Sagebrush Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Why?”

  Again Elizabeth looked up, beseeching Katie to understand. “Because I have to look somewhere you can’t,” she said bluntly.

  Katie nodded abruptly, seeing something frightening in Elizabeth’s eyes. She turned obediently, and Elizabeth immediately began to unbutton Cutter’s denims, tugging them down as far as she was able without removing his boots. Nothing. Puzzled, she lifted one leg slightly, then the other, peering beneath.

  Still nothing.

  Stupefied, she removed his knife from his left boot, set it aside, and began tugging off the right one. It came off without difficulty, but when she came back to remove the left one, it seemed bonded to his foot. Grunting, she hauled on it with all her might, yanking it down, one frustrating inch at a time. At last, when it was nearly off, she caught a glimpse of the angry red streak, and her breath snagged. Her heart pounded as she tugged again, more frantically this time, releasing the boot with a final sucking sound. She toppled backward from the force of her tug. Shaking her head in denial, she righted herself at once, and began to remove his sock. She tossed it aside in disbelief, her heart filling with an unbearable ache.

  “Dear God!” she exclaimed.

  “Can I look?” Katie asked.

  “No, Katie… no,” Elizabeth sobbed.

  The red streak climbed his leg, originating from a gash in his left foot and disappearing into the leg of his denims. She hadn’t realized he’d even cut himself! How could she not have known? Why hadn’t he mentioned it?

  He didn’t trust in you, a little voice taunted as she tugged frantically at his denims, removing them.

  Cutter didn’t believe in her abilities as a doctor any more than anyone else did.

  He watched you kill a man with your ignorance, that same voice sneered.

  But she could have done something. Anything… anything would have been better than nothing at all! She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat, for in that moment, it hurt so deeply that he’d preferred to suffer—or die, even—rather than have her tend him!

  Perhaps he’d had good reason to doubt her, she mocked herself. She hadn’t been able to keep the Indian from dying, had she? But she’d tried. Dear God, with all her heart she’d tried!

  He didn’t trust her.

  The Indian chose that moment to return. “Eháomóhtâhéotse,” he said, halting dead in his tracks when he saw Cutter’s swollen, angry foot.

  Katie buried her face into Elizabeth’s lap, hiding from him, and Elizabeth never felt more torn; she wanted to soothe Katie, wanted to help Cutter, wanted to cry.

  “It’s infected,” Elizabeth informed him briskly, even knowing he wouldn’t understand. She held back every emotion. Except for the anger that crept into her heart. Anger that Cutter would have let this go so long without having it tended. Anger that he hadn’t trusted her. Anger that he might die because of his stubbornness. Anger that she had let herself love him.

  Why, oh, why had she allowed herself to love him?

  Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. “I’ll need you to start a fire,” she said, looking up at the Indian, her lips trembling and her eyes shimmering. “Fire!” She set Katie aside and made a desperate motion with her hand, and then, remembering the cartridge Cutter usually kept in his pocket, she searched for it. Not finding it, she mimed building herself a fire, and then cooking, and then eating what she cooked.

  The Indian nodded. “Meséestse!” he said with a grin, and without another word, set about the task assigned to him.

  When he began to build the fire, Elizabeth returned her attention to Cutter, satisfied that she had gotten her message across. Her heart ached as she spied Katie’s frightened pose. She was holding her knees to her chest and watching the Indian through her little hands. “Katie,” she admonished gently, “don’t be afraid, honey. And don’t hide your face,” she added firmly, her breath catching on a sob. “He won’t hurt you, and it will hurt his feelings.”

  Katie nodded mutely and dropped her hands, looking up at Elizabeth with haunted eyes. Elizabeth’s hand went to her mouth as silent sobs wracked her within. Her lips clamped to contain them. Unable to keep them down, she choked suddenly. Glancing over her shoulder, her heart in her eyes, she met the Indian’s comprehending gaze.

  There was no language barrier between them in that instant. He seemed to see everything that was in her heart. He went back to his task, and Elizabeth turned back to Cutter, her emotions too turbulent to be seen. Too embittered.

