Sagebrush Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “It’s just that I can’t—” Cutter didn’t wait long enough to hear her explanation. The door slammed shut so violently that it jarred the frame, “—chance losing my niece,” she finished lamely.

  Stunned by Cutter’s brusque departure, Elizabeth simply stood, gaping at the door, unsure of what to do next. Bewildered, she came forward and leaned upon it, needing the support. Her legs felt oddly insubstantial beneath her.

  Surely he didn’t mean to refuse her now? Not after all that she’d had to endure? Good lord! Was she supposed to hunt him down now and beg his assistance?

  It was an agonizingly long moment later when she realized that she’d not heard Cutter’s door close—nor open, for that matter—and her heart skipped a beat. Surely he didn’t mean to just leave her where she stood… without a way back to Sioux Falls?

  Without any money either. She doubted she had enough to pay for both the room and a horse! Maybe he’d already paid for the room. Had he? Muddled as her mind was, she couldn’t remember. Numbly she locked the door and leaned back against it, her mind reeling.

  After a long moment, she walked to the bed, stumbling over the bedcovers on the way. There she sat, pressing a hand to her temple. The tiniest headache had persisted all day, and now threatened to explode.

  Merciful heaven, what was she going to do?

  Think, she told herself firmly.

  Come on now, Elizabeth, don’t panic. “It won’t help a thing,” she whispered to herself. Slipping her thumbnail between her teeth, she chewed it contemplatively.

  She grimaced suddenly as a thought occurred to her. She wouldn’t put it past McKenzie to have paid for his own room, leaving her bill unsettled.

  Well, she determined with a heartfelt sigh, she couldn’t worry about that just now. There was too much else to fret over. Her thundering head, for instance. Wearily she lay back upon the small bed, and covered her forehead with her damp palm.

  First thing in the morning she would go to the livery and purchase a sturdy mount for herself. Either way—whether it was on to St. Louis or back to Sioux Falls—she’d need a reliable horse for the journey. Calming somewhat with that decision, she took a deep breath.

  Things would work out; surely they would.

  They had to.

  But what if she didn’t have any money left over after buying the horse?

  Somehow she would sneak out of the hotel… and if she was able to raise the funds, she’d come back to pay right away. If not, then she could always send restitution later… when she was safely away. She simply couldn’t take the chance that they might… well… detain her. Her head began to pound without mercy. Gracious day, she’d never been in trouble with the law before. But… they didn’t know her identity and wouldn’t know where to look for her, she consoled herself. Cutter had not—whether by design or by accident, she didn’t know—given her name at the desk.

  They did have his signature, though, and it would serve him right if they came looking for him, dragged him off to jail, and threw away the key.

  Shaking her head resolutely, she thrust away that awful thought with a frown. Just now, she refused to think on that possibility. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry herself sick over it all. Tonight she needed rest. Already she was feeling the aftermath of too much liquor and too little sleep—Cutter’s fault!

  And with that sober reflection and a wide, unladylike yawn, she curled herself deeper within the coarse wool blanket she’d wrapped around herself, drawing her arms within to shield them against the chill night air. Trying to keep the morose thoughts from her mind, she turned on her side and gazed blankly at the hazy moonlight that filtered in through the window. She watched listlessly as a few dust particles swirled within the stream of soft light, and after a while, she managed to close her eyes and sleep.

  Getting out of the room proved easier than Elizabeth expected.

  She’d awakened just as the sun was beginning to peep into her room. After dressing, she’d contemplated the window for a good half hour, considering it as a possible exit. The ground was not but a ten-foot drop, more or less, and there was a short awning that dipped downward, besides, making it a perfectly feasible solution. The thing that kept her from crawling out was the notion of someone catching her in the act.

  It seemed more dignified, if just as immoral, for her to simply steal out the front door. And after mustering her courage, she did just that. The fact that nobody had been attending the clerk’s desk made it absurdly simple.

