texas, she had thrown a couple of suits in a suitcase without paying much attention to what she grabbed. She hadn’t even considered that clothes for January in New York would be far too warm for a south Texas winter. It had to be at least 60 degrees outside and, yet, they had heat going inside every establishment she’d entered. Leslie felt as though she was in a steam bath. The fact that Cutter was thirty minutes late had not improved her mood.

  “He’s being purposely rude,” she fumed to Avery as she watched Cutter saunter lazily toward their table.

  “Well, I did say ‘how about noon’—perhaps he thought I meant around noonish.”

  “He’s doing it to show us how little he needs us. Jacking up the price again.”

  “I have to admit he’s got us over a barrel.”

  “And doesn’t he know it…” Leslie took a deep breath and tried to rein in her anger.

  Cutter stopped beside their table. “Morning, ma’am. Avery.” He dipped the front brim of his hat fractionally in a way that probably passed for greeting in Purcell.

  “Good afternoon,” Leslie responded pointedly, regarding him with a jaundiced eye. It was distinctly annoying, she thought, that he looked much better today. He wore faded jeans and a dark plaid flannel shirt, with a short leather bomber jacket and the same scuffed boots and well-worn cowboy hat, but the clothes were clean and suited his lean figure.