Sagebrush Bride (7 page)

“Elizabeth!”
Jo persisted. At last Elizabeth opened one eye with great effort. “Elizabeth...
Cutter wants to—”

“Cutter?”
Elizabeth sighed, rubbing her cheek against Cutter’s vest.

“Yes,
Cutter! He wants to—”

“Mmmmmmhhhh,”
she murmured, snuggling contentedly. “Cutter... izh soooo warm,” she concluded
with a dreamy sigh. Her head lolled to one side and she closed her eye, ending
their one-sided conversation once and for all.

Grinning,
Cutter pivoted toward his frustrated sister, a gleam in his eyes. “Satisfied?”

Jo
shrugged.

“Now,
about that destination?”

“Why
should I tell you?” Jo asked. “Seems to me, brother dear, that if Elizabeth had
wanted you to know, she’d have told you herself.”

His
eyes bore into hers, willing her compliance. “If you don’t say, I’ll just go
anyway... and probably waste good time riding in the wrong direction. Besides,
Jo, I think you care about the gal, and I know you don’t want her hiring the
likes of Dick Brady—or some other bounder.”

“Why
don’t you just wait until tomorrow?” Jo asked reasonably. “I’ll talk to her.
She’ll listen to reason if I—”

“Because
she’s mule-headed, Jo. I can see it in her eyes. She’ll say no, and then she’ll
turn around and hire Brady. Better me than him, don’t you think?”

Jo
sighed with resignation. “You’re right—as usual. But this time I think
you’re takin’ on more than you know.”

He
chuckled.

Jo
shook her head. “You’re laughing now,” she apprised him. “But she’s gonna be
real mad, Cutter. You don’t know Liz like I do. She’s stubborn, but aside from
that, she’s got the damnedest temper I’ve ever seen. She’s had to to survive
since her daddy’s passin’. But,” she interjected, “if you’re so all-fired
determined, then it’s St. Louis you’re off to—just let me run upstairs
and pack a few of my things for her. I hope you know what you’re getting
yourself into,’ she said before leaving him alone with Elizabeth.

Cutter
wasted no time contemplating his sister’s warning, nor in getting Elizabeth
outside. He waited no more than ten minutes before Jo finally slipped out the
back door, her arms laden.

Seeing
that he was already mounted and had his hands full, she placed her
contributions into his saddle pockets, stuffing them full: foodstuffs, an extra
canteen, and a few other indispensables.

“Her
spectacles are in there.” Jo said, indicating the saddlebags. “I found them on
my desk. But I couldn’t find any clothes I thought she would wear—just a
blouse—and there’s a bit of money, too. I know you don’t need it,” she
said, before he could protest. “But you never can tell. Just give it to Elizabeth.
I owe her, anyhow.” She looked up at her brother. “Just for the record... I’ve
thought about it upstairs, and I’m sure you’re doin’ the right thing. It just
took me by surprise, is all. If you hadn’t volunteered, I think I would have
asked you anyway.”

He
smiled faintly, giving her a nod. “I suspected as much.”

Jo’s
eyes misted; she hated the fact that she’d spent so little time with her
brother. But Elizabeth needed him more at the moment. She accepted that fact...
yet it had been so long since she’d seen Cutter, and he was the only family she
had, the only one who’d ever cared for her. Their father had left what little
he’d earned as a trapper to Cutter, and Cutter had used every penny of it on
her. For the Oasis. She loved him fiercely for it.

But
he would be back, she knew. “Take care, little brother.” Patting his
buckskin-covered knee affectionately, she stepped back, relatively composed,
her fingers toying with the fringe of his pant leg. She shook her head
wistfully. “You always have to wear at least one tellin’ piece: britches, vest,
something, and it just makes you look more... well, Indian.” She gave him a
pleading look. “I swear, Cutter, if you would only wear normal clothes, no one
would ever know.”

“Jo.”

It
was just one curt word, but it said a multitude. Jo would have gone on, but it
wouldn’t have done any good. The discussion was over as far as Cutter was
concerned. She knew that he didn’t like the fact that she’d turned her back so
completely on their heritage, but he respected her decision. She had to respect
his—even if it meant he might get a bullet in the back someday. There
were just too many folks who didn’t deal respectfully with “breeds.”

Cutter
didn’t flaunt his heritage, and he didn’t look blatantly Indian either. He just
seemed to need that small act of defiance. Well, she consoled herself, at least
he didn’t look too out of place. Many men of Anglo descent wore buckskin, the
difference being, they weren’t part “Injun,” and didn’t take a risk just by
wearing it.

“I’ll
wire St. Louis,” she offered. And then her expression turned suddenly grave.
“And don’t lose my ring!” Glancing down, almost wistfully, at the shiny silver
object she held between her fingers, she thrust it abruptly into his hand.

Without
looking at it, Cutter slipped the band into his pocket, his jaw taut. He hadn’t
counted on the anger he’d feel just seeing the thing again. “See you soon,” he
said, adjusting his hat brim. Then, forcing the harshness from his expression,
he gave his sister a wink.

“Soon,”
Jo agreed and he gently snap the reins and trotted away, holding Elizabeth
protectively.

Cutter
hated leaving Jo as much as she hated to see him go. But for the first time, he
knew he left her in capable hands—her own. Jo could take care of
herself—always had been able to, from the looks of it. He’d just never
realized until now. The memory of how she’d handled Brady brought the faintest
smile to his lips. Though he was the younger of the two, he’d thought of her as
the dependent one, but it was no longer so. Had she ever been? Or was he really
just too sheltering by far?

Jo
claimed he was.

She’d
never openly complain, but he suspected she was a mite hurt by his lack of
confidence in her. The tone of her voice had all but said so earlier.

