Sagebrush Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Life ain’t fair,” Cutter whispered. Comforting her the only way he knew how, he stroked Elizabeth’s back and shoulders soothingly, profoundly moved by her compassion for the Indian. He lifted her chin so that he could see her tearstained face, but she stubbornly avoided his gaze and kept her eyes downcast as another tear slid past her dark lashes. His own eyes stinging against his volition, he wiped her cheek with his thumb. This time she didn’t protest his callused touch. “Your first?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Elizabeth nodded jerkily, restraining her sobs.

  “Thought so,” he said gruffly. “Listen to me, bright eyes, there wasn’t a damned thing more you could have done to save him. Nothing.” His tone was gentle, soothing, though his blood was beginning to heat with the feel of her in his arms. Whether he wanted to or not, in that moment he felt more drawn to her than he’d ever thought possible. More than he had ever been to any woman.

  At last Elizabeth peered up at him through dampened lashes, but her eyes seemed darker somehow, deeper than before, as though this single death had in some way shaken her deep, deep down.

  “I should have known what to do!” she cried mournfully. Her palm splayed upon his chest, her fingers toying nervously with his button.

  As he felt the timid gesture, Cutter’s blood began a slow simmer. Damn him, if she wasn’t making this hard on him. He forced his gaze away from her budding nipples. Her body’s innocent reaction to him both thrilled and tormented him simultaneously.

  “I should have saved him. I could have—my father would have! There must have been something I missed… something I didn’t do right… something…” she broke off miserably, glancing up at Cutter with pleading eyes. Tears sparkled on her lashes.

  With a will of their own, his hands slid to her waist, then inched to her back as he kissed her forehead once, firmly, feeling his body tense. Then again, his control slipping with every second she lingered in his arms.

  He took a deep, mind-cleansing breath, but it was the worst thing he could have done, because with it, the scent of her filled his nostrils. He groaned, and thought with self-disgust that at the moment, he didn’t feel much more than aggravation at the Indian for dying so inconveniently.

  Hell, he felt for the man, but not as much as he felt for Elizabeth. Unfitting as it was, his body didn’t seem to have grasped the seriousness of the situation. Thankfully, his mind still clung to a shred of sanity.

  His voice sounded gruff, tortured. “You did all you could for the man, Doc.” His fingers brushed aside a damp tendril from her face.

  “Don’t call me that!” Elizabeth protested weakly, jerking away from his touch, smacking at his hand when he brought it back to her face.

  Misunderstanding her reaction, Cutter sighed and gently drew her away from him.

  “They were right to doubt me,” she murmured unhappily, “all of them! It’s just that… that… I—I tried so hard… so very hard… ”

  Cutter could imagine her suddenly, fighting tirelessly to win the townsfolk’s approval. In spite of the fact that she had practically stepped into her daddy’s shoes, it wouldn’t have been a simple task to win their respect. Yet clearly she had, because he’d heard them refer to her as Doc, and without any reservation at all. He couldn’t let her begin doubting herself now.

  And he couldn’t help himself suddenly.

  Driven by the need to soothe away her pain—not to mention the influence of his nether regions—his lips touched her salty lashes, pressing them softly against her moist lids, then moved down to the bridge of her nose to plant another tender kiss there.

  At last the sprinkling ceased altogether, though neither of them were aware of it, so lost were they in the intensity of the moment; Elizabeth in her self doubt and grief, and Cutter in his physical torment.

  His throat thickened with emotion. “Shhh, bright eyes.” His lips brushed against hers as he spoke. “Don’t cry.”

  Suddenly his mouth covered hers hungrily, coaxing with savage intensity, crushing her to him, sending waves of shock spiraling through her. She was astounded at her eager response; unable to deny him, Elizabeth opened for him willingly. He gripped her shoulders roughly, and the shock of his tongue delving gently between her trembling lips quieted her sobs at once. Her breathing stopped entirely as one hand moved to grip the back of her neck, restraining her so that she couldn’t have withdrawn from the soul-searing kiss had she wanted to. His other hand splayed at her back, forcing her into full contact with the hard planes of his body.

