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 without 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.
