Sagebrush Bride (22 page)

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 demanded.

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.

Elizabeth nodded.

He couldn’t look away and he couldn’t speak at all
for the naked emotion still so apparent in Elizabeth’s amber eyes. A few
strands of her hair had loosened from her braid and were pasted to her
dirt-streaked face, one strand to her bottom lip. Gently Cutter plucked it
away, smoothing it from her face.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he
suggested, never releasing her gaze. His thumb rubbed at the smudges on her
cheeks, without success.

She needed a bath, but in spite of it, she was a
feast for his eyes. She blinked, but other than that, there was nothing about
her expression that indicated she’d even heard him. He tried again. “You’ll dry
off faster if you’re wearing less. I brought the blankets. They’re damp, but
they should be a helluva lot more comfortable than your wet clothes.”

As though finally hearing him, Elizabeth shook her
head in quick, jerky motions, her lips going dry. “N-No—I—I can’t!
I’m fine.”

Cutter’s face contorted. “Chrissakes! I won’t
touch you,” he said almost nastily. “Don’t be stupid! You’ll catch your death.
Hell, you’re the doctor—use your good sense!”

Her expression changed suddenly as though his
words had injured somehow, instead of reassuring as he’d intended.

“You’re—” She swallowed, mortified that he
would have guessed her thoughts so easily, hurt that he would so quickly
shatter her... her what? Hopes? Hopes for what? But he was right, of course.
Besides, he’d already seen her in her drawers and camisole... and there was
little enough light for him to ogle her by... even if he were inclined to. But
she wasn’t about to feel sorry over that, she determined—not at this point
in her life. It was, after all, what she’d set out to accomplish with her baggy
skirts and somber appearance. She’d wanted folks to see her as their doctor,
not the town belle—not that she could have been, even had she wished it.
Had she really expected Cutter to see her differently? She nodded glumly.
“You’re right... How silly of me,” she said dully.

Cutter’s hand moved to her blouse at once, as
though that were all the encouragement he needed, jerking it out of her skirt.
Instinctively she recoiled from his ministrations, but the sensation of cool,
wet cotton sliding over her warm skin caused a shiver to race down her spine
and gooseflesh to erupt.

“Let me help you,” he asserted, his dark eyes
unrelenting yet tender in some odd way. Still, they’d never seemed so dark, so
fathomless, so improbable, as in that instant. A shiver raced down Elizabeth’s
spine as his hand slid slowly up her arm to her shoulder, but his squeeze was
reassuring. She nodded faintly, unaware that she had.

“Do you need my help unbuttoning you?” he said,
his voice turning husky again.

Or was it her imagination?

Realizing that there was no way she could possibly
remove her own clothes in the limited space available to them, she turned
slightly, willing her wanton thoughts miles away. Inexplicably, she wanted
Cutter’s arms about her, his touch on her skin.

His movements became slower. The sensation of his
warm fingers tugging at her blouse made a slight tremor rush down her spine.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, savoring the moment, not realizing all that gesture
conveyed to Cutter’s knowing gaze.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she
anticipated the warmth of his fingers. And then she felt it, and her heart
again leapt into her throat, higher than before. Her lids fluttered closed once
more and her head tilted backward slightly as his fingers moved down her back,
quickly and adeptly releasing the wooden buttons, one by one.

In removing the wet blouse from her back, he
exposed her to the cool air, but in spite of it, Elizabeth felt suddenly too
warm. Incomprehensibly, her shivers intensified, running deep within her. Her
back to him still, she helped him remove the sleeves from her arms with quaking
hands and then peeled the blouse from her body, leaving only her wet camisole
to shield her from his probing eyes.

Despite the storm raging outside, the silence was
impenetrable beneath the shelter in that moment, the air intoxicating, as
though all time were suspended.

No sooner did Elizabeth release the blouse from
her grasp than she felt Cutter’s rough fingers on her back, stroking the area
between her shoulder blades ever so softly, and her breath caught in her
throat. Before she could protest his familiarity with her body, his hands
circled her waist, spanning her briefly, as though taking her measure, then
slid seductively to the laces in front of her skirt.