  “I hate you, Cutter!” she choked out suddenly her hands flying to her mouth, covering the telltale trembling of her lips. No… you don’t! You love him, that same voice countered fiercely. You love him!

  “Aunt Lizabeth!” Katie sobbed.

  The Indian said nothing, only watched her show of emotions from of the corner of his eyes. When the fire was kindled finally, he left without a word.

  Her throat seemed to close up as she lifted Cutter’s knife to the fire, watching it flare bright red within the glowing blue flames. When it was heated enough, she removed it, swiping the black ash on her skirt, not caring that it singed the material, not caring that she could feel the burn clear to her flesh.

  And then, with trembling hands, she began to slice open the inflamed wound on the sole of his foot.

  “Aunt Lizabeth!” Katie cried in protest.

  “Don’t look, Katie!” Elizabeth demanded firmly. “Don’t look, honey!” There was little blood and much pus. She swallowed convulsively. But it wasn’t the wound that made her ill. It was the lack of tools along with her fear of failure.

  There was no pot to boil water with.

  No water to boil, even if there had been a pot.

  No alcohol to sterilize the wound.

  Nothing.

  Nothing but the knife in her hands.

  Using the best of her skills, she drained the wound, brushing her tears aside when they hindered her vision.

  Vaguely she was aware that the Indian had returned. As though he’d anticipated her needs, he set down two canteens full of water beside her, along with a blanket. “Mahpe,” he said, pointing to the canteen. “Mahpe.”

  “Water,” Elizabeth returned, her gaze lifting from the canteens.

  The Indian nodded, standing. “Wat-er!” he repeated, and then he walked away.

  Tears glistened on her pale face as Elizabeth eyed the canteens blankly, noticing finally that one was made of tin covered with water-stained leather. The other was made solely of animal skin, and she determined that it was the Indian’s. With an immediate surge of excitement, she lifted the one made of tin, inspected it quickly, and then, with her heart hammering, she set it whole into the fire, watching eagerly as the leather ignited before her eyes and burned away. The moment she felt it was hot enough, she found a rock and tossed it at the canteen, nudging it back out. And then another, and another, until the canteen was completely out of the fire. Not caring that it charred her dress, she used her hem to protect her fingers as she lifted up the canteen, unscrewed the top, and poured a heated droplet onto the back of her hand. It scalded her, but she merely smiled with relief and shook it away.

  Having little time to waste, she rent a strip from Cutter’s shirt and crumpled the cloth, holding it up to the sole of Cutter’s foot as she poured the scalding water over his newly sliced wound, cleansing it thoroughly.

  “Does that hurt?” Katie asked as she watched.

  Elizabeth nodded, never looking up. She couldn’t bear to look into Katie’s face and see her own fear mirrored there. “I have to hurt him to help him,” she revealed, setting the canteen aside. She rubbed the remaining dirt from the wound with the water-soaked rag, and then again poured over the hot water when she finished.

  When every last speck of dirt was removed from the wound, Elizabeth once again lifted the blade over the fire, watching until the metal glowed. She bit down on her bottom lip for strength, and turned to set it against Cutter’s foot. His foot jerked, the motion more reflexive, t
han from pain, because his eyes remained closed, his face pale.

  But there was no help for it. Knowing she had to hurt him to help him, as she’d disclosed to Katie, she set the sizzling blade to the wound once more, sterilizing and cauterizing it with the heat.

  Finally, when she’d done all she could do, she dressed the wound, covering Cutter with a blanket. With the Indian’s help, she retrieved Cutter’s bedroll and then set Cutter upon it, tucking the blanket lovingly about him.

  Worrying, she placed a trembling hand to his forehead. “He’s raging,” she remarked softly, her voice still shaky with emotion.

  “Raging?” Katie asked.

  Elizabeth glanced up at Katie, intending to reassure her, but couldn’t. “The fever,” she explained. “I’ve done all I can for him,” she added dismally. “There’s nothing to do now but wait.”

  Katie stared, confusion screwing her young features. “You don’t really hate him?” she wanted know. “You don’t hate my uncle. Do you?”

