“Soon,” Jo agreed and he gently snapped 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 the 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 finger. “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.
