The look Cutter gave her in answer chilled her to the bone.
“Neither did I,” Cutter replied. “But I don’t reckon the man’s laughing any longer.”
Jack Colyer had been one of the most vocal against him. They’d worked together driving cattle for near two years. As one of the older boys, Colyer had made certain Cutter ended up with the worst jobs, the worst supplies, the last of the grub. Hell, he’d actually caught the man bragging over cutting off his horse’s ear. Without a word, Cutter had walked into the circle of men, some of whom were twice his age and bigger to boot, but he’d been too angry to be afraid. No one had moved. He could still feel the silence crawl down his back as they’d watched him move purposely toward Colyer.
His blade had sliced the air so quickly that Colyer had had no idea what had happened until he’d seen the evidence in Cutter’s hand. “Ear for an ear,” Cutter had whispered. And then he’d smiled, feeling a satisfaction he never should have felt over such a violent act. Yet he’d felt it all the same.
No one had ever crossed him again.
But neither had they accepted him.
“Why would he do such a thing to an innocent horse?” Elizabeth wanted to know, bringing him back from the ugly past.
The look he turned on her was condemning. “Same reason you seem to be so averse to my company,” he told her. “He hated half-breeds.”
“I don’t hate half-breeds!” Elizabeth protested.
Cutter shrugged. She might not hate them, but she obviously didn’t like them much either. And yet the passion in her tone told him she was telling the truth, though he couldn’t quite let her off the hook just yet. “Reckon he just wasn’t satisfied with my reaction to his insults,” he disclosed. “He just went a little too far in trying to provoke me, is all.”
“What did you do to him?” Her tone was wary.
One brow lifted as he turned to look at her. There was a long moment of silence. “Scalped him maybe?” he said without emotion.
Elizabeth repressed a shudder. Against her will, she felt a rush of sympathy for the man riding at her side. He seemed so hard, but no one could be so hard that hate wouldn’t touch him. She wondered how he’d felt to be persecuted for his race all his life, and then felt another prick of guilt for calling him names. She’d behaved no better than the man who’d cut off his horse’s ear.
Still, he had provoked her.
She turned to him, and found him watching her intently.
“You don’t want to know,” he said enigmatically, deterring her question.
… don’t reckon the man’s laughing any longer.
Elizabeth swallowed. “I suppose not,” she relented, shuddering over his cryptic remark. Shaking off her morbid thoughts, she resolved to keep to herself the rest of the day.
As they rode on, the lay of the land changed very little, and she found herself growing weary of the monotony.
And the silence.
And the heat.
Her shirt was growing damp at her back, and tiny rivulets tickled her flesh beneath her breasts, making her feel impossibly sticky. Surreptitiously plucking her blouse away from her bosom, she silently cursed the unusually warm weather.
What was more, in spite of the shade Cutter’s hat provided, her face was beginning to feel perpetually warm, and she suspected her cheeks and nose were becoming burnt. Instinctively she examined the sensitive bridge of her nose, thinking that on the bright side, she no longer had spectacles to fret over. And then she felt bereft suddenly as she reflected on that loss. Somehow it seemed as though her father had been wrenched away from her all over again… and she didn’t really understand that at all. They had been mere wire and glass, after all. She sighed, a wealth of emotion betrayed by the dismal sound, and it earned her a discerning glance from Cutter.
Elizabeth sat brooding, oblivious to the many glances Cutter directed her way. He was quiet too, but his silence had little to do with anger, or even regret. Foremost in his mind was how to prove himself to her. Could he persuade Elizabeth to see him as other than the heathen savage she considered him? From the moment he’d awakened this morning to find her sleeping so peacefully, curled like an infant on her side, few thoughts other than those had occupied his mind.
Watching her in those quiet early morning moments, he’d tried to muster up the desire to get up off his hindquarters and shave his whiskers, but he couldn’t seem to move. By the time she’d finally gotten round to waking, it had been too late to do anything more than pack—his whiskers go hang.
