Sagebrush Bride

chapter TWELVE





Reaching the craggy bluff first, Cutter motioned for Elizabeth to stay put.

“Why’d you hafta kick my horse?” she demanded at once, seeking courage in her wrath, but he ignored her, leaving her to wait in the downpour while he inspected the grotto.

“You could have killed me!” she shouted as he returned to seize her reins. Raindrops sparkled in her lashes, making it difficult to see his face through the haze. Furiously Elizabeth swiped at her wet face, running her fingers upward into her sopping hair, lifting it out of her face.

Without a word, Cutter led her around to where a small opening was discernible. Dismounting, he fell to his knees and crawled into the narrow crevice, backing out almost immediately. Still without speaking, he stood, whisking Elizabeth off her mount and setting her on her unsteady feet. He urged her down onto her knees. The rain pattered Elizabeth’s back without mercy as she obeyed.

But as she began to crawl within, a thought occurred to her, chilling her to the bone, and she hesitated. “What about the river? Won’t it rise with the rain?” Drowning was the very last thing she wished to do!

“The river’s low!” Cutter shouted over the downpour. “It’ll rise, but not nearly enough—now, get in, and get cozy!” He coaxed her under the narrow overhang and into the wider cavity beyond. Thunder erupted, and though Cutter’s lips were moving, she couldn’t hear his next words

“... Stay... hold the fort,” he finished, backing out almost at once.

As she realized that he was leaving her, Elizabeth’s eyes went wide, and she started to follow him out, terrified of being left alone.

Cutter shoved her back with a fierce glare. “Chrissakes, woman! I said t’ stay, and I mean stay!” As though an afterthought, he seized his hat from her head and began to back out once again.

Again thunder cracked, reverberating clear into the solid rock. Even the ground seemed to tremble beneath them. Panicking, Elizabeth grasped Cutter’s fingers, the last reachable part of him, her eyes pleading. “Cutter! P-Please wait!”

He shook off her trembling hands, his black eyes spearing her. “Trust me,” was all he said, his tone unyielding, and then he was sliding out again.

Frantic, Elizabeth followed as far as the entrance to watch him go, her heart in her throat. Rain and wind buffeted her face, but fear held her immobile as, before her eyes, his form blurred and was swallowed by the gray mist and rain.

Trust.

There was that word again.

But she did trust him... s-she did!

She did trust him.

It seemed to Elizabeth that she lay an eternity on the hard ground, peering out anxiously, waiting for some sign of Cutter’s return, all the while repeating those words until they became a litany.

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.

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?”