Sagebrush Bride (16 page)

“Well, I’m mighty proud if I say so myself,” she
told him. And then, realizing she’d spoken defensively, and that it wasn’t
likely to help matters between them, she sought to rectify it. “What do you
think about Cocoa?” she asked, conversationally.

“Cocoa?” Turning to her abruptly, Cutter gave her
a harassed look. “What about it?”

Elizabeth patted her mare’s neck affectionately.
“I thought I’d call her Cocoa.” Her cheeks warmed under his cutting gaze, but
she refused to be embarrassed. “My horse,” she clarified. Rallying her
self-defenses, she smiled pleasantly. “It suits her, don’t you think?”

Still he stared, but the only sound to reach
Elizabeth’s ears was the trotting of hooves against the hard ground. With an
almost imperceptible shake of his head, he turned away. Elizabeth was affronted
by his rudeness, and her mouth fell slightly open, but she collected herself at
once. If they were going to ride the distance together, she decided in that moment,
they were going to have to make peace at some point. They couldn’t ride on like
this much longer!

His own horse was a beautiful Appaloosa, dark
everywhere but at the haunches, where it paled to a silvery white and had large
black spots. The only blemish it bore was on the right ear; half of it appeared
to have been lopped off. Still, as fine an animal as it was, she knew he must
be very proud of it. “What about yours?”

“What about it?” Cutter repeated unindulgently,
keeping his gaze focused ahead of them. He had no need to look at her at the
moment. Her strained tone told him everything he needed to know. He could see
her clearly in his mind’s eye, her hair braided so tightly that it stretched
the pale skin of her cheeks, slanting her eyes—her face pinched in as
though she’d been sucking at lemons.

He gave her a quick glimpse—purely out of
curiosity—to find that her spectacles had bounced down to a precarious
position at the end of her nose, giving. the impression that she peered down on
him, though in fact she sat a good deal lower than he did. The turmoil in her
expression told him that she was ill at ease with her emotions, and he had the
sudden suspicion that she’d led such a repressed life that she now had no
notion how to handle herself in her pique. Far from being moved by that
revelation, he was annoyed by it, because it drew him to her in ways he ought
not to be drawn.

She pushed her spectacles back up the bridge of
her nose. “What do you call him?” she inquired a bit too agreeably.

Shaking his head, Cutter gave her that look that
suggested she might be out of her gourd. “Not a damned thing,” he replied. “I
don’t call’m anythin’ but just plain horse.” To his mind, Elizabeth didn’t give
him a big enough reaction, prompting him to add, “Only piss-pants and
tenderfeet name their animals.” His eyes challenged her, never wavering as he
awaited her response. No matter how he looked at it, it just didn’t sit well
that he’d given in to her so easily.

Elizabeth straightened her spine. “I see. So which
of the two does that make me—tenderfoot or... or... ”

“Piss-pant,” Cutter provided, without compunction.
She couldn’t even say the word, he thought irascibly. What the hell had he
gotten himself into? Damn him anyway, if he was going to let her just up’n hire
someone else to play bridegroom for her. Crazy, loony, irritating
female—didn’t she know what she’d be setting herself up for?

Elizabeth’s amber eyes widened in affront.

Piss-pant! Elizabeth’s mind screeched. Piss-pant?
Just how was she supposed to respond to that? Her mouth couldn’t begin to form
the words even if she’d known what to say. So much for conversation, she
chafed, and deciding that their discourse was definitely over, she tugged
irritably on the reins, drawing back and away.

As she glowered at Cutter’s back, she began once
again to doubt the wisdom in making this trek with the volatile man before her.
Less than forty-eight hours earlier, she’d been sitting, misty-eyed, at her
kitchen table, with a letter in hand destined to change her life forever. Yet,
even then, if someone had told her she’d be in the saddle today, riding beside
the most contrary man she’d ever laid eyes upon, she’d have called them liar...
Well, maybe she wouldn’t have. But here she sat, nevertheless, faced with the
dilemma of having to make the best of a situation she’d never have conceived
possible.

Alone with a man.

A strange man, she clarified to herself.

And an obvious rogue, at that.

Good night, what would her father have said?

He’d never have let himself die if he’d thought,
for even one second that she’d be so witless! How many times had he warned her
to “trust no man unless he’s loaded with ether or dead”? He’d never said as
much, but she suspected Angus Bowcock preferred the latter if a man was alone
with his daughter. It had been her father, after all, who’d encouraged her
lamentable state of dress. At least he had in the beginning. Later, in the last
months of his life, he’d insisted that she rid herself of the shapeless
garments she’d always worn.

Gripping the reins progressively tighter, until
they whitened the flesh of her palm, she recalled that he’d even bought her a
beautiful calico print... so that she would make herself a dress from it. She’d
not understood then. But she did now. He’d known then that he was dying, and
he’d wanted her to set about finding a man to care for her. Why hadn’t she been
able to see it at the time? The sadness in his eyes when he’d come home that
day to find the calico neatly quilted, and gracing his own bed. It was all so
clear to her... but only now.

Oh, Papa, she thought, if only you were here. She
sighed wistfully. The fact was that he was gone. And he wasn’t coming back. But
she thought he might be proud of her, anyhow.

She’d not even cried when he’d died.

Dauntlessly she’d stepped into his shoes, and even
when the townsfolk had balked because it wasn’t fittin’ for a woman to tend
them, she’d not relented. If they preferred to die, then that was their
concern. But she’d informed them boldly when their children were ill, but she’d
not let their little ones suffer because she wasn’t a man doctor. And in the
end, when a man or his loved ones were ailing, it didn’t take much persuasion
to make them see things her way. Survival was the name of the game, and if it
took a woman to accomplish the task, then so be it.

