Sagebrush Bride

chapter THIRTEEN





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!”

Cutter’s gaze never faltered. “No.” His tone remained unyielding.

“Why not?” Elizabeth retorted. Then, seeing the set of his jaw, she appealed, her voice breaking suddenly, “He’ll die!” She couldn’t believe Cutter could be so cold.

“We can’t be sure he’s alone,” Cutter stated matter-of-factly. “If he’s got friends out there, then we’re better off not drawing attention to ourselves. Besides, Lizbeth, the man’s already dead—I’ve seen that look too many times not to know. You can’t save him,” he said bluntly.

“How can you be so heartless?” she asked him. “Certainly they would understand that I mean to help him?”

Cutter’s expression remained shuttered as he shook his head, his jaw setting all the more stubbornly.



“Can’t take that chance,” he said evenly. If it were only himself he had to worry over, he’d have done so without a second thought. But he wasn’t alone. And he wasn’t about to risk Elizabeth.

Furiously Elizabeth turned on him. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. McKenzie. I don’t intend to let this man die! Fact is, if you don’t start that blasted fire, then I will!” Again, she added a compress, giving a concerned shake of her head. “He’s lost so much blood already... can’t lose much more.” She glanced back up at Cutter, her heart in her eyes. “Please, Cutter,” she appealed. As he watched, her eyes glazed with unshed tears, startling him with their heart-wrenching intensity. “Please.”

When she put it like that, Cutter couldn’t begin to deny her. Disgusted with himself, he spun away. Cursing to himself, he buttoned up his shirt and hastily tucked one side into his denims.

As he’d feared, the fire took quite a while to kindle with the wood so wet, and sent up a considerable amount of smoke in the process. Shaking his head, he watched it curl upward with no small measure of concern.



In the meantime, Elizabeth had cleaned the wound area as best she could without removing the bandages. She could only hope that the rain had managed to clean the laceration itself sufficiently, because she didn’t dare remove the bandage and start the bleeding all over again. At least not until she was ready to cauterize. He’d lost too much blood already. As it was, it was still flowing, only much slower than before. And all the while, the Indian brave lay without moving, not even a twitch of his brow. He seemed completely unaware that anyone was tending him at all.



When the fire was lit to his satisfaction, Cutter retrieved his knife from the dugout, where he’d tossed it, and held it over the flames, trying in vain not to gawk at Elizabeth’s dusky areolas through her threadbare camisole. It was a good thing the brave was unconscious, he thought viciously, because he might have to kill the bastard if he so much as set eyes on Elizabeth at the moment. Her breasts were so close to the-Indian’s face... and for a moment he imagined himself lying there instead, his lips so close...

His face contorted suddenly.

What the hell was wrong with him?

A man lay dying before him—a man whom, at any another time, Cutter would have likely killed for, all for the blood they shared—and here he was with murder on his mind, for the sake of a woman.

But not just any woman.

As much as he hated to admit the fact... Elizabeth Bowcock had gotten under his skin. The spine-tingling fear he’d felt when he’d spied her running headlong into danger was something he’d never forget... not if he lived a hundred lifetimes.

She’d somehow become as vital to him... as nothing ever had been before. And though he hesitated to put a name to the emotion, he suspected it nonetheless.

And it made him sick to his gut.

Because it made him susceptible, and he didn’t like that one damned bit.