Sagebrush Bride

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Once the blade was hot enough, Cutter handed it to Elizabeth, hilt-first, and watched in disbelief as his little mouse did her dirty work, never flinching, or even hesitating in her duty. The transformation in her was startling. He’d been well aware of the sparks beneath her surface, but the woman before him seemed wholly different from the one he’d thought he knew. He’d have offered to help had he not been so stunned by her proficiency. As it was, he couldn’t tear his gaze away, even when the stench of burning flesh reached his nostrils.

  For the briefest moment, the brave opened his eyes, catching Elizabeth’s gaze, and she immediately wrenched the burning knife away, not wanting to hurt him, but his lids fell again without his ever having acknowledged her.

  Squaring her shoulders, Elizabeth finished with the wound, and then again began tearing strips from the length of her skirt. With it, she bound the man’s chest. And then very quickly—unable to stand her state of dress any longer—she slipped the much-shortened skirt on, deliberately avoiding Cutter’s gaze as she laced up. Finally, kneeling again, her cheeks as warm as the Indian’s appeared, she drew a blanket up to his chin in order to conserve his body heat.

  Shaking her head gravely, she contemplated the bright flush in his face, determining that he would need an infusion for the fever before long. Liquids, too—she was certain that they had a little salt in Cutter’s satchel. She’d add that, as well—to help replace his body fluids. Of course, there was no way she could administer any of it while he was unconscious, but she could certainly have it prepared for him when he did wake.

  Instinctively she examined the man’s forehead for fever, sliding her hand down his face to his scalding neck. There she turned the back of her hand against his skin.

  “Cutter,” she began, thinking that surely there was something… some herb growing in the area that she could use for an infusion. There had to be. She glanced about, quickly surveying the area. White willow bark would be perfect, but as far as she could see, there were only pine and oak… as well as a few birch.

  Unable to help himself, Cutter stared at Elizabeth’s dignified profile as she, in turn, perused the landscape, her lashes so dark, her eyes slitted slightly as she concentrated on the view. Inadvertently meeting his gaze, she looked quickly away, sliding her hand beneath the woolen blanket to probe at the Indian’s bare flesh. Against his will, Cutter’s own body jolted in response, reacting purely out of instinct, feeling the heat of her hand as though it were upon his own flesh.

  Damn him, anyhow, he groused—he’d never have believed the passion with which she was treating the Indian. It didn’t seem to matter to her at th
e moment that he was nothing more than a heathen savage—her own words—only that he was a man, and that he needed her. And that knowledge crumpled the last of his armor.

  And damn her, too, because without even trying, she’d managed to reach in and fill that part of him he’d once thought would never see the light of day again. The farthest reaches of his hard-as-hell heart. Uneasy with the intensity of emotion he was feeling suddenly, he cleared his throat, and Elizabeth finally looked up at him, her expression troubled.

  If she could feel so much for a stranger, he found himself wondering, how much more could she give to the man she loved? Cursing himself roundly, he shook off the thought, turning away.

  “Cutter?”

  He stopped, though reluctantly, and turned back toward her.

  “Would you watch over him? Please… while I see what herbs I can locate?”

  Her tawny eyes pleaded with him, though they needn’t have, because it was suddenly as important to Cutter that she save the man as it seemed to be to her.

  As he saw it, it didn’t pay much to get sentimental over anything, not people, not horses, not even life itself. He’d learned long ago that in this world, things came, and then they simply went—just like that. And there wasn’t a damned thing anybody could do about it. Uncharitable as it may have been, he hadn’t felt much for the Indian brave, except maybe an odd sense of futility—hell, he could have sworn the man was dead in the saddle. But maybe, just maybe, Elizabeth could save him. Her desire for it sure was infectious. Maybe sheer will alone could do it.

  “He’s already much too warm,” she entreated again, mistaking his hesitation for reluctance.

  His throat too thick to speak, Cutter nodded, and Elizabeth smiled gratefully, leaping up to hug him quickly before he could think to change his mind.

  With his booted foot, he kicked at a clump of wet sod, and then sank down upon the corner end of the bedroll. “Just stay within sight,” he muttered after her.

  Nearly an hour later, to Elizabeth’s dismay, she had found nothing of use. There were coneflowers, gayfeathers, fameflower, even some larkspur—the former all worthless, and the latter? Well, her intent was to cure the poor man, not kill him. When finally she gave up and returned to camp, she returned empty-handed.

  Watching her approach, Cutter stood, shaking his head at the unspoken question in her eyes. Slapping his hat—which he’d retrieved in her absence, along with his other boot—upon his knee, he gave her a grim twist of his lips, and then replaced the hat to his head with a deep sigh.

  At his unspoken revelation, Elizabeth’s shoulders wilted a little further. With a weary sigh of her own, she dropped herself into the very spot Cutter had warmed, nodding dejectedly as her gaze returned to the unconscious Indian.

  Considering her, Cutter watched a moment longer, before turning away. Without a doubt, he knew he couldn’t leave her to go off hunting—not while she was so distracted. He was sure the man wasn’t alone. Even if he had been, the fire was smoking so much—probably sending off signals for miles. He stared at it with disgust, following the smoke into the sky a moment as he contemplated that thought.

  The river was within sight, so he found himself a sturdy stick, along with a thick tree to set his back against while he worked. Sprawling backward and raising a knee, he unsheathed his blade and began whittling a spear to fish with, all the while watching Elizabeth from a distance and admiring her professional dedication to the Indian. She worked diligently, never abandoning hope. It wasn’t until she’d examined the man’s face and skin for fever the umpteenth time, without a single sign of recovery, that he shook his head over the futility of it all.

