“You just about through here?”
Startled from her contemplations, Elizabeth whirled abruptly, her hand releasing her skirt, and flying to her hat. She was shocked to her toes to find Cutter standing so close behind her. She hadn’t even heard him approach.
Cutter stared, his face contorting with disgust. “What is that?” he asked.
Feeling suddenly three times a ninny, and realizing that her mouth was hanging agape, Elizabeth snapped it shut, covering it immediately with her hands. Her cheeks flamed.
“Jee-zus, Lizbeth!” Cutter muttered, sounding repulsed. “There’s plenty o’ jerky left over if you’re hungry.” Then his eyes took in her soiled index finger, and he understood.
He lowered her hands slowly from her face, needing another look in order to believe that she was actually brushing her teeth with sand.
His lips twisted as his gaze dropped to her hem, which was soaking up the river. He shook his head, clearing his throat. “Never mind,” he said abruptly, “don’t wanna know. Just don’t get any on my hat.”
He pivoted on his heels, his shoulders shaking as he walked away from her.
It wasn’t until he was a safe distance away that Elizabeth was able to move again.
Coming as close as she ever had to blaspheming, she spat the offensive sand out of her mouth and then swished again with water, spurting it out with a vengeance. It was then that she noticed the rising wet stain on her ruined skirt, and her color rose higher, though out of rage.
How was it that she forgot everything—everything—in Cutter’s presence?
When she returned to camp, she was slightly more composed, though still tingling with indignity. How dare he make light of her personal hygiene! Surely he had many of the same needs to consider? Avoiding his gaze, she quickly gathered her remaining effects. There was barely enough time to brush the dust from her skirts before Cutter was hoisting her into the saddle.
Hauling himself into his own saddle, he turned to her suddenly, his grin engaging, his teeth striking against his swarthy complexion. His eyes twinkled with mischief. “By the way,” he remarked casually, “next time… just ask. You’re more’n welcome to use one of my own brushes… and powder.” And then he had the audacity to chuckle with good humor. Turning, he gently whipped the reins, leaving Elizabeth to stare daggers at his back.
Did he never miss an opportunity to needle her? she wondered. Yet, despite of her anger, he’d planted a seed, and as irrational as it was, she couldn’t quite banish the suggestive image of her using his toothbrush. It should have disgusted her, but instead, it gave her a strange quivering sensation deep down.
By midday, Elizabeth was thoroughly exhausted from having spent such a restless night. Her only consolation was that Cutter didn’t seem to have fared any better, though his manner was never more obnoxious. The gleam in his eye when he happened to look her way made her screaming mad. And his winking—… his winking infuriated her, because she felt as though he were poking fun at her somehow.
Having slept for the second night in her dirty, rumpled clothing, Elizabeth had no delusions over her appearance. For certain, she’d never been much of a beauty, but now she was sure she was just plain unsightly. Her skirt, with its torn hem, looked as though it had seen more years than she had, with all the filth it had accumulated. And the white blouse? Well, she preferred not to think of it at all.
At the first opportunity, she planned to change into her new clothes and scrub the ones she was wearing in the river. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have any soap to launder with. At least then she would feel cleaner, even if she wouldn’t look it. And it’d be nice to bathe at the same time, but she wasn’t sure she’d dare the risk—at least not a full bath, she amended with a distrustful glance at Cutter. Sometimes… sometimes… when he looked at her… well, she just wasn’t certain.
And then there was that—whatever it was that he’d done to her last night—that she was trying so desperately to forget. But who could forget? There were moments when she found herself wishing that she were farsighted, and not nearsighted, as she was. She didn’t want to be able to see him… that strange look he gave her every so often. Yet she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him either.
She gave him another furtive glance, and caught him rubbing his brows tiredly.
In profile, his face was positively striking, his cheekbones high, his jaw thick, darkened considerably by at least a week’s worth of stubble. But it was those lips of his that made her feel so vulnerable… the way they’d felt on her skin, so warm… so mesmerizing. She shivered, and unconsciously ran her hand down the length of her braid, taking note of every loose tendril of hair.
