Page 36 of Cutter’s Lady

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?”

“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?”

“Yeah.”

John jerked to a halt and killed the engine. He and Cutter opened their doors and slid out of the high cab. Leslie followed quickly.

“Cutter…” He ignored her and walked to the plane. There were several San Cristóbalian men in a line desultorily passing boxes out of the cargo hold onto the ground. Many more boxes were stacked on the ground around them. “Cutter!”

He rattled off a string of words in Spanish to the workers, and the line sped up considerably. Leslie broke into a trot, then ran to catch up with him. “Cutter!” She grabbed one of his arms and jerked hard enough that he turned.