Sagebrush Bride (30 page)

Seeing
her waver, Cutter snatched her up into his own saddle with no small measure of
concern. The last time she’d slept in his arms, she’d given him a healthy fear
of doubling up on one horse, but he couldn’t very well just let her drop from
exhaustion—sure was tempting, though. As they rode, that part of him was
never very far from his thoughts. And because of it, he was as cagey as a
stallion in a brood mare’s stall by the time they made camp.

It
had been dark for over an hour when they stopped for the night. With sleepy
murmurs Elizabeth allowed Cutter to tuck her into her bedroll. He placed his
own next to hers, and having satisfied his hunger earlier in the day, gnawed on
a tough slice of jerky as he contemplated the night before.

Lizbeth
had grit—had to give her that much. With a grin, he thought about her
temperament, deciding that she must have had a full-blooded Scot hanging
somewhere on her family tree.

He
closed his eyes and ruminated, thinking that they’d made real good time all
day. But time was something he was swiftly running short on. He shifted
uneasily, his eyes seeking out her huddled form in the darkness. He swallowed
the last bite of jerky. Remembering the rattler necklace he’d made for her, he
pulled it out of his denim pocket, staring at it a long moment. Scooting closer
to Elizabeth, he carefully placed it over her head, tucking it reverently into
the space between two of her buttons.

He
had to make her see things his way—just couldn’t let her hire on someone
else. He just wasn’t sure how to convince her of it.

Trying
not to think about the ache in his foot, as well as the one in his britches, he
jerked up his own blanket and drew it over Elizabeth—two blankets
wouldn’t hurt her none—and then he threw a protective arm over her for
good measure, and willed himself to sleep.

The
next morning he was still thinking over some way to convince Elizabeth to let
him stand in as her husband while he prepared to shave. After breakfast, he
hung his mirror from a tree and then filled his bowl with water. He’d scrubbed
his face and then lathered his whiskers, and was about to draw the folding
razor across his chin when Elizabeth walked up to him, a bundle of dirty
clothes squashed in her arms. He watched her approach in the mirror, admiring
the soft sway of her hips—if not the bulky, ugly, ragged fabric that
covered them.

“Cutter?”

With
his hand still in midair, he glanced at her.

Cutter
was bare-chested, his skin taut and dark, and it was difficult to remain
coherent at the sight of him. Elizabeth had thought, when she’d felt the light
mat of hair on his chest and arms, along with the tightness of the skin across
his ribs and belly, that nothing could be so incredible. But seeing him was. It
fair took her breath away.

“I—I
wanted to thank you for the necklace,” she said hesitantly, her hands trembling
as she clutched the bundle of clothes. She yearned to reach out and touch him,
the necklace at least, but couldn’t because her hands were full. With the
necklace, he’d given her a keepsake, something tangible that she could hold on
to and remember... after he was gone. Something that would prove it had all
been real and not a wonderful, magical dream—the most beautiful night of
her life. She didn’t fool herself; she’d been available, and he in need. He
just wasn’t the marrying kind, she knew, nor would it have worked out for
her... not when she wanted her niece so desperately. She couldn’t take that
chance.

He
was still staring at her, his eyes probing, as though he were trying to read
her soul. And then he gave her a nod and returned to his mirror, his thoughts
obviously preoccupied. As she watched, he lifted the razor.

“Did
you make it from the rattler we ate?” Elizabeth asked, her brows furrowing as
she peered into the bowl, then at his beard, and again at the razor in his hand.

“Yeah,”
Cutter replied, and then turned to look at her again, thinking that she’d come
a long way—from not being able to even mention her body’s inborn callings
to feeling at ease gawking at his own rites. There was something inherently
satisfying in that, Cutter mused, and then he realized that she was
scrutinizing his face a little too intently.

“I
thought Indians didn’t have to shave,” she said abruptly, obviously befuddled
by the fact that he was about to do just that. “I’d always heard, you see... and
the others... well, they didn’t seem to have any—so why do you?”

Her
question, so innocently asked, took Cutter by surprise, and he didn’t
immediately reply. Elizabeth looked so interested in his response that he
didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was likely the most asinine question
he’d ever heard. With a confounded look, he scratched his temple with his
thumb. “Hell, Lizbeth, how should I know? Maybe it’s the white in me,” he added
caustically.

Averting
her eyes, Elizabeth nodded, shrugging, obviously embarrassed that she’d asked
such a personal question. “Just wondered, is all.” Pulling her bundle more
closely against her breasts, she walked away, and for a moment Cutter just
stared at her, dumbfounded, as she headed toward the river. And then it struck
him suddenly, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Seeing
himself suddenly in a different light, he studied his reflection in the hazy
mirror. Hell, he thought, Jo had been right... he really didn’t look like much
of an Indian—less so with a beard. If it weren’t for his dark coloring,
and the way he wore his clothes, most folks would probably never suspect. His
Irish blood was just as prominent as the Indian, showing itself in the wavy
texture of his hair, for one... and his body hair—didn’t have lots,
but... more than he should have had.

