Sagebrush Bride (23 page)

A glance in Elizabeth’s direction told him that
she was busy ignoring him. But that suited him just fine. Jerking his shirt out
of his britches, leaving it wide open, he moved to unfasten his soggy
denims—just the thought of being free of the restrictive fabric lightened
his mood considerably.

It had nothing to do with the fact that with his
own clothes off, there’d be one less barrier to overcome. Hell no, his motives
were purely honorable... or, at least, not dishonorable.

Well, not really.

Elizabeth heard the pops as he released the
buttons of his wet denims, and she tensed. Having ignored the previous warnings—his
boot sliding off of his foot, the crinkling of his shirt as he fumbled with
it—she was afraid to turn and look Cutter’s way. Pulling the blanket a
fraction higher, she asked, though she knew better than to do so, “All right,
Mr. McKenzie. Just what do you think you’re doing?”

What
do you think I’m doing?” he returned smoothly, not a trace of misgiving in his

tone.

Actually,
he sounded more as though he were... grinning? “Not undressing, I hope?”

Cutter
chuckled richly.

“You
can’t!” she shrieked, taking his laughter as confirmation. “You can’t just lie
there with nothing on—not beside me! You do at least have your... ” Good
night, she couldn’t even think the word—much less say it!

Cutter
chuckled again. “Reckon you’ll just have to turn around and find out,” he told
her, his voice liberally tinged with laughter as he twisted to remove his other
boot. His britches were now wrapped about his ankles, their removal hampered by
his boot.

Wrenching
the blanket over her head, Elizabeth burrowed herself deeper into the wool as
his husky laughter rang in her ears... along with another sound that seemed
strangely like... like...

A
horse’s whinny? And it sounded so near... yet it couldn’t be—but it
was—and there it was again!

Cutter,
too, had heard and was no longer laughing.

Her
curiosity getting the best of her, Elizabeth burrowed out of the blanket and
turned to stare out into the downpour.

Cutter’s
body was still twisted, his hands frozen in a death grip upon his right boot,
but he was peering out as best he could from under the overhang. In the
meantime, Elizabeth stole into his spot, so that when he leaned back for a
better view, his back touched Elizabeth’s damp camisole.

“Good
night! Cutter, do you see that?”

The
proud but blurry silhouette of an Indian materialized from the rain and mist,
his horse treading along at a tired pace. Elizabeth crawled forward to better
see. Squinting, she could see that he held his head upright, proudly, though it
teetered suspiciously before her eyes. What appeared to be two large feathers
were outlined in his hair, tilted downward on one side, and his hair seemed to
be free, falling just below his broad shoulders. Blinking from the strain of
her scrutiny, she refocused and could barely make out a bare chest, painted
with what appeared to be red streaks on one side. On his legs, he wore buckskin
trousers. The features themselves never sharpened.

Still,
she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

“What
is it?” Cutter fidgeted in order to get a better look.

Suddenly
the Indian lurched forward in the saddle, and Elizabeth cried out. “No—oh,
no! He’s hurt!”

Cutter
quickly tugged his denims back up. “Who’s hurt?” he demanded.

But
Elizabeth never answered; she was already crawling out of the shelter, into the
storm, her fear forgotten suddenly, her modesty dismissed, instinct taking over.

She’d
slid past him before Cutter’s mind had even had time to register her intent.

“Lizbeth!”

Damn.
She was actually going out into the storm? In her friggin’ drawers! Great! Just
great! It was just his luck to be saddled with a closet exhibitionist! Fumbling
for her legs, Cutter tried to stop her, but Elizabeth was too quick. Bucking
upward, he yanked the denims over his rear, and immediately shifted to his
stomach, slamming his head into the stone ceiling in the turn. His vision swung
to black for an instant. Cursing violently, he clutched at his throbbing head,
and started to crawl out after her.

Why
the hell had he agreed to this? he wondered irately. Was he a glutton for
punishment? Fool woman was determined to get herself killed—him, too, in
the process!

And
then he saw what had gotten her so distressed, and he cursed a blue streak.

“Lizbeth!”

In
slow motion, he saw her running through the downpour, her drawers and camisole
pasted to her body. Her sturdy black shoes splattering mud. “Nooo!” he howled.
Damn him, if the little fool wasn’t really gonna get herself killed! His
stomach lurched. “Elizabeth! No!” It was a ploy—he had to stop her.

His
heart hammering in fear, Cutter bolted from his knees, sprinting after her,
racing like a man possessed, one boot on, one off. His bare foot lit on
something sharp, slicing into his sole, but he didn’t feel the pain. In his
mind he could see the bastard rising up with a war cry and putting his knife to
Elizabeth’s lily white throat.

In
her panic, Elizabeth never even considered how the horse would view her
reckless approach, and she halted abruptly as it snorted, sidling away from her
in fear. With the force of that movement, the Indian toppled to one side,
sliding listlessly off the horse’s back. Acting purely out of instinct, she
moved to catch him, and floundered under his incredible weight. The horse moved
away immediately, calming with the distance put between them. She clutched the
Indian to her breast as her knees buckled, and then tumbled to the soggy ground,
falling atop him.

