Sagebrush Bride Page 3

  Inclining his head slightly, Cutter lifted his own glass in mock salute. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, smiling.

  Too flustered to speak, Elizabeth simply shook her head in answer, thinking that she really ought to get up and leave. Yet she didn’t. Something kept her rooted to the chair, and she couldn’t even force her gaze away.

  Did he know how much his presence disturbed her? Was he making fun of her? Somehow that possibility thoroughly distressed her. “I really wish you wouldn’t smile so much.”

  Cutter studied the expression on her face over the rim of his whiskey glass. He was making her nervous, he could tell. But he couldn’t help himself. He itched to remove her specs, to reach out and run his finger across those long sable lashes, see if they were as soft as they looked.

  He kept his hand occupied with his rotgut whiskey instead, a pulse quickening in his temple even as he thought of touching her. Swallowing, he slammed the tumbler down. “Why is that?” he asked.

  “Just because!”

  He contemplated how those delicate lashes would feel against his lips. “Why?” he persisted, his tone huskier than before.

  “Be—Because it annoys me!” she said sharply.

  His smile deepened.

  Again, her eyes narrowed. “All right, Mr. McKenzie, since I truly do not understand what it is you find so blessed amusing, perhaps you’d care to enlighten me?”

  He crossed his arms. “Don’t think I would.”

  She surged from her seat, shoulder squared proudly. “Well, then… if you will please excuse me! I have no time for this cockamamie nonsense!”

  She started for the door, only to find her skirt firmly snagged by a jagged corner of the desk. Halting abruptly at the sound of rending material, she stood stock-still, momentarily paralyzed by the thought of turning to face Cutter’s smug expression.

  She stared at the door, only two feet away, thinking that surely Cutter was snickering at her behind those insolent black eyes of his.

  The biggest part of her wanted to simply jerk her skirt free, reach for the knob, snatch the door open, and run for her life. But that would accomplish nothing, she knew.

  Nor did she want Cutter to think she was afraid of him. Suddenly it was very important that she stand up to him, show herself confident and unaffected. She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and spun to face him, her chin lifting a notch.

  She started to find he’d already risen and was standing, one brow lifted slightly.

  How did he do that, she wondered irately—move so quickly without making a sound?

  One hand swept across his lips, as though to wipe the smile from them, then fell away as he stooped to pop her dress from its snare. But he didn’t rise straightaway. Stooping at her feet, he glanced up from her ankles, his eyes gleaming as he lifted the dangling end for her. “You’ll be needin’ this, I reckon.” Amusement danced in his eyes.

  Exasperated, Elizabeth snatched the torn hem out of his hands, grateful to find that it was only the flounce she’d added to lengthen her skirt. His fingers closed about hers, not really detaining them—though she didn’t realize that fact until she removed them quite easily a few stunned seconds later.

  The shock of that discovery left her dumbstruck.

  She was ready to bolt.

  Cutter could tell by the look in her eyes, so he stood cautiously, retreating a bit. He sat back upon the desk, arms linked lazily across his chest, as he scrutinized her. He wasn’t ready for her to leave, but knew better than to ask her not to go. The ready defiance in her expression told him that she would do so just to spite him.

  “Think Brady’s gone yet?” he asked conversationally, knowing full well that it would both divert her attention and deter her from leaving the room until he could manage to smooth her ruffled feathers.

  Surprise touched her features first, then consternation as she recalled the reason Jo had dragged her into the office to begin with. With a dainty finger, she pushed her spectacles firmly up the bridge of her nose, seeming to consider his question carefully.

  Lifting himself from the desk, Cutter retreated further, moving behind the desk to give her a greater sense of security. “My apologies if I offended you somehow… Never meant to. It’s just that I can tell Jo cares for you.”

  Her emotions were so transparent that he could tell the very second she began to relax. “I’d really like to help you if you’ll allow it.”