He
wasn’t sure how long he stood there gawking at himself, his expression
incredulous, but his dark eyes turned suddenly cunning. A slow smile lifted his
lips as he washed the caking lather from his face, and dried himself briskly
with a small towel. Then he meticulously trimmed his beard and, once satisfied
with his appearance, went in search of Elizabeth.

He
found her scrubbing laundry in the river, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows,
her ragged skirt sopping up the water. She was washing his favorite green
shirt, putting heart and soul into it, and he smiled at the image she made. The
sight of her, her clothes damp and clinging to her delicate curves, at once
shifted the nature of his thoughts, and his smile turned devious.

“Mind
scrubbing something else for me?”

Startled
by his husky baritone, Elizabeth leapt, nearly losing the shirt she was
laundering in the slow but steady current of the river. Cutter stood on the
bank, his arms crossed, his eyes dancing with mischief. For some reason, his
imperious manner pricked at her. “No, I don’t, but must you always sneak
up—” Her protest ended abruptly with a gasp of surprise. “You
can’t—Cutter!”

He
chuckled at her stricken expression, but his hands never ceased unbuttoning his
denims. “Ain’t nothing here you haven’t already seen, Doc,” he told her coolly.

Or
felt, Elizabeth wanted to add, her face heating fiercely. Still, it wasn’t the
least bit proper. “Cutter,” she protested weakly. But her gaze never wavered as
he began to shuck off his pants... and then his drawers, stepping out of both.
Finally he stood before her as naked as the day he was born—unashamed and
even a bit arrogant in his stance. To her dismay, she remained transfixed, her
heart pummeling her ribs.

“If
there’s anything needs washing, it’s these,” he revealed huskily, dropping the
clothing in question into the pile of laundry she’d left on the bank. As

Elizabeth
gaped, he waded into the cool river, and dove under the rippling surface.

To
her dismay, she didn’t even realize that she was still gawking, her fingers
clutching at his wet shirt in her hands, until he surfaced near her, shaking
his head like a wet puppy, flinging droplets of water everywhere. Yet even as
the cool droplets pattered her face, she stared.

His
eyes crinkled at the corners. “Need help?” he asked.

The
water had come to midchest where he’d first surfaced, but as he stalked toward
her, it dipped to his waist, his thighs... his...

“H-Help?”
Elizabeth stammered, when he stood before her at last. “I—I—” With
some difficulty, her eyes lifted to his face as he began to pry the soaked
cloth from her hands. With a nod, he tossed it upon the bank and then turned to
face her, his eyes smoldering with that same hunger she recalled so vividly.
And then a tremor passed through her as they darkened before her eyes.

“Help,”
he repeated, his fingers touching her shoulders, gripping them firmly and then
kneading them for a moment.

Elizabeth’s
legs went as limp as the water she was standing in. His fingers went to her
braid, untwisting it, while she stood, like a ninny, staring up at him.

“I
like it down,” Cutter revealed, his voice so warm and masculine that it sent
shiver after shiver down her spine. Still, she couldn’t move. His eyes twinkled
as he spread her hair about her shoulders, smoothing it with his fingers. His
hand moved from her hair to her face, his fingers caressing at first and then
cupping her face as though it were his greatest treasure. He made her feel so
very beautiful, made her believe...

“Y-You
do?” she whispered.

“I
do,” he said with a nod, and then he slowly dipped his head to her mouth.

Elizabeth’s
knees went weak as he descended. His lips touched her briefly, then withdrew,
and reclaimed them in a soul-searing kiss. His mouth moved with slow finesse,
coaxing a response from her. Instinctively Elizabeth opened for him, shivering
when his tongue slid deep like velvet heat over hers.

“Cutter.”

“Yes?”

“The
laundry...” Reaching out instinctively, Elizabeth threaded her fingers into the
thick waves of his hair.

“It’ll
wait.”

Elizabeth
nodded in profound agreement, her mind becoming more hazed with every moment he
held her. His arms swept about her waist, lifting her up against himself, until
she could feel every wet, solid inch of him through her own clothing. He was
aroused... she could feel him, and her breath quickened in awakened response.
She threw her head back, offering him everything he would take of her...
anything.

Like
a man drunk with desire, Cutter allowed his lips to feast on the flesh of her
neck. “I’ll even help when we’re through,” he promised huskily, his breath
tickling the hollow of her throat.

But
not his breath, Elizabeth realized suddenly... his beard. “You didn’t shave?”
she asked dreamily.

“No,
I didn’t,” Cutter agreed, trying not to chuckle at the airy quality of her
voice. Her lids were falling, and he lifted her face, kissing them closed,
reveling in her artless reaction to him. “Thought it might be best.”

“Mmmmmmhhh,”
Elizabeth agreed, arching into him. He gave her lips small, cherishing pecks,
and she sighed. “Best... for what?” she asked breathlessly.

Cutter
winced and considered not answering her question—at least not until
afterward—but it was what he’d come to the river for, he reminded himself.
With a sigh of resignation, he forced himself to speak, knowing it would be too
easy to refrain. “You’re not hiring on someone else,” he said, bracing himself
for her anger. For the longest moment Elizabeth remained in her dreamy state,
her eyes closed in pleasure, and then her eyes flew open.

“What do you mean, I’m not hiring on anybody
else?”