  Helpless to contain it, Elizabeth whimpered deep in her throat, unable to bear the intense pleasure of it… yet feeling conscience-stricken that she could experience such overwhelming joy over a kiss… when a man lay lifeless at their feet!

  But Lord, she wanted this… more than anything… wanted the comfort he could give her. Merciful heaven, what was wrong with her?

  With a tortured cry, Elizabeth suddenly shoved Cutter away, repulsed by her actions, and knowing that if she didn’t stop him now, she’d soon be begging him to continue.

  “How could you?” she demanded breathlessly. How could she? her mind shouted in rebuttal. Cutter’s eyes were so black that she had the momentary sensation of toppling headfirst into their murky depths. She felt divested completely of her will.

  Only Cutter’s self-restraint kept her from shaming herself further.

  The lift of his brow sent a curious chill down her spine. “Easy, Doc,” he answered huskily, and her body tingled where his eyes touched her so boldly. “The hard part was keeping myself from it.” His lips twisted wryly.

  Mesmerized by his disclosure, Elizabeth could only gape at him stupidly, disbelieving his callousness, yet secretly thrilling to his words. “I asked you not to call me that!” she said, averting her eyes. More than a little discomfited by his piercing stare, she sought refuge in outrage—before she could be tempted to throw herself on his mercy. Ruthless as Cutter was, he wouldn’t turn her away, she was certain. Fighting back tears, she tried to rise, but Cutter kept her from it with one hand to her shoulder.

  Knowing full well that the moment was over, Cutter sighed regretfully. Aware of the fact that Elizabeth seemed to take strength in her anger, he told her with a slow lift of his brow, “Maybe you’re right, Doc. Maybe you don’t have what it takes, after all. Maybe the man was better off without you. Y’ think—Doc?” It must have taken a befuddled moment for his unfeeling words to register, and then Elizabeth’s eyes widened in offense. She slapped him. “No!” she cried. “I don’t! I did everything I knew to do! Everything! Everything!”

  At his nod of agreement, Elizabeth hushed abruptly, her shoulders slumping and her face contorting with grief. “I’m sorry!” Tears swam in her eyes, choking her voice. “Oh, Cutter,” she whimpered. “I did—I swear, I did. And still… it wasn’t enough!”

  Cutter rubbed his jaw belatedly, where the sting of her slap was, and Elizabeth looked at him sorrowfully, her lips quivering pitifully.

  “I’ve seen so many die—men, women, brothers, babies. It’s not the dying itself that hurts so much… just that this time—” she tapped softly at her breast, once again beginning to cry, calling his attention back to the diaphanous camisole “—I was the only thing standing between life and death… and I failed—miserably!”

  With a muttered oath, Cutter caught her by the shoulders, gripping her firmly. “No you didn’t, Lizbeth,” he said bluntly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! The man was already six feet under when he fell off that horse! I tried to tell you as much—remember? But you wouldn’t listen. There was nothing more you could have done.” He softened his voice abruptly, wanting her to understand. “As my mother’s people would have said, The Shadow had long left him, he only breathed. Chrissakes, woman, don’t you know how proud of you I am?”

  Elizabeth’s gaze flew to his. “P-Proud?” she asked hesitantly.

  Cutter nodded, wiping away the glowing moistness from her eyes.
“Proud,” he repeated with a slow, firm nod. Then, with a tormented groan, he brushed the back of his hand across her cheek, reveling in her sweet softness. Now was not the time, he knew, this not the place.

  But soon… real soon. He couldn’t wait much longer. His body was literally in pain with need of her.

  “Damn proud,” he whispered again, almost reverently this time. And then, with a wink, he touched her bottom lip with his scarred finger, rolling it gently to reveal the soft inner flesh.

  Elizabeth shivered.

  For a long moment, neither of them could look away, so strong was the pull between them.

  Then, rising abruptly with a rueful sigh, Cutter hauled Elizabeth up with him. “Come on, Doc, let’s give the man a proper resting place and then move on downriver.” He didn’t want her to dwell on what had happened here, and knew that she wouldn’t begin to forget until they were away from the place.