  Still, her conscience was having a field day with her as she headed for the Hotel d’Horse. Silly name for a stable, she thought. It was even a tad deceitful, for the hotel in question was little more than a raggy barn, with boards all askew. Point in fact, it looked near to collapsing. Yet the clerk at the trade store, Mr. Monroe, had assured her that the gentlemen who owned it ran a fair business and would look after her interest. Now all she needed to do was to be sure she had enough cash left over to purchase supplies… as well as hire someone new once they reached St. Louis.

  That was, assuming Cutter agreed to take her.

  Her eyes skimmed the street ahead. Noting the lack of people milling about, she began searching for movement within each building she passed. She wasn’t searching for Cutter, she told herself as she craned her neck to see beyond the Rushing Bull’s swinging half door. She hadn’t seen him all morning, and finding there was no sign of him within, she had to concede that he had, in fact, left Indian Creek.

  “Just wait until I see Jo,” she grumbled to herself.

  Surely Jo had no idea what a rounder her brother was! Without a doubt, Elizabeth was going to enlighten her good friend as soon as she saw her again. And maybe she’d even give Jo a piece of her mind. Despite the fact that Jo had meant well, she’d certainly played an enormous part in this ill-fated scheme that had brought Elizabeth absolutely nothing but grief.

  It seemed that annoyance was fast becoming a natural state for her, and it had all begun with Cutter.

  The odor of horseflesh and stale hay assaulted her nostrils as she entered the dusky stable.

  “Hello,” she called out. “Hello… anyone here?”

  A tall, robust man stood up within the second stall. His face screwed in annoyance, though when he saw her, he smiled brightly, revealing a missing upper tooth. Resisting the urge to finger her own straight teeth, she locked her hands into a fist and held them in front of her. “I’m sorry if I intruded?”

  “No, no,” the man assured, shoving at the stall door and coming toward her. He wiped his soiled hands upon his already filthy denims. “I was cleaning the stall some… Birthed a mare.” He gave her a guilty smile, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Anyhow, name’s Pete Monroe, ma’am; what can I do for ya?”

  When she heard that his name was Monroe, Elizabeth’s brow creased. Suspicious, to say the least. Still, she had no choice but to deal with the man. She proffered her hand, trying to look as fearsome as she was able. “Elizabeth Bowcock, and I need a good mount, Mr. Monroe. I’m willing to purchase it outright.” He gave her a skeptical look. “I’ve got cash,” she assured, thinking that was what he was contemplating. “Mr. Monroe—” she emphasized the name “—at the trade store.” Mr. Monroe nodded. “He said you would deal fairly with me.”

  Pete Monroe acknowledged that fact with a brief nod. “Yeah?” He winked at her. “Well, Miss Bowcock, if my cousin Will sent you, I’ve just the thing. Haven’t really been sellin’ my horses outright, but this once, I’ll make an exception.” He smiled suddenly, his missing tooth conspicuous. “Anythin’ for a pretty gal like you,” he told her.

  Turning, he started into the dusky building, launching into what promised to become a sad sales tale. “Just please don’t breathe a word o’ this, or I’ll have the townsfolk at my door. You see… I haven’t had any new blood in stock for a good while now, and old man Rutherford has been after me ta sell him what I got… but he keeps jiggerin’ em, and I ain’t willin’ ta let him do that to anymo
re o’ my horses. They’re like family ta me.”

  Family? Not likely! As they went deeper into the stable, the smell of stale hay became rank, almost sour. No man served his family spoiled rations—at least, not if he could help it. But then, maybe he couldn’t help it. She considered that a moment. Indian Creek wasn’t exactly a prospering town.

  Mr. Monroe led her to the very last stall, where a mustang mare stood staring emptily back at her, its liquid dark eyes blinking at her somberly. All thoughts of duplicity fled her at once as she stepped forward, seeing only the reflection of herself in the ebony eyes, her misery, her loneliness, and she was at once in love.

  The mare stretched its neck forward to investigate the newest trespasser to its stall. Elizabeth was surprised by the warm welcome; her eyes widened slightly and she turned to smile warmly at the big man beside her.

