Cut Throat by Sharon Sala Page B

humility here, where the only thing people had of any value were their good names.
     
    And so, when he came around the corner of the building and saw the dark, dusty vehicle pulling up at the church, he knew he’d been right. It was a stranger.
     
    To his surprise, the stranger was a lone woman, and when she got out of the vehicle, his first impression was that her beauty was striking but she was far too thin. No one came to Adobe Blanco on purpose, so most likely she was just lost. But when she got closer, and he saw the set of her jaw and the fiery gleam in her eyes, he reassessed his opinion. She might still be lost, but there was an anger in this woman the likes of which he’d never seen.
     
    Cat was looking toward the front door of the church when she realized the man she’d come looking for was already outside. She paused as the priest came toward her and thought to herself that he was taller than most Latinos she knew. His stride was slow but measured, and his face was lined and leathery from the years and the chill of the season. By the time they were face-to-face, she had to look up to meet his gaze.
     
    “Padre Francisco?”
     
    He only nodded.
     
    “You are American?” “Yes.”
     
    “Are you lost, señorita?”
     
    She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite make it to her lips. “I’ve been lost most of my life,” she said. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
     
    The odd, husky quality of her voice was explained once he saw the ugly scar on her neck. He sighed. Life was hard, no matter who you were or where you came from.
     
    “Then how can I help you?” he asked.
     
    “Do you know a young woman named Pilar Mendoza? She would have a baby girl less than a year old.”
     
    Cat was more than slightly surprised by the smile that spread across his face. It drastically changed the somberness of his expression.
     
    “Sí! Sí! The little mother.”
     
    Cat flinched. The isolation of her life had not prepared her for being the bearer of bad news to anyone but bail jumpers. Still, it was why she’d come.
     
    “It is cold today,” the priest said. “Please…we will talk more inside…okay?”
     
    The priest’s smile, as well as his gentle touch, was almost painful to Cat. Still, she let him lead her inside the small one-room church.
     
    Once inside, it was obvious that the priest’s life was no better or worse than the other people of Adobe Blanco. The normal ornamentation one expected to see in Catholic churches was absent here. Behind a pulpit there was a single wooden cross hanging on the wall, bearing the crucified figure of Jesus, and there was a small figurine of the Virgin Mary in a niche by the doorway.
     
    The priest dipped his fingers in a small metal bowl of holy water, made the sign of the cross, then genuflected, before leading the way down the center aisle to the pews in the front.
     
    “Please…sit,” he said.
     
    Cat sat down as the priest moved to a small potbellied stove near the wall and stirred the coals before adding a small stick of wood. When he was done, he sat down beside her.
     
    “Now then, you mentioned Pilar. Are you a friend?” Cat took a deep breath. God, help me do this right. “No, Padre. I never met her. Does she have family here?”
     
    Padre Francisco frowned. It seemed strange that this woman would ask about a woman she didn’t know, then inquire about a family.
     
    “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Maybe if you explained your true reason for —”
     
    Cat swallowed nervously. “She’s dead.”
     
    The priest reeled as if he’d been slapped. Again he made the sign of the cross as he whispered some prayer Cat didn’t understand.
     
    “Dear God…what happened? How do you know this?”
     
    Unaware than her fingers were curled into fists, Cat started talking, wanting to get it all said without coming undone.
     
    “I found her and the baby in the desert last night.”
     
    Tears rolled down the old priest’s face as he