Page 49 of Cutter’s Lady

“Yeah, provided the guerrillas stop to ask me who I am before they take aim. And provided it’s the Moristas who find me, not the NLF.”

Sister Mary Margaret looked over at Leslie. “He’s right, you know. It’s too dangerous. Stay here with us. You’ll be safe.”

“I didn’t come all this way to be safe! I could have been safe—and a lot more comfortable—back in New York. I refuse to sit here at the mission like a good little woman while Cutter goes off to talk terms! They aren’t going to kill us; we’re the ones who will pay them the ransom.”

“Which they haven’t asked for,” Cutter added in disgust.

“What?” Mary looked amazed. “That doesn’t sound like Mora. Why haven’t they asked?”

Leslie shrugged, and Cutter replied shortly, “Because Blake Westfield is dead, that’s why.”

“He’s not!”

“Face facts,” Cutter told her flatly. “Why else would the rebels not have asked for a ransom?”

“Why wouldn’t they ask for one if he’s dead? We wouldn’t know whether he was or not,” Leslie shot back. She’d gone over the question too many times herself not to have a ready answer. “How do we know the Moristas didn’t ask for a ransom from the government, and the government just didn’t tell us? They don’t want us to pay the rebels anything. And why would the government follow us, unless they knew there was a demand for a ransom and we might find it out and pay it?”

Cutter glared. “You’re not going.”

Leslie leaned forward, pointing a forefinger at her mouth. “Read my lips: I am going.”

Cutter crashed his fist against the table, making the dishes jump. Larry and Sister Mary Margaret stopped eating and all the other diners turn to stare. “Why can’t you understand? You could get killed! And not just by the rebels—there are fifty different kinds of poisonous snakes in this jungle.”

“You told me.”

“You won’t be in a car this time. You’ll be right out there with them.”

“You have a gun. Two, in fact.”

“A woman like you could drive a saint to murder.”

“Thank you, but I already know what you think of me.” Leslie leaned forward earnestly. “Cutter, I haven’t slowed you down yet, have I? Have I bitched about the sleeping conditions or crappy food?”

“I actually like the food here,” Larry said to no one in particular.

Cutter gave him a long look and Larry fixed his gaze on his plate. Cutter turned back to Leslie. “Any woman who was so terrified about crossing the old bridge over the Hondo doesn’t belong in a guerrilla camp.”

“That’s not fair! I thought you were endangering us needlessly. I didn’t know about the supplies.”

“There’s a hell of a lot you don’t know about, and it’ll get us into trouble.”

“I’ll do exactly what you say,” Leslie promised.

“Well, that’s something that’s hard to pass up, but it won’t help me much when you get a bullet between the eyes.” They were head to head now, their faces only inches apart, their voices angry hisses, oblivious of the people around them.

“What do you care?” Leslie flared.

“Oh, I care, all right. I promised you we’d finish what we started in the dormitory, and I don’t like the idea of sleeping with a corpse!”

Leslie’s face flushed beet red. “Cutter! What is wrong with you?” She glanced at Sister Mary Margaret and Larry and the numerous other pairs of curious eyes all turned in their direction.

“Besides, how am I going to get the other half of my money if you’re dead?”

“Well, you aren’t going to get either one if I don’t go with you to the Morista camp tomorrow.”

“Are you offering a trade?” Cutter’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“No! That is, you’ll get the money if I go with you.”