  Having no shovels available to bury the Indian, Cutter decided to enclose him within the dugout. The opening was just slim enough that it was possible to close it off with a few large boulders and some dirt. After removing their belongings from the grotto, they moved the Indian within. And while Cutter worked to seal up the tomb, Elizabeth quickly assumed her damp shirt, and then set to packing the horses as she’d seen Cutter do so many times now.

  When Cutter was finished at last, it was all but impossible to tell that there had ever been an opening in the stone structure. To the undiscerning glance, it appeared to be no more than a mass of odd-sized boulders, all clumped together.

  Finally he spoke a few words over the makeshift crypt, and Elizabeth placed an impromptu bouquet of white sage and fameflower atop it, feeling somehow accountable for the Indian’s death—even knowing it was ridiculous to feel that way. Still, she didn’t think she’d ever forget him. And it was difficult to leave him all alone in his final resting place. Despite the fact that she knew absolutely nothing at all about the poor man, she felt some queer bond with him… and knew deep down that she always would.

  Always.

  Filled with sorrow, her eyes took in the precipitous cliffs in the distance, the river flowing heedlessly by, and the blooming meadow interspersed with trees. Ahead of them, the Missouri seemed eternal, the bluffs unreachable.

  All in all, it was a very lonely place.

  “No one will ever know that he’s here,” she lamented, her eyes shimmering.

  Tapping his hat briskly on his thigh, Cutter scanned the bluff top. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied shortly. Placing his hat on his head, he tapped it low over his eyes. “I expect someone will.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes immediately followed the path his had taken, finding absolutely nothing. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she turned away and mounted up.

  With a last narrow-eyed glance at the bluff, Cutter did the same.

  They didn’t go far, just out of sight of the tomb. And while Elizabeth hadn’t thought she could eat anything after the ordeal they’d gone through, by the time they made camp once more, and Cutter fished up dinner, she was so ravenous that she was certain she could eat an entire river full of trout.

  After supper, to her surprise, instead of putting out the cooking fire, Cutter added more kindling, and then settled on a half-rotted log near it. Keeping herself occupied so as not to think of the Indian, Elizabeth unfurled her bedroll, and Cutter’s, as well, wondering how she would bear the thought of sleeping where a man had died. She didn’t think she could.

  For all that he’d seemed preoccupied, Cutter hadn’t missed the look of bewilderment Elizabeth had given him over the fire, but he didn’t comment. The only explanation he could have given was that he sure as cuss was going to make love to her tonight, and he wanted to see every exquisite inch of her while he was doing it. His foot hurt like hell, but something else ached a whole lot worse. And he was tired of being chivalrous, tired of not sleeping nights because she was lying so close that he couldn’t get her scent out of his system, tired of burning. If he had his druthers, he’d be anything but gentlemanly.

  It went against his grain.

  Besides, it seemed they had a few guardian angels on their trail, and he doubted anyone would approach tonight without him knowing it.

  He’d spotted the trio of Indians just after he’d finished burying the brave. He just wasn’t certain why they’d remained hidden from view, instead of coming forward to help bury their own—unless they hadn’t trusted him?

  Still, if there were only three of them, it was likely they hadn’t approached because they weren’t packin’ iron. And that was another reason he’d decided to get the hell away from the tomb. Totin’ or not, Cutter was sure they intended to reclaim their friend—or, at the very least, check out his handiwork. In either case, he had no desire to get in their way.

  As he saw it, there wasn’t too much cause to be concerned about them stealing into camp tonight, because he’d purposely left the dead Indian’s horse for them as a token of good faith. He was glad Elizabeth hadn’t asked over it. Luckily, she’d been so distraught that she hadn’t even noticed the horse grazing in the meadow when they’d left. But he was certain the Indians had, even if she hadn’t.

  With a quick glance at the darkening bluff, he slid down to sit on the ground, setting his back against the log. It had been at least an hour since he’d last spotted the Indians, and unless he missed his guess, they were likely at the tomb, even now.

  And that suited him perfectly.

