Page 178

“For what?”

“For getting me out. For coming after me when I ran down that mountain like a lunatic. For holding me together after Papá died.” My throat tightened, but I kept going. “You never once made me feel weak for needing you.”

“You weren’t weak.”

“I know.” I studied him. “That’s the point. You’re probably the most dangerous man I’ve ever willingly gotten close to, but with you, I don’t feel small. You make me feel safe without making me feel helpless.”

His arm tightened around my waist.

“Good. Because you’re not helpless. And anyone who tries to put you in another cage will have to go through me first.”

For the moment, neither of us seemed inclined to move.

For a few minutes, I was perfectly content to stay where I was, warm against his chest with his arms around me and far too aware of how much I liked being there.

Eventually, Lachlan shifted beneath me, breaking the spell.

“Come on, Mouse. Marcela’s got a head start figuring out where we went, and I’d prefer Nik finds us before she does.”

That was enough to pull the morning back toward reality.

We got up and ate what little food I’d managed to pack before everything at La Cruzona erupted, then shared the remaining water. It wasn’t much, but the lower slopes were cultivated. I was sure we would pass by bananas and papayas, and even the pulp around ripe coffee cherries would give us something to eat if we needed it. We weren’t going to starve before we found help.

I checked the backpack once more. Mamá’s photograph and her antique locket had survived the escape undamaged, which felt like a minor miracle. I was equally grateful that the end of January fell in the dry season. Sleeping in a small rock hollow was unpleasant enough without spending the night soaked through.

Lachlan checked both pistols while I repacked everything. A few minutes later, we crawled from beneath the overhang and started down the mountain again.

The farther we descended, the more the mountain changed from tangled forest to land shaped by the farmers who earned a living from it. Coffee shrubs appeared beneath taller shade trees in organized rows, some still heavy with clusters of red cherries, while banana plants and the occasional papaya grew along the edges of the cultivated plots. The bananas we’d eaten earlier no longer seemed like a lucky find. We were getting close to the farms. For the first time since leaving La Cruzona, there were signs that people lived and worked somewhere nearby.

As we walked, I pointed out the pruned coffee branches, fruit picked clean from some plants but left on others, and narrow footpaths worn into the volcanic soil by people moving between the rows. Lachlan listened to all of it.

More than listened. When I told him which direction I thought would be best, he changed course without question.

It was such a small thing that he probably never gave it another thought.

I did.

All my life, men had questioned or dismissed me whenever I knew more than they thought I should. Lachlan simply found my knowledge useful and acted on it.

A distant engine somewhere uphill sent us into cover until the sound faded.

“It was probably just a farmer,” I said once we started moving again.

“Could’ve been. Could also be one of Marcela’s men looking for the two of us. Until I know which, I’m assuming the second.”

I couldn’t argue with his caution.

We pushed downhill at a brisk pace, keeping our voices low as we talked. I was explaining that there was a reason coffee covered so many of El Salvador’s mountainsides. The volcanic soil, higher elevations, and shade made the slopes particularly good for growing high-quality Arabica. I was still talking when my right boot caught a root hidden beneath the leaves.

My ankle rolled hard beneath me.

Pain shot up my leg, and I lost my balance.

Lachlan caught me around the waist and pulled me against him before I hit the ground.

“Isabella, are you okay?”

Embarrassment flared almost as quickly as the pain. “I’m fine. It was just a misstep, that’s all.”