With the heart-breaking sobs of the young girl ringing in his ears, Father Merry came out of the tiny bedroom and went to the hand pump. He worked the lever, splashing water over his hands, then his face. Temporally blinded, he groped around for a towel. A pair of soft hands pressed a coarse cloth into his grip and he grunted his thanks. Patting his face dry, he turned to Nati Parker standing before him.
A slender woman of just over thirty, Nati possessed the smouldering good looks which betrayed her Mexican heritage – dark eyes and raven-black hair pulled back from her smooth, burnished face. She ran her tongue over her teeth and said, “How is she?”
“A little better. It"s going to take time, Nati.”
“We both have plenty of that.”
“Maybe not.”
She titled her head. “What do you mean?”
