Sagebrush Bride (26 page)

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.”

Cutter’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.

Before she could stop herself, her fingers slid
boldly down to his hand, turning it gently to her scrutiny, and exposing his
disfigurement. Once again, their gazes met and held, neither of them able to
break away from whatever force held them snared. Cutter said absolutely
nothing.

But then, Elizabeth hadn’t expected him to. He
wasn’t the sort of man who would reveal anything easily. Yet she sensed that
the moment was right. And she needed to know. “How—”

The shadows deepened in his eyes, making them
appear fathomless, as though one could topple into the depths of them and
never, ever, find her way back into the light... as though they’d seen more
than a man should have. “Leave it be, Doc. You don’t wanna know.”

Elizabeth’s gaze never wavered. Despite his closed
expression, she sensed his vulnerability. “Yes, I do,” she insisted, her voice
soft but determined.

Cutter sighed ruefully, shaking his head, as
though he begrudged himself the comfort she was offering, yet couldn’t turn it
away. His voice sounded gruff. “It’s not anything worth digging up, Liz... too
long ago now.”

Acting out of impulse, as well as the need to
return the comfort he’d given earlier, Elizabeth lifted his hand to her lips,
squeezing with compassion. And then, before she could stop herself, she was
kissing each scalding fingertip, lingering on each, as though to kiss them were
to heal them.

As he watched her through heavy-lidded eyes,
growing heavier, Cutter’s insides vaulted. His throat constricted. “Lizbeth,”
he said thickly. “I don’t think you know what you’re doing, gal.”

Elizabeth chose that moment to meet his gaze, and
what was revealed in the depths of them made Cutter’s pulses leap to life.

Damn him, if the little harridan wasn’t trying to
seduce him!

Why he suddenly felt compelled to warn her off, he
didn’t know. But he did. He had the feeling that she was riding on instinct,
that too many days on the trail with a man had made her vulnerable, and he
didn’t want her that way.

She kissed another finger compassionately, her
eyes closing with the intensity of her feeling. “Lizbeth,” he groaned. But
further words failed him—to hell with good intentions!

With a tortured moan, he lifted her up, into the
spot between his legs. Weakened by the quivering of her limbs, Elizabeth
couldn’t help but sink to her knees with a gasp of surprise. With a grunt of
satisfaction, he wrapped his arms about her, hauling her up against himself.
His hand went to her throat, his thumb beneath her chin, raising it up.

Elizabeth never even thought to protest. She knew
he was going to kiss her... prayed that he would, even... wanted it so badly.
His gaze grew heavier as he drew her closer, as though he would pull her inside
of himself, and then, very slowly, his mouth slanted over hers, warm, hard, and
unyielding, and Elizabeth swore she’d suddenly died and gone to heaven.