What a sight she must present to him!
She was sure Cutter was used to women’s attentions. He could probably choose almost any woman he wished and she would thrill to the opportunity.
How many women had tried to gain his favor?
Now, why did that question seem to bother her?
Why should her appearance matter so much, when it never had before?
And why had he kissed her?
She couldn’t even begin to understand what had happened between them last night… why she had let it happen. He’d yet to mention the fact that he’d awakened to find her in his bed. Had she disgusted him? Her heart seemed to grow heavy with that thought.
Gliding his hands through his sweat-dampened black bangs, Cutter glanced her way, catching her staring, and a smile curved those arrogant lips of his. Flustered by the devilment in his black eyes, Elizabeth quickly averted her gaze, all the while cursing him to perdition.
Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a hot bath, clean clothes… those lips… No—lands, her mind was running amok! She didn’t need… or want… not that! Her face heated, and feeling Cutter’s scrutiny upon her still, she turned her head away more fully, hiding the incriminating color on her cheeks.
Cutter chuckled.
Elizabeth chose to ignore him. He couldn’t possibly have known what she was thinking!
No… just the bath, she reaffirmed with a sigh, trying desperately to refocus her thoughts. That was all she wanted—or needed. Course, if the sky grew any darker than it was just now, she considered with a heavenward glance, she might not have to worry over her washing, at that. The rain would likely take care of it for her.
But it didn’t rain that day. Nor during the night. Though by late afternoon of the next day, the sky had grown black as pitch, and storm clouds swirled like sinister shadows overhead. Every so oft, a streak of white would flicker against the darkening horizon, and Elizabeth grimaced at the sight of it. To either side of them, the river bluffs butted high against the gloomy sky. As time went on, it grew so dark that it was difficult to distinguish where the bluffs ended and the sky began. As the wind picked up, she squashed Cutter’s hat to the top of her head so it wouldn’t be swept away.
It came as no surprise when the first drizzles misted the air about them. But they were in the middle of nowhere, Cutter having conscientiously steered clear of the townships, and though the trees were slowly growing in number, Elizabeth doubted they would use them for shelter. She’d heard tales of men being struck by lightning while out during storms. In fact, there’d been a woman last April who’d come in to see her father, claiming that her son had been struck down when a bolt of lightning had split a tree more than twenty feet from where he’d stood. The poor child had never fully recovered the use of his legs.
But there seemed to be no place else to take refuge against the rising tempest, and at this point the bluffs were too steep to climb, so they trekked on, despairing ever to ride out of the storm. Assessing the sky once more, Elizabeth glanced anxiously at Cutter. He seemed deep in thought, surveying the swirling heavens. His long hair snapped behind him in the breeze.
“Looks like we’re in for one helluva squall!” Cutter bellowed suddenly, glancing at her.
As though in response, the wind picked up, plastering Elizabeth’s
wet blouse to her bosom. Her skirt billowed out around her. It fluttered wildly, snapping near as loud as the thunder overhead. Instinctively she lowered the brim of Cutter’s hat to shield her face from the buffeting wind. Cocking her head into the bluster, she looked pleadingly at Cutter. “Shouldn’t we find shelter or something?” she asked him.
The wind plastered his wet, dark hair to his head. Rainwater dripped from his bangs into his mouth as he spoke. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” he retorted. “You happen to see someplace I don’t?” One brow rose in challenge, channeling rainwater onto his aquiline nose. As he watched her, his hand darted up to swipe at his face, and then tore into his wet hair, removing the offending strands from his forehead. It lingered in his glistening black mane as he stared at her.
His eyes took in the shape of her wet blouse, the way it molded about her breasts. He lifted his gaze to her face. Slitting suddenly, his eyes glittered like the blackest onyx.