  “She’s beautiful!” Reaching out cautiously, she stroked the mare’s forehead, brushing its forelock gently with her fingers. Her markings were exquisite: white with scattered spots, ranging from dark gold to deep cocoa.

  Elizabeth’s hand slid down to its flaring nostrils. There she held it, letting the animal become used to her personal scent, all the while keeping alert for some sign that it would balk. It never did, and finally she moved to caress its fine muzzle.

  The mare retreated somewhat at that, but Elizabeth continued to caress the animal reassuringly. Abruptly she withdrew her hand, placing it at her side, waiting to see what the animal would do next. After a long moment, the mare moved forward, as though seeking out her gentle touch, and Elizabeth’s heart swelled with pride of accomplishment. She stood without speaking for the longest moment, admiring the animal’s beauty, reveling in her good fortune.

  “I’ll take her,” Elizabeth declared, without the least hesitation.

  Mr. Monroe smiled shrewdly, giving her a pleased nod. “Thought so,” was all he said. “Now, as ta the price, Miss Bowcock.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cursing roundly to himself, Cutter rapped sharply upon Elizabeth’s door for the third time. Giving it a last whack, he tried the knob and found it securely locked. Every inclination urged him to beat it down, but he doubted it would do any good. If Elizabeth were in her room, she’d have responded by now.

  Where else could she be?

  Pivoting on one heel, he spun away from the door. He’d come in early this morning, after having spent most of the night drowning his troubles at the Rushing Bull and cursing Elizabeth Bowcock to China and back. Simply put, he’d stayed out carousing too long and had overslept. Hell, he’d had half a mind to just walk away last night, leave the lady stranded, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d brought her this far, and he aimed to carry it through despite her contemptuously given demands and her bigotry.

  That bit stuck in his craw.

  What did she think he’d been playing at his entire life? All he had remaining of his mother’s people were a priceless few memories, the recollection of Jack McKenzie’s intolerance, and the white man’s narrow-minded views of a people with whom they generally refused to empathize.

  He felt torn between two worlds that likely would never meet. But that in itself was nothing new. He’d been sittin’ on the fence most of his life. Question was, why did he feel obliged to slither off at this point in the game, when he’d never even considered it before?

  He was what he was. To blazes with anyone who couldn’t accept him for it!

  Images of Sand Creek came back to haunt him suddenly, and he shook them away, thrusting his hand through his hair and raking his fingers across his scalp.

  Despite the fact that Chief Black Kettle had been assured that he was under protection of Fort Lyon, and that he’d raised the American flag over his lodge—as well as the white flag of surrender—as a symbol of good faith, Chivington and his men had charged into the sleepy Cheyenne camp, showing no mercy. Many of the slaughtered had been children, yet all Colonel Chivington had had to say over the matter was that “nits make lice.”

  And they called the Indians heathen bastards?

  It made Cutter sick to his guts.

  Though he’d proven himself a dependable scout for the U.S. military, he’d also made it crystal-clear that half of him was Cheyenne, and that no matter the cost, he wouldn’t track his blood kin. Deserters, fine. And he had no qualms over sniffing out other Indian tribes, either, but he’d gone so far as to refuse his commanding officer outright when he’d been ordered to ferret out a particular Cheyenne winter camp.

  After Chivington’s butchery at Sand Creek, the government had feared reprisal from neighboring tribes—and rightly so. Little more than a month later, the regular westbound express mail coach, en route to Denver, had been attacked just six miles short of Julesburg.

  But hell, he wasn’t precisely U.S. military; he was merely under contract to them, and he didn’t intend to betray his mother’s people—not when there were bastards like John Chivington around to dance on their graves.

  In spite of all that, he was about to do what he’d sworn never to do. Through the years, he’d had little enough to do with his mother’s people; still, he felt it a disloyalty to shed those things that declared him Cheyenne, and he’d not even done so for his own sake. Yet that was exactly what he aimed to do just now.