As he’d watched her, he kept remembering her brief moment of laughter, when she’d told him about Dick Brady’s shenanigans, the curve of her lips as she’d smiled on the verge of drunkenness. Somehow he had the impression that she didn’t smile much—didn’t have much to smile about. And he seemed to crave her smile.
Just couldn’t figure why.
Last night she’d quietly hummed herself to sleep, the sound as woebegone as the whine of a lost pup, and it left him feeling her emptiness sharply.
Why was he so drawn to her? he wondered with another glance her way. When she obviously placed so little worth in him? He’d never thought himself a sucker for prudish misses. He dismissed the fact that she turned all dreamy-eyed in his arms. He didn’t fool himself a’tall over that. Her response to him was nothing less than he’d’ve expected from any innocent miss.
He hadn’t gotten around to telling her yet that he didn’t intend to let her hire on anyone else in St. Louis—wasn’t really sure how to make her see things his way. He only knew that she wasn’t gonna do it—not if he had anything to say about it. Just the thought of some other man lying next to her in bed—any bed—burned like rotten whiskey at his gut.
Hell, maybe that was all there was to it.
Maybe she just didn’t realize that in order to make it look real, she was gonna have to play the part all the way through, right down to the last particulars. And that meant sharing the same room—maybe even the same pillow. Maybe all he needed to do was let her in on that little fact.
Maybe that was all he needed. To satisfy his body’s hunger. Maybe once he got her out of his system, he’d quit thinking of those breasts of hers, the way they’d looked barely concealed by her diaphanous camisole.
He felt a stirring in his britches and rolled his eyes. Chrissakes, not again. He glanced at her sharply. Hell, he didn’t even have to look at her to get himself all worked up.
By the time they called a halt for the day, the soreness of Elizabeth’s bottom had worked its way into her limbs. Even her fingers hurt where she’d clutched the reins, but she didn’t dare complain. Flexing them, she determined to be of some help this time, and after deciding just how, she set about gathering firewood while Cutter set off to water the horses at the river.
He returned barely long enough to settle the horses and then remove his carbine from a special attachment to the saddle. He asked her, while unsheathing his army-model Colt from his holster, “Know how to use this?”
Dropping an armload of firewood at her chosen spot, and brushing her hands free of the filth, Elizabeth gave him an exasperated glance. “If I can see it,” she muttered, “I can shoot it.”
He handed her the gun. “Good,” he said, and turned away. “Use it wisely.”
Elizabeth stared at it a moment in offense, then at Cutter’s retreating back, watching it until it became woolly.
“Trouble is, I can’t see,” she bemoaned, but she wasn’t about to admit that failing to Cutter. By the time her target was in her field of vision, it’d more likely than not be too late. Glaring at the revolver with a measure of anxiety, she decided that she just wouldn’t use the blasted thing, is all.
Cutter pivoted toward her suddenly. “What did you say?”
Elizabeth forced a smile. “Nothing,” she replied hastily. He didn’t look quite convinced, and she gave him an irritated sigh. “I said, I’d be all right! Don’t worry about me. Good night,” she muttered. She’d been taki
ng care of herself for most of her life. Her father had been too busy, and more oft than not, she’d taken care of him. She didn’t need Cutter’s concern. If that’s what it was. And there was room for doubt.
With a nod and a grin, Cutter turned again. “Just don’t aim at anythin’ standing upright,” he told her, “unless it speaks first, and you know for sure it’s not me.”
Elizabeth gasped indignantly.
“If you need me, fire once—skyward, if you don’t mind. Wouldn’t want to butt heads with a stray bullet.”
He walked away without looking back, and Elizabeth had the sudden urge to point the gun heavenward and squeeze the trigger with all her might, startle him out of his too snug britches—the man was just a little too smug for her liking. They were almost indecent the way they clung to his hips and thighs! She’d tried to ignore those sinewy muscles of his, but it was just impossible. Never had she seen a body quite so hard as his!
Blasted man!