Something deep within her thrilled to his touch.

Finding it difficult to breathe in that moment,
Elizabeth marveled that even from behind, his fingers were knowing. That’s
because he’s an experienced rogue, a little voice screeched, but she refused to
acknowledge it.

In the next instant, Cutter was tugging her
sopping skirts down, sliding them over her quaking legs. He lingered just a
moment too long on the curve of her hips, and her heartbeat quickened.

She meant to tell him to stop, to take his hands
off her—she really did—but the words wouldn’t come. It was all
Elizabeth could do to take her next breath. She felt paralyzed, though not with
fear, and her eyes pressed tightly closed, while her breasts suddenly tingled
with the need to be touched. Good night—never would she have suspected
such sensations were possible... such carnal bliss... such wanting.

Again, she remembered the way he’d touched her,
the yearning it had enkindled, and the pleasure he had given her, and she
imagined that he would turn her now... put his arms about her, his fingers
pressing into her back, and cover her mouth with warm male lips. She actually
quivered with the desire for it.

Cutter had to will himself to leave her be.

He’d asked her to trust him, and he didn’t aim to
betray that trust. Still and all, there wasn’t much left between them... just
her camisole and drawers... nothing more... and it would be so simple, he
thought. So simple.

But Elizabeth wasn’t the kind of woman you could
pick clean and then leave to the buzzards. She didn’t deserve that. And he
couldn’t see himself settling down with a homestead and a pack of brats dogging
his heels.

He took a deep, fortifying breath, thinking that
somewhere up there, someone oughta be nominating him for sainthood just about
now.

A riot began in Cutter’s head as Elizabeth turned
suddenly to help him remove her massive skirt. He hated the thing. If he got
the chance, he thought he might burn it. Watching intently as she turned to lay
the obscene thing aside, Cutter cleared his throat.

The spell broken, he turned to fumble with one of
the bedrolls at their feet. Unrolling it, he removed another blanket from it,
and then struggled to return as he was, drawing the blanket up over Elizabeth
as he scooted upward, shielding her from his view—or more likely, himself
from the temptation she presented.

“That better?” His voice sounded strange to his
ears.

Elizabeth nodded once, her expression still dazed.

“Good.” Again, he cleared his throat, trying to
refocus his thoughts, and he smiled. “You had to go ‘n’ find a gopher hole for
us to shelter in,” he told her mildly. Actually it was beginning to feel more
like his own private hell, but he didn’t say so.

Elizabeth shrugged, averting her gaze in...
disappointment? Turning on her side, she faced away from him.

Cutter’s sigh was ragged, as though it took great
effort to release the tension from his body. Immediately he took in another
deep breath, needing the cleansing air.

At least they were dry, he told himself.

And the shelter wasn’t really all that bad. Little
enough rain blew in at them on account of the roof being so low. The only thing
he could see to be concerned over was the fact that water was beginning to
trickle in. But it was a slow stream, and he doubted it would do much harm...
unless the rain didn’t let up. But if he knew anything about late summer
storms, and he fancied he did, then it would be over before much longer. It was
likely to end as swiftly as it came.

And if worst came to worst, he’d just scoot closer
to Elizabeth. He glanced at her suddenly, feeling the tension he’d just
alleviated return with full force as he contemplated scooting nearer to her.

Like a pesky gnat, that thought badgered him.

His lips twisted cynically.

Hell, it wasn’t as though there were a wall
between them—though he’d be damned if it didn’t feel like it.

Besides, sainthood never had appealed to him much.

Damn her, anyway—his brows collided—if
she thought for a minute he was gonna lie here and freeze to death just to
protect some squeamish female’s tender sensibilities!

With a savage curse, he unsheathed his knife from
his left boot, setting it aside, and then he kicked it off. As he undid his shirt
buttons, he struggled with the other boot, prodding it with his bare toes,
unable to get it off fast enough. It wouldn’t come, and he cursed again.