Sagebrush Bride Read online

  “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 fin
ger. “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.

  Right as rain.

  Elizabeth snuggled against him, burying her face in the space between his arm and ribs. He could feel the shape of her lips through his shirt, and the pounding in his chest intensified.

  “Mmm,” she said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips, and Cutter found himself wondering with a scowl who she thought she was with.

  “Too dark,” she whimpered. “Please…”

  Almost tenderly, as he would with a child, he smoothed the hair from her face. “Please what?”

  She moaned something unintelligible, then whimpered again, the sound mournful. It twisted his gut.

  He shook her, though not enough to wake her, just enough to prod her into speaking again, wanting to be sure she was all right. “Lizbeth?”

  “Hum—to—me…”

  Hum?

  Cutter furrowed his brow. She wanted him to hum? Shaking his head in puzzlement, he shrugged, thinking that anything that kept her quiet was worth a try. She settled back against him, as though she’d somehow felt that affirmative gesture in her sleep. And for the first time in years, Cutter put sound to the melody he’d first heard from his mother’s lips as a toddler. As he hummed, he looked down every little while to verify she was still asleep.

  Jo had warned him she would be mad.

  Just how mad would she be?

  With a smile, he decided that he rather liked the brightness of her eyes when she was angry and he couldn’t wait to see her expression when she awoke.

  He continued to hum softly, remembering and interjecting Cheyenne words, a phrase here, a phrase there, and Elizabeth was soon completely subdued by the vibrations that came from deep within his chest.

  As absorbed as Cutter was with his thoughts of the woman lying loosely over his lap, he never anticipated the jab of her elbow to his crotch. It had been a halfhearted movement, with little enough strength behind it, but it impacted just right…

  Or just wrong.

  For the briefest second his jaw dropped, as though he couldn’t quite believe what she’d done, then snapped shut, jarring his teeth into his skull. Resisting the urge to jump from the saddle, he clenched his jaw over the pain that shot through his jewels, and he barely heard her grumbled words.

  “Shcoot over… not ’nough room.”

  Oblivious to the pain she’d caused him, and without waiting to see that he shcooted, she sighed in her sleep, wiggling to make herself more comfortable.

  Crushing the urge to howl out in agony, somehow Cutter managed to hold on to the reins as he seized her arm and gently lifted her off his belongings. Even the slightest movement worsened his predicament. Holding his breath against the pain, he managed to lift himself somewhat in the stirrups and hunker over, desperately seeking a tolerable position.

  Couldn’t wake her—damn, damn, couldn’t wake her—couldn’t throw her either!

  His hands were otherwise occupied, or he would have shielded himself at once. Were Elizabeth not on the horse, he’d have reined in and hurled himself into the ground—praying for a swift death.

  Hell, if the blasted woman hadn’t been in his lap to begin with, he wouldn’t have this friggin’ crisis to deal with!

  Sweat beaded his brow, his palms turning clammy as he held Elizabeth steady so she wouldn’t slip. Just before he turned blue from lack of oxygen, he blew out a breath, gulping in the sweet night air.

  Unable to hold his position any longer, he sat again, white-faced, clenching his thigh muscles against the loping movement of his Palouse. And with arms that felt suddenly sapped of strength, he managed to shift Elizabeth so that she was sitting astride, the back of her head nestling cozily against his chest.

  Incredibly, she slept on, oblivious to his crisis. In spite of the jerky maneuvers it had taken to sit her upright. In spite of the knuckle-whitening pain that lingered in his rocks.

  Damn, but it’d be a good idea to get her her own mount as soon as possible.

  Every bump and bounce served to urge Elizabeth toward a wretched state of wakefulness.

  She didn’t want to wake up. Deep down, something warned her against it. She prayed for mercy, but the movement continued, rocking her, prodding her, until she could no longer ignore it.

  Her head felt as though it had been trampled by a herd of buffalo, she thought sourly. Peeping through her lashes, she grimaced at the bright light that stabbed at her pupils, making her head throb all the more.

  Just where in creation was she?

  No sooner had she asked herself that question when she became aware of the fact that her arms were being squeezed, her calves prodded and poked, her ribs probed.

  Was she dead and gone to blazes?

  Certainly she felt tortured.