His
gaze drifted along the peaceful street. As usual, the only light came from the
few saloons and bawdy houses that were still in full swing. Most everyone else
was asleep this late in the evening, buildings darkened, lamps snuffed.

There
was less than a half moon to see by outside of town. But it was enough. He
aimed to follow the Big Sioux River to Sioux City or thereabouts, and then the
Missouri—at least part of the way—and the smell of the water alone
was enough to keep him on track. In his estimation, St. Louis was at least a
good week’s ride with the load he was carrying, but he reckoned his Palouse
could handle it easily enough.

Question
was, could he?

As
he reached the edge of town, he touched his spurs to his horse, quickening the
pace, eager to put as much distance between them and Sioux Falls as possible by
the time Elizabeth awakened. There was no telling how long he had. An hour?
Two? All night? Who knew? The fact that she was half-crocked would work in his
favor. For the most part, a drunken sleep was a dead sleep and the longer she
was out, the better.

Once
they were far enough away, she could rail all she wanted about his
presumptuousness, but he didn’t aim to make it all that easy for her to go home.

Her
hand slid up his ribs suddenly, distracting him, and his heartbeat quickened at
the feel of her small, warm palm branding him through his shirt. Lust clenched
him as her fingers rubbed him almost imperceptibly, yet enough to make him
crazy after only an instant.

With
a tortured groan, Cutter covered her hand with his, stilling her sleepy
movements.

He
glanced down at her. The little light the moon gave off sprinkled silver dust
over Elizabeth’s fine hair, making it seem lighter than it actually was. It
made her skin seem paler, too. Translucent almost. In sleep, her starchy facade
had softened, giving her a delicate appearance.

Damned
if he could understand how she could stand to have her hair pulled back and
braided so tightly. Impulsively he searched out and found the pins, removing
them one by one. His fingers gently undid the ribbon that held her braid.
Untying it, he stuffed the items into his pocket along with the ring, making a
mental note to return them to her later. Slowly, methodically, he unbound her
hair, combing through the silk with his fingers until the fine strands blew
free with the gentle night breeze.

“That’s
more like it,” he muttered. But he couldn’t quite keep himself from running his
hand along the length of it, again and again. Nothing had ever felt so good to
his callused fingers; it amazed him something so fine could even stimulate his
scarred flesh... but there it was, like feathers over stone.

At
the moment her head was resting lightly in the crook of his right arm, and her
legs were dangling over his left thigh. He shook his head as he eyed her bulky
skirts, thinking that they were gonna be a pain in his ass. He’d swear she was
wearing a size three times larger than she needed. Her limbs were all but lost
in the folds. Resisting the urge to lift up the torn hem and see for himself,
he felt himself growing tense and knew it had nothing to do with her too big
clothing.

She
looked peaceful lying there in his arms, but as the moments passed, there was
no peace for Cutter. He felt the blood humming through his veins, and the pulse
in his head, the beat of it ancient and haunting.

Sometimes
he could see himself in his mind’s eye as a youth, his dark hair long and
braided, clad in buckskin britches and moccasins, standing under the moon and
listening to the night sounds; his mother’s wailing, his father’s drunken
bellows, his sister’s bare feet scampering into the dark woods in fear. And he
would once again feel the surging of his blood, hear the call of his spirit…
and seek his peace in his native blood.

That
incredible feeling sometimes still overwhelmed him. It was something his sister
desperately resisted in herself. Comfort to her came in denying their mother’s
legacy; forgetting the language, along with everything else their mother
struggled so hard to instill in them. Their father had trained her too well.

But
Cutter refused to forget.

You always have to wear at least one tellin’
piece...

As
he glanced down at the fringe of his jacket sleeve, his lips twisted cynically.
It was a reminder that no matter how firmly planted he seemed to be in the
white man’s world, there would always be that song in his soul—that
spirit he could no more deny than he could his next breath. It was as
inexpressible as the sound of a wolf’s lonesome howl at the moon—and
whether he liked it or not, it felt more right than anything could.

As
right as it felt to crave the woman in his arms, to want to bury himself deep
inside her, feed his ruthless hunger, protect her.

Squirming
in his lap, Elizabeth sighed groggily, lifting her head slightly. Her fingers curled
into the button front of his shirt, and his body reacted accordingly. He closed
his eyes, commanding control, but it was wrong thing to do, because in his mind
he saw her ripping off his shirt, popping his buttons, kissing his chest.

He
saw himself letting go of the reins, cradling her head in his big hands,
lowering his lips to hers. Almost feverishly, he kissed her, lapping at the
flesh of her lips and neck, remembering the taste of her. In his fantasy, her
eyes opened to meet his. Throwing her head back like a pagan goddess, she
invited him without words. Eagerly he unbuttoned her shirt. His hand kneaded
softly at her flesh, then fell to cup one velvety breast.

With
a groan, he imagined how it would look against his dark skin, soft white globes
illuminated by the pale light of the moon.

“Sooo
dark,” she whispered, startling Cutter from his fantasy. It sounded almost a
child’s plaintive voice, and he shuddered, willing the images away. He knew she
was dreaming, because her eyes were still closed. But just in case, he slowed
the pace to a brisk walk, hoping to lull her back into a deeper slumber with a
slower gait.

“Shhh,”
he murmured, his heart hammering—an after-effect of his overactive
imagination. “Everything’s fine,” he whispered hoarsely. He withdrew the ring
from his pocket and slipped it onto her finger. “You’re with me,” he said, and
as he spoke, he felt the truth of those words, and took in a satisfied breath,
feeling more content than he’d felt in a long time.

This was meant to be.