She sipped her margarita, hoping it would settle her nerves. Earlier, Colt had tried to ease her fears by reminding her that Tim was with his father, and though there was no question the boy was in danger, they had to believe the man wouldn’t harm his own son.
“There’s no use worrying,” he’d said. “Cortez has the information we need, and until we have it, there’s nothing we can do.”
He was right, of course. And the first step was to hear what Señor Cortez had to say.
“You are worried about the boy.” Lupita’s voice broke into Lissa’s thoughts. Señora Cortez was exquisitely beautiful; a woman in her late twenties, tall and slender, with black eyes that tilted up at the corners, giving her an almost Middle Eastern look. She was wearing an ankle-length white gauze off-the-shoulder summer dress, tied with a colorful red sash. Dangling red-beaded earrings hung from her ears, and her feet were encased in red open-toed sandals. She also seemed very sweet and very much in love with her husband.
“His mother is my best friend. She’s sick with fear for her son.”
“My husband will do everything he can to help.” Lupita glanced over to where Cortez spoke with Alex and Colt. “You see, Benito was married before. He lost a son to the drug cartels. His oldest boy, Miguel, craved independence. He began to associate with the wrong people. Benito tried to warn him, but Miguel wouldn’t listen. You know how young men can be. He was killed during a fight between rival cartels.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lupita sipped her drink. “Benito’s first wife, Maria, never recovered from the loss. She was sick with grief and eventually passed away. Benito understands the love of a mother for her son.”
“Is he acquainted with Ray Spearman, the man they call El Puñal?”
She shook her head, shifting long black hair across her back. “Only by reputation. It is what El Puñal stands for that Benito disapproves of,” Lupita said. “The misery he causes as he does the cartel’s bidding. The man is known to be ruthless in the extreme.”
A shiver slid down Lissa’s spine. “We need to get Timmy out of there.”
“Si, yes, and Benito knows this. As I said, he will do all he can to help.” She glanced up to see Rico standing in the doorway, a sign it was time to eat.
“Dinner is ready.” Lupita smiled. “You will find your seat next to your man, Colt.”
Lissa’s head came up, though Alex must have said they were together or they wouldn’t be sharing a casita. At least for now, Colt was her man. She wished she didn’t like the sound of it so much.
Determined to enjoy the time they had together, Lissa took her seat beside him. Colt reached beneath the table and laced her fingers with his.
“Enjoy the meal,” he said softly. “We’ve got the intel we need. I’ll fill you in when we get back to the casita.”
Lissa relaxed. Clearly Colt had found out where Spearman had taken Timmy. Being left out of the men’s conversation didn’t upset her. This was Mexico, a male-dominated society. And she had gleaned information of her own.
Now they just needed to come up with a plan to get Timmy away from El Puñal, out of Mexico, and back to Dallas.
The hard look on Colt’s face said it wouldn’t be easy.
TIMMY SAT IN an ornate high-back chair at a heavy, intricately carved wooden dining table. His father sat in an even bigger chair at the end. He called the house his hacienda. It was like something Timmy had seen in a history book, with thick beams in the ceilings and red-tile floors. The walls were white, the rooms were huge, and there were fireplaces everywhere.
“The house is filled with expensive antiques,” his father had told him proudly. “Be careful not to break anything.”
Dad had shown him to his room upstairs on the opposite side of the house, which was built in a U-shape around a patio with a fountain in the middle. They had driven in through a big wooden gate in the wall that surrounded the property.
And there were actual servants! Men in black pants and white shirts, women in black skirts and white blouses. Dad made them call him Don Ramon. Timmy figured Ramon sounded like Ray in Spanish. Don probably meant “king” or “emperor” or something because that was the way they treated him.
“Eat your posole before it gets cold,” his father said, jarring him out of his dark thoughts.
Timmy spooned in a mouthful and followed it with a big gulp of water. It was some kind of pork dish, and it was burning hot. He had never liked spicy food but he was in Mexico now. He figured he had better get used to it.
“Hurry up and finish so you can go up to your room and get some sleep. I’ve got a tutor for you starting tomorrow morning. We’ll see how your school work is progressing, make sure you don’t backslide. His name is Señor Garcia and he’ll also be teaching you Spanish.”
Timmy’s chest felt tight. He took a deep breath the way the doctor told him to do when he got upset. He didn’t want to start wheezing. He didn’t want his father to think he was a wimp.
He managed to nod. His teachers said he talked too much, but now words seemed to stick in his throat.
“What about Mom?” he asked, the question stupidly popping out of his mouth.
“I’ll call her in a day or two, let her know you’re okay. We’ll give her a little time to get used to the idea you’ll be staying with me, then you can talk to her.”
His head bobbed in agreement, but he felt like crying. He wouldn’t be going home any time soon.
He started to slide the heavy chair back.
“You’ll ask to be excused before you leave.”
He swallowed. “Can I be excused?”
“May I be excused, and yes, you may.”
As Timmy slid the chair back,