  He’d show Miz Bowcock that he was no different from the next man. Trouble was, he hated the piss out of it!

  So why bother?

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way down, his gut clenching at the possibility that came suddenly to mind. She wouldn’t have gone back to Sioux Falls on her own. Well, hell, now, would she have?

  Relief sidled through him upon entering the lobby; he spotted her at once, her god-awful skirt and thick blond braid of hair unmistakable. Turning from the clerk, she met his gaze, and for the briefest moment, he thought he saw that same relief in her glance as well. Then she seemed to compose herself and gave him a glare he was likely never to forget. Despite his anger, he found himself chuckling as he followed her out of the small lobby, his long legs catching her quick strides with very little effort.

  Resisting the urge to scream that he “just go away,” Elizabeth turned to regard him with ill-concealed ire. As much as it galled her to admit it, she needed him. Despite that, she couldn’t bring herself to ask for his help again. She’d laid her cards upon the table last night, and he’d just walked away. The next move was his, and she refused to humiliate herself further by begging. He would either accept her offer or not… Either way, there was little she could do about it. If he chose not to, she would, for the first time in years, find a nice, quiet place and cry her heart out… because there was no one else to whom she could turn.

  And he knew it.

  Trying her darnedest to ignore him, Elizabeth hurried down the front steps, only to realize Cutter was no longer pursuing her. She turned at once to find him standing upon the top step, leaning with one arm braced casually against the crude wood post that supported the awning. Those obsidian eyes of his glittered devilishly beneath the brim of his hat, and his mouth twisted cynically. In greeting, he touched his hat brim lazily.

  She felt like cursing him to high heaven, but doubted she knew any of the words to do it. And she would have liked to tell him off for leaving her to worry all night, but she knew it would be wiser not to antagonize him.

  He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn last night, she noticed, shoving her spectacles up the bridge of her nose—denims and a dark green shirt. And his jaw was still unshaven, making his swarthy face look all the darker for the whiskers. He said nothing, only watched her, and Elizabeth spun toward her horse, unwilling to be the first to speak. The truth was that she had no idea how to go about making amends with all the turmoil that was in her soul.

  She’d worried all night. Even in her sleep, she’d been plagued by dreams of him. And this morning—never mind that she’d not been caught—he’d forced her to suffer the humiliation of skulking out of the hotel wi
thout settling the bill… only to return and find he’d already paid!

  Her cheeks flushed as she recalled the clerk’s words. The man had all but leered as he’d informed her, “Been settled, ma’am… Must have been real satisfied with ya.” And then he’d winked at her. He’d winked. Lord, she’d been mortified!

  Her horse was tethered little more than three feet away, next to the salina and she went to it, wrenching open the saddlebag, and dropping her belongings into it.

  “What is that?”

  “What does it look like, McKenzie? It’s a horse,” she said evenly, answering her own question without turning to face him. “A mustang, to be precise.”

  “I know what the damned thing is!” Cutter snapped. “What I’d like to know is what you’re doing with it.”

  As she turned to face Cutter, Elizabeth’s chin rose determinedly. Her eyes flashed with defiance. “She’s mine, now.” Her gaze returned to the mare, her feelings wavering on the brink of pride, and her tone was softer when she spoke again. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Cutter came down the steps, skipping the last two and touching down on both feet, scattering dust. Some of it settled on Elizabeth’s skirt. She glanced down at it, her eyes narrowing.

  “Hope you didn’t pay much. She’s nothing but a sugar-eating Sunday horse. Aside from that, being a Cayuse, she’s probably as contrary as they come.” He arched a dark brow at her. “Like someone else we know.”

  Since they had no common acquaintances besides his sister, that narrowed the list down considerably.

  Choosing to overlook the barb, Elizabeth refastened the saddlebag and began to stroke the mare’s flanks. “I really don’t think it’s any of your concern how much I paid for her, Mr. McKenzie!”

  He was standing just over her shoulder now, and though he hadn’t touched her, Elizabeth could feel the heat of his body.