In
that instant, Cutter reached her. With a savage cry, he wrenched her off and
flung her away. Stumbling, Elizabeth landed on the ground on her backside, her
hands flying out behind her to break her fall.

“God—damn
you!” Cutter snarled, glaring at her furiously.

The
barely leashed violence and anger left Elizabeth speechless. She stared back at
him as though he were deranged.

Doubling
over to catch his breath, legs spread, hands on his knees, shirt hanging open,
Cutter stared down at the unconscious man at his feet. Beads of rain dripped
from the end of his nose.

Streaks
of red flowed from a wound in the brave’s chest, running down in watery
rivulets to stain his soiled buckskins. Despite that proof of the man’s injury,
Cutter’s anger was far from diminished. It could very well have been a ruse!
The fact that it wasn’t didn’t lessen the risk Elizabeth had taken one shred in
his mind.

He
glowered at her. “Damn me if you even have the brains God gave a snake, woman!
Just what did you think you were doing?”

Grating
her teeth, Elizabeth glared at Cutter with burning, reproachful eyes. “Can’t
you see the man is hurt?” she countered.

Cutter
only gaped at her. All he could think of in that moment was that he’d come too
close to losing her, and he couldn’t bear the thought of it.

It
tore at his gut.

Like
nothing before.

Stooping
over the unconscious brave, Cutter plucked open the man’s lids and then felt
for a pulse at his neck. Satisfied with the results, he turned again to glare
at Elizabeth. “What if he hadn’t been hurt? What if it had been an act—a
trick to sniff us out? What then, Doc?”

Elizabeth
stood abruptly, swiping her palms over her wet drawers. “But it wasn’t!” she
returned. “He is hurt—and I am a doctor. He needs me, Mr. McKenzie, so if
you don’t plan on assisting, then just get out of my way!”

Her
unexpected voice of authority took Cutter aback, but he never let the surprise
show on his face. In spite of his anger, he couldn’t argue with the facts; the
man did need immediate medical attention. He gave her a curt nod, yielding,
though grudgingly.

Above
them, a watery sun appeared through the drizzle as Elizabeth rushed to aid the
unconscious Indian. Brushing past Cutter, she determined to ignore the brief
contact of their bodies, but couldn’t. Even in her fury, his touch made her
heart react strangely.

But
her body’s reaction to him was completely forgotten when she looked down into
the young brave’s face. The cast of his skin was a sickly blue, and she knew
what that signified. Automatically she felt for a pulse on his neck. Feeling
it, though faintly, she blew a sigh of relief. Her heart raced with hope. “He’s
in shock,” she explained as Cutter stood behind, watching.

The
wound was deep, gaping, and ragged—almost as though he had been cut
repeatedly in the same spot. There was so much blood that it was difficult to
tell whether or not there was some foreign object still lodged within. Gulping
down her uncertainty, she fingered the wound, and finding nothing, determined
there was not. Whatever had been there had been removed already.

As
though by some sixth sense, her gaze fell on the small knife he had sheathed at
his side. The handle was bloody... and she knew instinctively what had
happened. Evidently he’d attempted to remove whatever had been lodged there on
his own... and had nicked an artery? Or worse, had he severed one? How much
blood had he lost? How long had he been bleeding?

Biting
down on her bottom lip, she glowered up at Cutter. “Well! Don’t just stand
there, Mr. McKenzie—help me get him inside!” The rain had slowed
considerably, and in that moment, ceased entirely. “Never mind,” she said
abruptly. “Just move him closer to the shelter.” Knowing Cutter was perfectly
capable of carrying the man by himself, she hurried to retrieve her discarded
skirt, along with her bedroll.

The
roll, she quickly unfurled, and then motioned for Cutter to place the brave
upon it while she fumbled with her skirt. No sooner had he set the man down
when she began tearing the sagging hem from her old skirt, inspecting it as it
came into her hands.

She
hadn’t recalled her state of dress until she’d spotted her skirt lying across
the floor of the dugout, and though she was disconcerted to be caught undressed
in the broad light of day, there had been no time to worry over it... nor was
there now.

The
first foot of the hem was incredibly filthy from having dragged the ground, and
she ripped it away completely. The rest she deemed perfectly suitable and
divided it into strips. Immediately she began forming compresses for the wound,
pressing the first one into place while she formed another.

Cutter
watched her work in silence.

“Start
a fire,” she demanded suddenly, without turning. Taking a deep, shuddering
breath, she tried desperately to forget the hungry look she’d spied in Cutter’s
eyes when she’d crawled back out of the dugout, clenching her skirt in her
teeth, and shoving her bedroll out before her. There was no time to be
exhilarated at the desire she’d spied there, she reminded herself firmly. But
somewhere in the back of her mind... she thrilled to it, despite herself.

It
seemed to take Cutter a full moment to grasp what Elizabeth had demanded of
him, but when he did, his face contorted as though he thought she were mentally
unbalanced. “Hell no!”

Elizabeth
glared up at him, all the while applying increasing pressure to stanch the
rapid flow of blood. “I have to cauterize his wound,” she said. “He’s losing
too much blood!”