  Dear God, what had she done? The chaos she’d brought to poor Katie’s life—how could she ever forgive herself for it! “No, honey,” Elizabeth cried. “No… I could never hate him.” She stared back, but it wasn’t Katie’s face she saw in that moment… it was Cutter’s.

  You did real good back there, Doc, she heard him whisper. She closed her eyes, almost able to feel the warmth of his breath against her ear. “Oh, Cutter,” she sobbed, squeezing her lids tight, blocking out the echo of Cutter’s words. She had done the best she could then, too… and it hadn’t been enough. Black Wolf had died in spite of it.

  Dear God, she didn’t know what she would do if Cutter died, as well.

  She couldn’t bear it. Hot, silent tears slipped past her lashes.

  Did you think I’d won my title by default? her own voice mocked her.

  Well? She scorned herself. Hadn’t she, after all?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Cutter’s fever escalated through the day. And though he didn’t sink into delirium, he did awaken once, to stare glassy-eyed into the brightness of the late afternoon sun. Holding back tears of frustration and fear, Elizabeth passed a hand over his eyes, closing his lids to protect his pupils from the glare. She couldn’t forget Black Wolf’s sightless stare, couldn’t help comparing…

  Not even to eat did she leave Cutter’s side. Black Wolf’s brother hunted for Katie, feeding her, while Elizabeth kept watch. He offered to Elizabeth, but Elizabeth refused.

  “Méseestse!” he said, bringing the meat to his lips, showing her what he wanted her to do with it. “He- méseestse!” he repeated, thrusting the charred piece of hare at her once more, ordering her to eat it. “Mâhe’haná!”

  Elizabeth watched Katie, who was eating silently, sitting surprisingly close to the Indian. And then she turned again to meet his gaze. He was glowering at her, and given the choice she had—to offend him, or not to—Elizabeth took the meat from his hands. There was something to be thankful for, she thought dismally as she chewed. At least Katie seemed less afraid. They’d actually attempted to communicate, and if Elizabeth hadn’t been so weary and afraid, she might have been amused by their interaction. The Indian seemed bent on coaxing Katie with strange items from his person. Only when he offered her a colorful feather did she relent and come nearer to inspect it.

  At least, Colyer hadn’t returned.

  And Katie, having endured such a stressful night, the night before, fell asleep even before the sun descended fully. After tucking her into a blanket, the Indian came to sit beside the fire, keeping Elizabeth company in silence, watching her keenly as she kept vigilance over Cutter, and reviving the fire when it threatened to sputter out. In absolute silence they sat together… until late in the night. And still Cutter’s fever remained high, though the scarlet streaks on his leg actually receded.

  Growing weary, Elizabeth bent over Cutter, laying her head lightly upon his chest, listening to the erratic beat of his heart. Only a few more hours and there would be light to see by. She had to hold out till then… couldn’t sleep… mustn’t…

  “Ne-toneseve-he?’’

  Blinking when she heard his voice, Elizabeth lifted her chin and met his gaze. “W-What?” she asked, shaking her head in confusion.

  “Ne-toneseve-he?” he repeated, pointing at her. He pointed to himself suddenly. “Na-tsesevehe Hestano- vahe,” he said, pounding his chest with a closed fist. “Hestanovdhe!” And then he pointed toward Katie’s huddled form. “Kay-tee,” he said, repeating the word he’d heard Elizabeth use to address her. And again to himself. “Hestanovahe!” And then he pointed to Elizabeth. “Ne-toneseve-he?”

  She nodded, understanding finally. “Elizabeth,” she revealed. “My name is Elizabeth.”

  “E-lis-ah-bet,” he repeated.

  Elizabeth nodded, and then glanced down at Cutter. Swallowing the raw ache in her throat, she placed her hand to Cutter’s chest as she again met the Indian’s gaze.

  “Ne-toneseve-he,” the Indian whispered, before she could speak. He pointed to Cutter and enunciated slowly. “Ne-toneseve-he. “

  Elizabeth had no idea what name he’d given Cutter, but from the solemn way he spoke it, it was obviously one of great respect. She’d thought her tears all used, but another slipped silently from her lashes.