  And she wasn’t at home snug in her bed, that much was clear. The realization sent a flash of alarm bolting through her.

  The last thing she recalled, she’d been sitting in Jo’s office… with her impossibly arrogant brother.

  Her eyes flew open to find herself sitting astride a horse in the dewy predawn light, her bulky skirts bunched up around her legs, a firm hand exploring her ribs. Her heartbeat quickened and her breathing arrested, her aches and pains overshadowed for the moment.

  Whoever it was, he was tall. That much, she knew because his chin was resting on the crown of her head, and she could tell that he was leaning, to boot.

  He stiffened, as though sensing that she’d awakened, and a wave of panic rushed through her.

  Elizabeth didn’t quite think things through. All she could think was that she was on a strange horse—with a strange man sitting astride behind her.

  Drawing in a shaky breath for courage, she elbowed the monster. He grunted, releasing her, and she tried to fling herself from the trotting horse.

  But her leg was too slow in coming around, and by the time it did, an arm had caught her firmly about the waist.

  Struggling against his hold, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, she twisted wildly in his arms.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ignoring the blow to his ribs, Cutter managed to keep his hold on Elizabeth until she reached back, boxing his right ear with a small, bony fist. With a hoarse cry, he let go of her just enough for her to slip into a precarious position.

  The woman was buggy!

  What the hell did she think she doing throwing herself off a moving horse?

  “Son of a—” She was falling, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it! The least he could do was try to keep her from landing under the hooves though he’d probably break his damned neck in the process. Hurling himself down with her, he propelled them both away from the spooked horse, and he hit the ground with a groan.

  Damn her, anyway—loony female!

  Like a spitting, clawing wildcat, she was still struggling to get free of him. Didn’t the little fool realize that he was trying to help her? That they were in danger of becoming hoof bait? Apparently not, he concluded when she promptly boxed him again.

  He rolled to the right, trying to skirt the Palouse’s hooves, his arms locked protectively about her. Above them, the horse reared up on its hind legs and came crashing down mere inches from the back of Cutter’s head. He rolled again, his maneuver more instinct than design, as the Palouse steadied itself and moved off to the right of them. The force of his thrust sent Elizabeth headlong into the hard-packed earth. The side of her face smacked the ground, and she gave a little yelp of pain.

  “Awww sh—” He never finished the expletive. The breath was knocked from his lungs as he rolled, landing atop her.

  “You?” she snarled. “Get off me, you dog!”

  Torn between wanting to laugh with relief at the grass blades that were clinging to and moving with her lips, and the anger he felt over her crazy stunt, Cutter settled for lust. For all her friggin’ layers
of clothing, he’d never been more aware of a woman’s body beneath his own, every curve, every soft, tantalizing swell.

  Damn, how had he ever thought her skinny?

  And her eyes, they weren’t gold a’tall. It had been a trick of the candlelight, no doubt, because they were brown now. But not just any brown—a soft brown with flecks of amber gold radiating from dark pupils. Against his will, his breathing became labored as he stared at those gorgeous eyes… those lips, remembering the way they had tasted.

  Elizabeth found it difficult to breathe, but it had little to do with Cutter’s weight bearing down upon her, because he’d lifted himself up just enough so that it was no longer an issue. Though she could still feel every inch of his body—his broad chest, his solid limbs; one leg resting outside her right thigh, the other just inside her left… and something in between.

  Her face colored brightly; because she knew exactly what that something was. She was a doctor, after all, and had seen those things on rare occasions. Yet it was the intense look on his face that stole her breath.

  His jaw was taut, his pupils dilated, his nostrils flaring.

  “I—said—get—off!”

  He did, and Elizabeth scooted backward, giving herself a safe distance from the infuriating man. She sat upright, glaring at him, and spat the offensive grass out of her mouth. She used her hands to swipe off the pieces that wouldn’t quite come loose. Her lip throbbed, and what was worse, she thought she tasted blood!

  Examining her hand, she inhaled sharply when she spotted a streak of ruby red across her forefinger. She gave a startled little cry and her gaze flew up to meet Cutter’s, but she said nothing because she could tell by his expression that he’d spotted it, too, and his black look told her that she didn’t want to hear any of what he had to say.

  Standing over her, thumb hooked into his waistband, he shook his head at her, as though she were dim witted.