As she watched him, a shiver darted down Elizabeth’s spine that had little to do with the cold swiftly settling into her bones. Answering his challenge, her own eyes quickly scanned the horizon as she turned the mustang mare in a full circle. And then she whirled Cocoa suddenly, glimpsing something over her shoulder. It was barely visible with her sorry vision and the swirling rain, yet there—a darker shading of rock against the bluff—and she whirled the mare about to examine it more closely, reining in. No matter how hard she squinted, she couldn’t see it clearly enough.
“What about that?” she appealed, her tone rising with the wind. Cocoa pranced restlessly beneath her as she indicated the black shadow in the light stone. She couldn’t really see much at this distance, but she wasn’t about to admit as much to Cutter. She had to trust that his vision was at least slightly better than her own.
Cutter wheeled his mount about, his eyes squinting against the gusts, but to her surprise, he showed no reaction at all.
He shook his head, and then seeing another possibility near it, conceded, “Maybe.” His shadowed eyes met hers, then glanced upward as a bolt of electric white lit up the sky. “Might be as good as it gets,” he warned her. With a brisk nod, he urged Elizabeth on ahead.
Thunder exploded around them, the sound too loud and too violent for peace of mind.
Elizabeth cringed, her eyes widening fearfully.
Seeing her bloodless expression, Cutter booted the tail end of her mount. “Ride!” he shouted, and then spurred his own mount.
Elizabeth cried out and gripped the saddle horn for dear life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Reaching the craggy bluff first, Cutter motioned for Elizabeth to stay put.
“Why’d you hafta kick my horse?” she demanded at once, seeking courage in her wrath, but he ignored her, leaving her to wait in the downpour while he inspected the grotto.
“You could have killed me!” she shouted as he returned to seize her reins. Raindrops sparkled in her lashes, making it difficult to see his face through the haze. Furiously Elizabeth swiped at her wet face, running her fingers upward into her sopping hair, lifting it out of her face.
Without a word, Cutter led her around to where a small opening was discernible. Dismounting, he fell to his knees and crawled into the narrow crevice, backing out almost immediately. Still without speaking, he stood, whisking Elizabeth off her mount and setting her on her unsteady feet. He urged her down onto her knees. The rain pattered Elizabeth’s back without mercy as she obeyed.
But as she began to crawl within, a thought occurred to her, chilling her to the bone, and she hesitated. “What about the river? Won’t it rise with the rain?” Drowning was the very last thing she wished to do!
“The river’s low!” Cutter shouted over the downpour. “It’ll rise, but not nearly enough—now, get in, and get cozy!” He coaxed her under the narrow overhang and into the wider cavity beyond. Thunder erupted, and though Cutter’s lips were moving, she couldn’t hear his next words
“… Stay… hold the fort,” he finished, backing out almost at once.
As she realized that he was leaving her, Elizabeth’s eyes went wide, and she started to follow him out, terrified of being left alone.
Cutter shoved her back with a fierce glare. “Chrissakes, woman! I said t’ stay, and I mean stay!” As though an afterthought, he seized his hat from her head and began to back out once again.
Again thunder cracked, reverberating clear into the solid rock. Even the ground seemed to tremble beneath them. Panicking, Elizabeth grasped Cutter’s fingers, the last reachable part of him, her eyes pleading. “Cutter! P-Please wait!”
He shook off her trembling hands, his black eyes spearing her. “Trust me,” was all he said, his tone unyielding, and then he was sliding out again.
Frantic, Elizabeth followed as far as the entrance to watch him go, her heart in her throat. Rain and wind buffeted her face, but fear held her immobile as, before her eyes, his form blurred and was swallowed by the gray mist and rain.
Trust.
There was that word again.
But she did trust him… s-she did!
She did trust him.
It seemed to Elizabeth that she lay an eternity on the hard ground, peering out anxiously, waiting for some sign of Cutter’s return, all the while repeating those words until they became a litany.
Trust.
The downpour intensified until the echo was a deafening roar beneath the stone shelter.