Laying the gun aside, carefully, with a little prayer that she wouldn’t need it, Elizabeth finished gathering the firewood. She hoped Cutter would find something a little more edible than jerky to satisfy their hunger. As far as she was concerned, she’d had more than enough of the dehydrated beef already.
By the time Cutter returned, kill in hand, she’d managed to set up the wood in a fashion, so that air could flow easily between the kindling. That way it would go out quickly, as Cutter seemed to prefer. She was in the process of tending the fire, and the first tiny flame was licking its way triumphantly into the wooden pyramid she’d built, when Cutter’s shouted expletive made her leap up, startled.
Whirling toward the sound, she took in his livid expression and bolted out of his way as he stalked toward her. Astounded, she turned and watched as he stamped out the small flame she’d worked so hard to begin.
“If you don’t know how to do something, dammit—ask!”
There was genuine puzzlement in Elizabeth’s expression. “I know how to start a fire!” she protested.
Cutter’s black eyes speared her, unnerving her with the hostility they revealed. “You’re not snug at home, Miz Bowcock,” he said through his teeth, “all bundled up beside your cozy little fireplace. Without stones or something of the sort to keep the fire from spreading, we’d start a blaze like nothing you’ve ever seen this side of hell!”
“There’s no need to curse at me! I certainly didn’t know!” If possible, Elizabeth’s sunburned cheeks became warmer, and her irritation intensified. Just how was she supposed to have known? “And you didn’t have to come rushing at me like… like…
“Like a savage out of the wild?” Cutter offered.
Elizabeth’s chin rose a notch, and she took in a breath, releasing it slowly in an effort to keep her composure. “I—wasn’t—going—to say that!” Her eyes slitted wrathfully. “Though now that you mention it—”
Cutter’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Don’t say it,” he warned.
“You started this!” Elizabeth felt obliged to point out. “Whatever happened to our truce? Good night, you’d think I was committing the direst of sins, when I was only trying to help!”
No, just wheedling her way into his every thought, was all.
Cutter couldn’t even hunt without thinking of her. What the hell did he care what she liked to eat? “All right, so now you know,” he said tightly. “Now come on over here and I’ll show you how it’s done properly.”
Elizabeth didn’t budge.
He began by clearing the surrounding area of debris. That done, he knelt, unsheathing his knife from his boot, and dug out a trench two feet long, heaping the soil to one side. Afterward, he gathered stones and arranged them accordingly.
“It’s easier to build one above ground,” he conceded. “But this way conserves fuel. Aside from that, we don’t need anyone aware of us. I’ve been tracking too long to feel comfortable leaving traces.” He glanced up, gauging Elizabeth’s expression. She’d yet to move forward, though she was watching him, her expression both curious and affronted. “You wouldn’t believe how much can be determined by studying an abandoned camp,” he said, in an attempt to draw her closer.
At his declaration, Elizabeth scanned the area. Seeing nothing, she returned her attention to Cutter, hands on her hips. “And just who do you expect is out there?” she asked abruptly, hating the way her eyes returned not to his face, but to the muscle play in his arms as he worked. His arms, sinewy and bronzed from the sun, gave testimony to a lifetime of strenuous labor. Unable to turn away, she stared, mesmerized.
Quit staring, she admonished herself. Good night, you’d think you ‘d never seen a man before!
Cutter shrugged, never peering up from his work. “Take your pick.”
Elizabeth shook off a quiver, shaking her head as though to dispel her wayward thoughts. “Indians?” she said.
There was horror in her tone, and Cutter winced at hearing her greatest fear. “Could be,” he said as dispassionately as he was able. Rising, he slapped at his denims, whisking the dirt from his hands as he flicked her an annoyed look. With a disgusted shake of his head, he proceeded to gather up the buffalo chips he’d found while out hunting.
In an unusual display of clumsiness, he’d dropped them all at the sight of her on her knees by the fire, her pert little fanny clearly defined as she’d bent over her task. It had taken him a full moment to recoup himself after that view. One thing was certain, the woman had one helluva backside.