  Cutter held her gaze, never releasing it, even as he poured himself another shot of whiskey. He sat, stretching his legs, as he tossed down a potent swallow, then shook his head, muttering.

  “Damned shit’s strong enough to blow a man’s lamp out.”

  Obviously not rank enough to keep him from lifting the tumbler for another swig.

  Somehow Elizabeth didn’t think he was all that repentant. Piqued by the thought, she watched as he took a painfully slow swallow, and felt a flutter in her breast as his tongue swept down across his lower lip, lapping up the lingering taste of whiskey.

  She had to remind herself to exhale.

  And then his eyes crinkled at the corners, hinting at that rude smile he’d only just apologized for.

  Refusing to allow him to run her out of the room, she raised her chin, returning his impertinent stare. At the moment, he was still the better choice over Brady. She had no wish to leave the sanctuary of the office until Jo had the chance to rid the bar of him.

  She placed both hands upon the desk, hem still in hand. “All right,” she asked before she could stop herself, “how is it that you think you are able to help me, Mr. McKenzie?”

  Cutter’s gaze swept down, studying the long, lean fingers spread so boldly upon the desk, taking in the swatch of material she held pinned beneath her right hand, and then back up to her tawny eyes.

  It took all of his resolve to keep from bustin’ his guts. Most folks didn’t like to meet his gaze a’tall, much less stare him in the eye, yet here this little filly was giving him equal measure, challenging him. For that matter, she looked as though she were wishing him an early tour into the Happy Hunting Grounds.

  Brows uplifted, he motioned for her to sit. She gave him a doubtful look, then did, reluctantly, moving her hand to the edge of the desk as though she were prepared to shove its weight at him the instant he made a wrong move. A move she obviously expected him to make any moment.

  He raised his glass to his lips, holding her gaze as he tipped another swallow. “You have no cause to be frightened of me, Doc.”

  “Frightened?”

  That wasn’t quite the word for what she was feeling just now.

  Taking great pains to at least seem composed, Elizabeth took a deep, calming breath, then reached out for her tumbler—not to drink, of course, but to occupy her hands because they were quaking traitorously.

  “I don’t bite,” he assured with an odd glitter to his eyes. “Not usually anyway… and not too hard, when I do.”

  Elizabeth blinked.

  Why did she think those words held a double meaning?

  Mercy, she was feeling warm again, though not from embarrassment. Truth to tell, she was feeling quite unusual. Long minutes passed without a word uttered between them.

  The rat wouldn’t even take pity on her and look away! she thought testily. Most men would have been properly chastised and would have looked the other way. Well, she was made of sterner stuff, he would soon see!

  Years of watching her father deal with people gave her an advantage. She tried for a slightly bored tone, along with a long-suffering sigh. “Perhaps you’d like to explain sometime this century, Mr. McKenzie? How is it you think you can help?”

  His answering grin unnerved her, and she promptly lifted the glass she held in her hands to her lips. Without thinking, she gulped deeply of the firewater, all the while eyeing Cutter over the rim. It burned viciously, choking her, the shock nearly heaving her out of the chair. Holding her throat in desperation, she coughed and sputtered.

  In n
o time, Cutter was at the desk, reaching out to pat her gently upon the back. “Takes a bit of getting used to,” he reassured, his tone a little strangled. “Next sip should be a mite easier.”

  He sounded as though he were laughing at her, but Elizabeth didn’t dare look at him to see if it was so. Clearing her throat inelegantly, she nodded and peered down through her lashes at the glass that seemed suddenly bonded with her hands.

  Cutter’s hand remained upon her back, rubbing soothingly. Unreasonably, Elizabeth didn’t even think to protest that intimacy. It seemed perfectly natural. In fact, as the warmth of his palm lent her silent sympathy, she had to fight the urge to jump into his arms and cry her pain away.

  “Better?”

  Elizabeth nodded jerkily. “Fine,” she replied, much too quickly, glancing up.

  “Never thought otherwise,” he assured with a wink.