  The Indian came closer suddenly. Lifting her golden hair into his hands, he fondled it with awe. “Vehone- ma-kaeta,” he whispered. He nodded and lifted her hair for her to see. At the same time, he dug into a pouch, retrieving a shiny golden object from it. A small medallion, which he then contrasted against her hair. “Vehone-ma-kaeta,” he said again.

  Elizabeth tried not to appear shocked as she stared at the medallion. Jo had one similar to it—a token of her father’s Catholic upbringing—and she found herself wondering who had owned this one previously. Certainly not the Indian. Vaguely she could see the raised golden image of the Virgin Mary, holding her baby son. Her eyes closed as she whispered a prayer for Cutter. She gulped back a sob, unable to speak for the emotion that assailed her.

  Seeing her tears, the Indian restored the medallion into the pouch, and then moved to wipe them away. “Naóotséotse!” he said softly, closing his eyes and cocking his head to one side. When she didn’t immediately comply, he again cocked his head and closed his eyes, laying his head upon his hand. “Naóotséotse, “ he whispered.

  He wanted her to sleep, she realized. Still unable to speak, Elizabeth nodded weakly and laid her head down upon Cutter’s chest.

  Satisfied, the Indian rose abruptly. “Na-ase,” he said, and turned away, and Elizabeth thought he might intend to leave, because he lifted his canteen, studied it an instant, and then set it back down again with a brief glance her way. She was touched by the gesture. That he would leave her something so precious as his waterskin.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth whispered hoarsely, her throat raw with the salty burn of tears.

  The Indian turned to walk away, and she knew intuitively that he was, in fact, leaving her. “Thank you!” she called out a little louder.

  He stopped abruptly and turned to look at her, his brows furrowing slightly.

  Elizabeth wanted to ask him why he’d come… to beg him not to go… not to leave her and Katie alone. But she knew that it wouldn’t be in his best interest to stay. He would lose his life if someone came upon them. Too many would hate him for his color. He must have known it as well, and determined that the time had come for him to leave. She sensed it in the wariness that had returned to him. Nevertheless, his coming had been a gift that she would never forget, never question, and would always be grateful for, and her mind searched for the Cheyenne word Cutter had taught her to say thank you. “Ne-esh,” she repeated as closely as she remembered.

  He raised his brows curiously at her pronunciation of the word; nevertheless, he seemed to understand, because the tiniest smile quirked at his lips as he nodded his farewell. “Ne-sta-va-hose-voomatse,” he enunciated slowly. He glanced briefly at Katie, nod
ding, and then walked beyond the campfire’s light, into the night. And despite the fact that she couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him, Elizabeth sensed his presence for a long time afterward.

  Somewhere, he was watching her.

  Grateful for that act of kindness from a stranger, she sank back down over Cutter’s still form, repeating the unintelligible words as a listlessness enveloped her. She concentrated on the beat of Cutter’s heart, the rhythm of his breath. Tears squeezed from her eyes as she closed them. Seeing Cutter’s face, she imagined she heard him call to her, speak to her. Finally she let go, and drifted…

  “I failed—miserably!”

  “No you didn’t, Lizbeth. 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… but you wouldn’t listen… There was nothing more you could have done. 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?”

  “P-Proud?”

  “… Damn proud!”

  … Don’t you know how proud of you I am?

  There was nothing more you could have done.

  Nothing more.

  The shadow had long left him, and he only breathed…

  he only breathed…

  only breathed…

  Sobbing in her sleep, Elizabeth clutched at Cutter’s sweat-soaked shirt, holding on to him as though to cleave him to her with that desperate gesture. She couldn’t let him slip away, too… couldn’t live without him. Her eyes flew open suddenly, to find that the fire had long died, and once again, pink shaded the sky above. Cutter’s eyes were closed, but his skin had cooled and his hair and clothes were soaked; a good sign.

  Yet he was still. Too still.

  The memory of Black Wolf lying so still in death besieged her suddenly, and despite herself, panic found a foothold. Closing her weary eyes in refusal, she began to hum, and when she realized what she was doing, her face contorted and she yielded at last to the convulsive sobs that shook her within.