Once the chips were all recovered, he placed them in the small pit he’d formed, topping them with the smallest bits of deadwood Elizabeth had gathered. The rest, he scattered.
Seeing a chip that he’d missed, Elizabeth bent to retrieve it, dropping it, too, into the pit. “What about the smoke?” she reminded him tersely.
“It’ll last only long enough to cook with,” he told her as he removed a scrap of linen and a cartridge from his front pocket. From it, he produced a match and struck it. He put it to the cloth, and for a moment, as he watched it catch. He glanced up at her suddenly, his eyes probing. He didn’t understand how she could look at his sister and not see what she was… and then she could look at him and see only what he didn’t want her to see.
He cursed suddenly as the flame singed his thumb.
“Are you all right? Do you want me to look at that?” she asked him at once.
“No,” he told her. “It’s just fine!” Muttering another expletive under his breath, he pitched the cloth into the kindling, casting Elizabeth a swift glance as he returned the cartridge to his pocket. Damned woman. She was gonna kill him before it was all over!
“What about warmth?” she asked abruptly, watching as Cutter readjusted several pieces of tinder. “Won’t we need the fire tonight?”
“No,” Cutter replied. Lifting his head, he gave her a smile. “We won’t—but it isn’t as though we’re in the middle of winter, Doc. And we’ve got blankets.”
His eyes held promises Elizabeth didn’t quite comprehend. Still, she found herself unsettled by them, yet, at the same time, intrigued. “W-what if it’s not enough?” she worried aloud. “It was cool last night,” she added plaintively.
Cutter’s eyes held her spellbound. Had her skirt been on fire, she doubted she could have broken away.
“We’ve got each other,” Cutter said, his lips curving faintly. “We’ll be warm enough, I reckon.”
There was a sudden wild fluttering in her stomach. “The blankets will keep us warm enough,” she assured him much too quickly. “I-I’m certain they will!”
Cutter grinned at her obvious assumption, and her telltale nervousness, then his expression softened considerably. “Ever eat a puddle jumper?” he asked conversationally.
“A what?”
“Rattler.”
“Ugghhh! Of course not!” Elizabeth actually took a step backward, waving him off, as though afraid he would force her. “And I never plan to,” she declared with certainty.
Cutter g
rinned suddenly. His smile made Elizabeth’s toes curl in her shoes.
His eyes darted to the burlap sack that lay forgotten a few feet away. “Never say never, Doc,” he advised her solemnly. Elizabeth’s gaze followed, then snapped back suspiciously to Cutter.
Cutter’s grin widened, his teeth flashing white against his swarthy, unshaven complexion. His chuckle was low and rich when it came, bringing back that annoying sparkle to his eyes.
Inexplicably, Elizabeth’s heart turned over at the sight of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Never came much sooner than Elizabeth would have liked.
With nothing else available, she was forced to at least taste the despised rattler. And if the truth were known, it might not have been so bad, had she not known what it was.*
But she did know.
And it was all she could do to get down just enough to keep her stomach from grumbling. It didn’t help matters much that Cutter seemed to be enjoying her uneasiness so much. Forcing down the last flame-singed chunk, she rose and commenced to unpack her bedroll, knowing they would have no fire to see by once night fell.
Thinking that she would catch the remaining heat from the fire as it died, she settled near it. As she worked, Cutter watched her, his expression preoccupied as he busied his hands with a strip of rawhide and the rattler’s forfeited tail end. After a while, he set his labors aside and pulled out his own bedroll, laying it across the fire from Elizabeth.
No sooner were they situated when the sun presented its parting colors, a glorious display of garnet and indigo.
Unfortunately, unlike the night before, sleep eluded Elizabeth, even hours later. She’d half expected that her eyes would close in time with the setting sun. But it hadn’t been so. Miserably, she could feel every lump beneath her, every stone, every stiff blade of grass. Her body was still sore, though not nearly as much as it had been the night before.
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