  His gaze was immediately drawn to Elizabeth. Walking into his hands, like a butterfly to a spider’s web, she approached him, a fair amount of her slim calves showing below the tattered hem of her skirt. Her sturdy black shoes were grimy as hell, and he focused on them as she sat primly on the log beside him. Smoothing her fingers across the deep-set wrinkles in her skirt, she looked a lot like a dirty little waif sitting there, trying to impress him with her self-control—when he knew deep down she wasn’t finished with her cry. She was holding it back stoically, and he had to admire her for that.

  “That certainly was satisfying,” she remarked conversationally, alluding to the fish. “Much better than jerky or… ” She glanced at him coyly. “What did you call it? Puddle leaper?”

  Cutter chuckled at her ascetic tone. “Jumper,” he corrected, with a glance upward. “Puddle jumper.” Her tawny eyes still held a certain sheen to them, seeming to glow in the fading light. Without being asked to, Cutter rose and sat beside her on the log, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, his legs spread till they were just shy of hers. There he remained, staring at the ground a sober moment, before turning to look her in the eye.

  Elizabeth’s pulse quickened as his smoldering black eyes met hers. He was sitting so very close. So close that if she only moved her leg a fraction to the right, they’d touch. Did she dare? Lord, give her strength. They were so close that his body heat made her burn. Like a wick to fuel, she felt his intoxicating warmth seeping into her, feeding her in some unknown way, making her restless.

  Swallowing tightly, she stared at his powerful-looking hands, which were now threaded loosely in front of him, and closed her eyes with the sudden undeniable need to reach out and touch them. She was sitting so dose, it seemed impossible not to. And before she could think to deny herself, she did exactly that.

  More so than she’d imagined, his flesh burned where her fingers touched his forearm, sending lightning bolts shivering through her, clear to the tips of her breasts. She thrilled to the texture of his skin—so masculine, so warm. She resisted the urge to smooth her fingers along the springy hairs of his arm.

  Mesmerized by the feel of him, it took every ounce of her will to emerge from the haze of pleasure enveloping her, and she tried desperately to seem casual. But her voice didn’t quite sound normal, even to her own ears. “Thank you, Cutter, for understanding… when I needed it most.” She swallowed convulsively, clearing away the raw ache from her throat. “And… and for your kind words.”

  C
utter’s gaze met hers briefly, softening. “No kindness intended, I assure you. Just the truth. You did real good back there, Doc.”

  “Did you think I’d won my title by default?” she asked, without offense. Too many had wondered the same about her to fault Cutter for his misgivings.

  He gave her a guilty twist of his lips. “Reckon I’d be lying if I said no. The thought had crossed my mind a time or two.” His eyes returned to her hand on his arm, her trembling fingers, then back to her face, as though to caution her somehow.

  She sighed a little tremulously. “And you wouldn’t be all wrong. I didn’t take instruction in some fancy school back east.” She looked up into his eyes. “But I made an eager pupil to my father—and he had earned his degree. Besides that, I devoured every book on healing and herbs I could get my hands on.”

  Her eyes moved down to where Cutter’s were still focused. Her fingers. But, try as she might, she couldn’t remove them from his arm, even knowing she must appear appallingly brazen. Somewhere, deep down, she knew what she was inviting… and couldn’t stop herself.

  Her lashes fluttered closed with that revelation, and she willed her breath to slow. When she opened her eyes again, her heart turned over violently. The unmistakable heat flickering in Cutter’s black eyes startled her.

  Was it possible? she dared to hope. That he could desire her, too? Suddenly she felt giddy. With all the terrible things Elizabeth had heard of men’s self-control, it had been impossible to believe that Cutter had done nothing more than kiss her now and again, when they’d spent so much time alone together. Yet it was true. And though she’d told herself it was what was right… that she was glad of it… it also stung.

  Now her heart danced with the possibility. He’d looked at her just so a number of times, but it had seemed inconceivable that he could—that anyone would. Yet the proof was right there in his eyes. A slow burn, a hunger, smoldering there, sparking an answering flame deep within her. Absurdly, with nothing more than his naked gaze, he stoked her own budding passion to an exhilarating peak.