  Elizabeth could swear he was fondling her hair.

  Or was he?

  It was hard to tell, but it felt as though he’d left off the comforting to run his fingers along the length of her braid. And then suddenly the sensation stopped. She glanced up to gauge his thoughts, but his expression was shuttered.

  How was it that he seemed so completely unaffected by their proximity, while she, on the other hand, had never felt so agitated? What was wrong with her that she would stare at him so brazenly?

  “Tell me something, Doc.”

  That voice. So deep. So masculine. It sent another quiver down her spine. He was so close she could smell the warm leather he wore. And his buckskin britches were so snug over his thighs that she found she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the muscular delineations.

  Merciful heaven, in that hypnotic moment she thought she might do or say anything he asked. She nodded, not even realizing that she had.

  “What did you have on Brady to send him scrambling for cover like an old henpecked rooster?”

  Elizabeth’s mouth curved unconsciously, trembling with the need to smile. And then, as she recalled Brady’s alarmed expression, she couldn’t control her sudden burst of nervous hysterics. It was as though her emotions had gone haywire. She giggled until on the verge of tears, then looked up at him abashedly, knowing he probably thought her demented after witnessing such an abrupt change in mood.

  “I suppose you’d like to know what it is that’s so blessed funny?”

  Her throaty laughter shook through Cutter. It was genuine and uninhibited, but sounded much too earthy to be innocent, and it gave him an immediate physical reaction. “Reckon I might,” he allowed.

  Elizabeth shook her head and again lifted her glass, sipping from it almost absently, and clearing her throat when it threatened to send her into another coughing fit.

  “Well,” she said, “Brady’s one of those who likes to drink a bit too much.”

  Cutter shifted uncomfortably. For her sake, he hoped she wouldn’t get a yen to ogle his leg again. He didn’t think he’d be able to hide the effect she had on him. Just remembering the way her eyes had flared slightly in innocent surprise and her pupils had dilated as she’d gawked at him was enough to make him permanently rooty, and the evidence was conspicuous.

  She took another sip, clearing her throat daintily, and this time it was Cutter who felt discomfited.

  Her lips were her best feature, he decided. Full and pouty, just beggin’ to be kissed. “… always having accidents,” he heard her say. He shook his head to clear it of his lusty thoughts.

  “One night,” she continued, “he came in after catching his thumb in his gun hammer—don’t ask me how he managed that! Anyhow, he and his buddies had been shooting at tins, and he came sauntering in, chock-full of brag and fight, and told my father to ‘just stitch it up.’ But Papa didn’t want to do it without giving him whiskey first—Mr. Brady doesn’t seem to like pain very much,” she explained quickly. “So when my father left the room to look for a jug, Mr. Brady took an immediate liking to one of his shiny new surgical knives.” She glanced up to see whether he was paying attention.

  Her expression softening suddenly, she gave a little half-hearted chuckle. “Papa and I watched from the doorway as Mr. Brady wrestled with his imaginary bear. You should have seen him, Mr. McKenzie!”

  “Wish I had,” he said evenly, trying to ignore his growing discomfort as well as he could.

  “Believe it or not, I thought he might manage to lose that scuffle, too,” she said softly, distantly.

  Despite the fact that she was still looking at him, Cutter had the notion she was somewhere else entirely.

  He couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering down and assessing her figure through the bulk of her clothes. She was probably much too skinny, he told himself… not even a handful.

  He raised his brows, his nostrils flaring as he cleared away the sudden tightness from his throat. “So how’d you happen to know it was a bear he was wrestling?”

  The way Cutter saw it, his best bet was to keep Elizabeth talking… keep them both preoccupied. Jo would likely take a shotgun to his ass if she found him rutting after her one and only friend—when the girl was chin-deep in her misery, at that.

  Come to think of it, he doubted if either of them would appreciate it all that much.