  He was almost finished with the lance when the throbbing of his foot began to bother him. Rising, he made his way down to the river. Sitting, he jerked off his boot and sighed as he examined the clean slice in the arch of his left foot. He had no idea what he’d stepped on, only that it smarted like the dickens. But he’d had worse, so he washed it out as well as he could in the river, and then headed back to camp, spotting a bramble bush on the way. They hadn’t eaten anything but jerky all day long, and he knew Elizabeth was sure to be famished by now, so he gathered up a handful and carried them to her, dumping the blackberries unceremoniously into her lap.

  It didn’t surprise him much when she didn’t stir at first. What concerned him, though, was that even after a long moment, she still didn’t seem to realize he was standing there watching her. Like a gloomy statuette, she continued to watch over the unconscious brave. And when she did finally acknowledge him, it took her another long moment to ascertain that he’d placed something in the folds of her ragged skirt. But seeing it finally, her eyes lit up.

  Her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Blackberries?” she whispered with a note of enthusiasm.

  Cutter looked at her a little uncertainly.

  “Where’d you get them?” she demanded at once, snatching one up, inspecting it with a strange shimmer in her eyes.

  Cutter opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.

  “Merciful Lord!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Please tell me there are more!”

  Hell, Cutter thought, he’d known she’d be hungry, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see her reaction to the berries as normal. Frowning at her in earnest, he rubbed at his beard with concern.

  “Oh, Cutter!” Elizabeth exclaimed happily, glancing up at him briefly, then back to the berry in question. “Do you know what these are?” She laughed infectiously. “Do you know what these are?” she repeated with glee, still staring, wild-eyed now, at the berry poised like a precious gold nugget between her delicate fingers.

  Stooping to look her straight in the eye, Cutter grasped Elizabeth by the shoulder, forcing her attention on him. Capturing it finally, he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Blackberries.” He wondered if her wits had finally gone beggin’. “Lizbeth, gal, you all right?”

  Without warning, Elizabeth’s arms flew out and caught him about the neck, squeezing joyfully, choking him. Reflexively he pried at her arms, loosening her grip.

  “More than all right!” Elizabeth replied joyfully. “The leaves will do wonders for fever!” The warmth of her lips moved like liquid heat against his face. As she drew back to look at him, her gaze transformed before his eyes, from hopelessness to something akin to adoration, and it took him momentarily aback. He had to fight the urge to pull her back and cover her mouth with his own.

  “An infusion of the leaves would be perfect,” she explained, but Cutter wasn’t listening, he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from her mouth.

  “Just perfect!” he heard her repeat gleefully, and then she suddenly kissed him—in the eye. With a heartening smile, she turned again to her patient.

  “Now, don’t you worry,” she said, a note of gaiety shining through. She lifted one knee, preparing to rise. “I’ll have you well in no time! You’ll see!” She patted his arm reassuringly.

  As though in response, the Indian abruptly lifted his lids, and Elizabeth rocked forward onto both knees at once, as though, with that small effort, he had somehow jerked her back to him. She gave a startled little cry.

  The dark stare was vacant, the pupils dilated and huge. Noting it, Elizabeth felt suddenly ill. Too late was her first thought, but she shoved it resolutely away.

  He was not going to die!

  She wouldn’t let him!

  This was the first time since her father’s death that a patient’s life was at stake… the first time ever anyone had depended solely on her skills to survive. She couldn’t fail—her father wouldn’t have, and neither could she.

  Ignoring the implications of what she saw in the young Indian’s eyes, she thrust her palm boldly over his brow, her own brows slanting dejectedly at the feel of his flesh. He’d been as hot as an iron over a fire only moments before, but his skin was swiftly losing its rosy tint, turning as pale as though he were already dead.

  A knot formed in her throat. “If only… if only I could make… the
infusion,” she began, her voice painfully soft, catching abruptly on the last word as though it were suddenly too difficult to speak.

  As though by cue, a soft drizzle began. Cutter watched as Elizabeth caught the brave’s hand into her own, clutching it stubbornly. A lone tear trickled down her cheek and she took a shuddering breath as the jet black pupils constricted before her eyes.

  “No,” she whispered dismally. “No—don’t die. I’m not finished yet…” Her plea sounded pitiful, like a forsaken child calling out for comfort. When, an instant later, the brave’s last breath passed with a slight tremor of his limbs, her shoulders immediately began to quake.

  Even knowing there was nothing more she could do, Elizabeth couldn’t tear her gaze away, couldn’t release his hand. To let him go was to let him slip away forever. Her lips began to quiver as his pupils became little more than pinpricks, his stare as empty as black glass. “Oh, Papa,” she cried softly, still unable to release the young brave’s hand. Nor could she look away. “Oh, no… no… no… ”

  She looked up, pleading. “Oh, Cutter,” she sobbed, swallowing the thickening lump in her throat. Against the back of her hand, the mist continued to fall in cool sprinkles, while against her palm, the Indian’s flesh turned as cold as the mist. And she knew, as surely as she breathed, that he was irretrievably gone.

  “Not fair!” she cried out suddenly, and with a choking sob, she laid the cold hand reverently upon the unmoving chest. Vaguely she was aware of Cutter reaching out for her. Turning to him, she thrust herself into his arms.