“Trust,” she repeated slowly. He won’t leave you, she assured herself, her heart racing. He won’t!
But her mother had… and her father had—he’d left her to face the chaos of her life.
Oh, God… alone!
Near hysterics now, Elizabeth began to hum softly.
At first, Cutter was dead certain he was hearing things. He could swear that above the rain and cracking thunder, he heard… humming? But as he neared the shelter, he knew he wasn’t imagining the sound. It was Elizabeth, her voice terrified and broken… and unlike most nights, the melody she hummed was recognizable and haunting.
“Greensleeves”?
She was humming “Greensleeves.”
His chest swelled with some unnamed emotion, and it struck him suddenly why she would sing that song every blasted night… why she’d had him hum to her that first night. He could suddenly hear her voice again.
“But it’s dark,” she’d whimpered. “Too dark… please…”
“Please what?” he’d asked. “Lizbeth.”
“Hum—to—me…”
Again, his gut twisted.
She was terrified of being alone… as terrified as he was not to be. Strange thing was, for the first time he could recall, he didn’t mind the comforting… didn’t hold against the thought of companionship… didn’t mind protecting…
As long as it was her.
When Cutter’s fuzzy, dark silhouette materialized from the storm, walking determinedly toward her, clutching what looked to be their bedrolls and everything else he could carry under his arms, Elizabeth’s heart flew into her throat. His expression, when it crystallized at last, was as intense as the wind as he approached, his dark eyes discerning, and she quickly swiped away the telltale tears she’d not even realized she’d shed until that moment and moved deeper into the shelter to give him room.
The instant Cutter set eyes on her, he knew that she’d been crying. He could see her dirty handprints where she’d tried to wipe the evidence away. But he didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. With his jaw set, he shoved in their effects, securing them at her feet, then crawled in beside her. He wanted to put his arms about her, soothe away her fears, but had no inkling how to go about it.
Or whether she would even accept his embrace.
Cursing at his own ineptitude, he kicked the rolls down farther into the dugout, shoving them out of his way, cursing again as he turned to pull one of the blankets out of his own fleabag. Somehow he managed to spread it beneath himself. Then he nudged Elizabeth. “Up,” he dema
nded.
Obeying, Elizabeth twisted so that Cutter could thrust the blanket beneath her, and then she settled back down atop it. Obviously, she felt the tension between them, and stared, wide-eyed, as Cutter finally turned onto his back beside her.
“Christ,” he muttered, striking the low-lying roof with the butt of his hand. And then he looked at her, but it was a mistake. Her eyes seemed to reach out for him. He didn’t know what to do. “Ain’t enough room in here to swing a cat,” he grumbled. Still she said nothing, only watched him, her heart riding in her eyes, and Cutter finally looked away, uneasy with the feelings she’d stirred in him.
After taking measure of the small cavern—if it could be called that—he turned to stare at the stone ceiling a mere foot and a half above his head, and wondered how the hell he’d gotten himself into this coil. In his estimation, they had no more than three feet of headroom in spots, less in others, and the dugout was probably a little over eight feet long, six feet deep. Some of the floor was stone, some dirt, and the only opening was to their right, stretching the length of the shelter, and letting in what little light was accessible. The ceiling was lower closer to the opening, higher toward the back. It was obviously man-made, but for what purpose, he didn’t know. Only one thing was certain… whoever had made it had obviously not wished to be spotted at first glance—though up close, it was hard to miss.
He took in a deep breath—damn him, if he wasn’t feeling stifled already—but the air smelled musty and old, and it didn’t help a lick. Determinedly he ignored the sweeter scent that teased his nostrils, and focused on the sound of her shivering breath.
“I had to secure the horses,” he explained finally. “Hated to do it… but had to tie them to the nearest tree.” Rolling to his side to face her, he propped himself up on his elbow. As he scrutinized her, the sound of the rain became no more than a steady drone somewhere beyond them. “You cold?” he asked her, his voice a little huskier than he’d intended. He cleared his throat.
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