  She shook her head faintly, as though to escape the memory. “Well, because he was talking to the silly thing, is how. He stabbed ’n’ wrestled with nothing but thin air, and then he reared back to gut it and stabbed himself in the—” She glanced up at him suddenly, her brows furrowing.

  “Where?” Cutter demanded, inhaling deeply. It was the wrong thing to do, because he caught her scent in that breath. The sweetest feminine scent. His blood heated, surging like molten lava through his veins.

  “His er… his… lower posterior,” Elizabeth whispered.

  It took a moment for him to register what she’d said, but when it finally came, his roar of laughter was genuine, warm and rich, much as her father’s had been. It set Elizabeth immediately at ease.

  “I can see it now,” he said, still chuckling as he poured Elizabeth another brimming glassful.

  She stared at the glass numbly, thought briefly to protest, but didn’t. She was feeling rather nice suddenly, cozy even. She exhaled languidly, and something seemed to uncoil deep within her.

  Maybe Cutter was right, she thought. Maybe it would help to forget for just a little while.

  “Did you know my father?” Elizabeth asked on a whim. She was proud of her father. He’d been caring and loving—and never once had he blamed her after her mother and sister had abandoned them… despite the fact that she often blamed herself. Maybe if she’d been a little more help? A better daughter? More accommodating? More like Katherine.

  He nodded soberly. “’Bout a year ago—real fine man, Lizbeth.”

  Something about the way Cutter said her name made her sigh with pleasure.

  “He was,” she agreed. “I miss him.”

  She would miss her sister, as well, though she hadn’t seen Katherine in so many years that it wouldn’t be the same. The last she remembered hearing from Katherine was when their mother had died of lung fever four years past. Enclosed along with that letter had been a small photo of her daughter Katie at five months: a plump little thing with no hair. Elizabeth had cherished that photo.

  Four years? she thought, blinking.

  Had it been so long?

  That would mean it had been seven since her mother had run off with Katherine to St. Louis.

  So very long ago… yet that miserable day was as clear in Elizabeth’s memory as though it were yesterday.

  Finding the hastily scrawled message her mother had composed on the back of one of her father’s notes had been the single most painful moment of her life. Even the words were indelibly etched in the annals of her mind. With every fiber of my being, I loathe this infernal place. I can’t—I just can’t suffer it any longer. Forgive me, Angus. Not a word about her. Not forgive me, Elizabeth. Not farewell. Not anything at all.

&n
bsp; Being the elder of the two, and interested in medicine as she was, Elizabeth had been with her father at the time, helping him deliver a baby. For that reason, and because she’d understood how very much her mother had despised the wilderness and feared the Indians, Elizabeth had never entirely blamed her for leaving without her—especially since her mother had been only the first of so many to abandon Sioux Falls. By ’62, most of the remaining populace had fled in fear of the raids.

  She and her father had been close, so she wouldn’t have wanted to leave anyway. It still, it hurt to know that her mother had been so desperate to desert them that she would slip away without bothering even to say goodbye. Her father had never been the same afterward.

  “Where were you?”

  “Hmmm?” She opened her eyes, unaware that she had closed them, and looked into Cutter’s deep, dark eyes. They were fascinating, the way they seemed to descend forever. But she thought she detected a flicker of pity in his gaze, and a knot formed in her throat.

  “When I came through… I don’t recall making your acquaintance.”

  “Oh… well…” She swallowed convulsively, clearing her throat of its odd thickness. “No one ever sheems… seems to. But I wash here,” she assured him. Blinking suddenly, she shook her head in distress over her slurring speech. “Jus—just—like—always,” she enunciated slowly. “Ap—p—renticin’ with my father.”

  She seemed to deflate before his eyes. Folding her arms in front of her, she laid her chin down on top of them, and her eyes took on a faraway look as she spoke again. “I think hish… his heart wash weak… ” Her words trailed off as she closed her eyes.

  Cutter thought she might have passed out, but for the hiccup that revived her. “I—I think… don’t really know… just—wish—I—could’ve helped more.” Her head lolled to one side.