Gaining their acceptance had taken quite a while,
yet it had been well worth it. Now most everyone in or about Sioux Falls came
willingly to her, whether their ailments were big or small. And not for the
first time, she felt a pang for leaving them without medical aid. Yet, that she
could recall, there were none so sick just now that they couldn’t survive her
brief absence. She’d had no choice in the matter, after all, but even if she
had planned when she would leave, it was doubtful she could have found someone
to replace her in such short time. Still, she would have tried. And then
worried when she couldn’t—and in the end, would have wasted precious
time.

She did have that much to thank Cutter for, she
reflected, and stole another glance at his back. He had, at least, taken that
weighty decision out of her hands. And that led her to another thought
entirely.

How was it that he had gotten her to thinking this
was all her idea? And worrying when she thought he’d left her stranded? She
wouldn’t put it past him to have planned the entire thing! Right down to the
last detail!

Lost in thought as she was, she was completely
unprepared when a bird swooped down before her, spooking her mare.
Instinctively her hands tightened on the reins, startling Cocoa. The mare edged
backward, huffing and snorting mutinously. Before Elizabeth could even scream
for help, she was tossed headfirst. Landing with a squeal on the ground, she
rolled and lay unmoving where she fell.

Intending to catch her mare before it trampled her
to death, Cutter snatched her reins and calmed Cocoa. That done, he leapt off
his own mount and rushed to where Elizabeth lay, skidding the last two feet on
his knees, halting at her side.

Her eyes were wide open, but she didn’t so much as
bat a lash. Anxiously he passed a hand over her eyes. She blinked suddenly and
turned to him, her eyes misting, and his heart jolted back to life. Releasing
the breath he’d not realized he’d held, he asked softly, “You all right,
Lizbeth?”

Elizabeth nodded, taking the hand he offered.
Using it for support, she hauled herself upright.

Seeing that she wasn’t injured, Cutter didn’t
bother to conceal his displeasure. “What is it with you and horses that lands
you square on your ass every time?”

To his alarm, a solitary tear rolled down her
dusty cheek, leaving a dirty, wet trail in its wake. “Well, hell, you are
hurt!” he growled. “Show me where!”

With her throat parched and too thick to speak,
Elizabeth shook her head helplessly, sniffing back tears. “I’m... I’m not,” she
insisted. But her lip began to tremble traitorously, and then, to her dismay,
she broke into sobs. It was as though all the pain she’d been harboring in the
months since her father’s death surfaced in that miserable moment as Cutter
glowered down upon her. Mortified, she hid her face in her hands.

Obviously awkward with her tears, Cutter sat
firmly on his backside, and placed a hand to her back, rubbing soothingly.
“Come on, now, bright eyes, don’t go sheddin’ tears on me now,” he told her,
urging her closer, into the space between his legs. She didn’t need much
prodding. With a smothered sob, she leaned into his arms, burying her wet face
against his shirt, and driving him backward with the impact of her delicious
little body. Teetering with her weight, Cutter pulled her into his lap as
gently as though she were a china doll.

Grateful for the comfort Cutter was giving, but
ashamed of her disgraceful outburst, Elizabeth concealed her face against his
chest and wept silently, her shoulders quaking softly.

She clutched at his shirt as though it were her salvation,
and Cutter could do nothing but sit and soothe her while she unwittingly tugged
his shirttails out of his denims.

He wasn’t quite certain why she was weeping so
passionately, and felt a stab of guilt for worrying about his shirt. The thing
was, if she pulled any harder, it was like to rip in two, and he didn’t have
but the two—this one and the one in his saddlebag.

Moving closer, he tried to ease the fatal tension
on his favorite shirt. Wrapping his arms around her, he stroked her back
reassuringly, and despite his resolve not to yield to his baser instincts, his
britches grew snug as his body responded to the woman leaning so intimately
into his arms.

Damned if she didn’t smell good.

Clenching his jaw, he fought the urge to lift her
face up, kiss her tears away, because he knew exactly where it would lead if he
did. It didn’t matter where they were. His body didn’t know the difference
between a feather-fluffed mattress and the dirt-hard ground. But she would. And
somehow, it mattered.

He’d promised her nothing last night, and he sure
as hell didn’t harbor any noble sentiments, but he wanted it to be right
between them when it happened. And it would happen, without a doubt, but first
he wanted her trust.

And her unconditional surrender.

Swallowing with difficulty, he pressed his lips
down into her hair, while his hand caressed her. Moving up her arm, his fingers
tightened around her shoulders, and then he froze, forbidding himself to go any
further.

“Lizbeth,” he said hoarsely. “Are y’ hurt, gal?”

Her tears continued to flow into his shirt, but
she managed to shake her head in answer. Cutter took a deep breath, dismissing
the warm female scent of her. “What is it, then?” He glanced over his shoulder,
catching sight of their horses a few feet away. Turning back to her, he
assured, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, bright eyes. Everyone takes a fall
now and again. Hell, I’ve even done it once or twice.” So what if it wasn’t
true? he argued with himself. She didn’t have to know, did she? He stroked the back
of her head as he would a child, his fingers sliding down the length of her
braid. He’d been disappointed this morning to find her once again withdrawn
behind her prudish mask.

She nodded, and he could tell that she’d opened
her eyes as well, because he could feel her lashes fluttering through his wet
shirt. It was then that he realized she wasn’t wearing her specs any longer,
and he immediately searched the ground for them. He grimaced when he found them
only a few inches away, one lens cracked and the frames bent beyond repair.

“Next time,” he apprised her, not knowing how to
break the news, “don’t keep such a death grip on the reins. If you hadn’t been
strangling the damned Cayuse, she wouldn’t have spilled you.”