It seemed to Elizabeth that she lay an eternity on the hard ground, peering out anxiously, waiting for some sign of Cutter’s return, all the while repeating those words until they became a litany.
Trust.
The downpour intensified until the echo was a deafening roar beneath the stone shelter.
“Trust,” she repeated slowly. He won’t leave you, she assured herself, her heart racing. He won’t!
But her mother had... and her father had—he’d left her to face the chaos of her life.
Oh, God... alone!
Near hysterics now, Elizabeth began to hum softly.
At first, Cutter was dead certain he was hearing things. He could swear that above the rain and cracking thunder, he heard... humming? But as he neared the shelter, he knew he wasn’t imagining the sound. It was Elizabeth, her voice terrified and broken... and unlike most nights, the melody she hummed was recognizable and haunting.
“Greensleeves”?
She was humming “Greensleeves.”
His chest swelled with some unnamed emotion, and it struck him suddenly why she would sing that song every blasted night... why she’d had him hum to her that first night. He could suddenly hear her voice again.
“But it’s dark,” she’d whimpered. “Too dark... please...”
“Please what?” he’d asked. “Lizbeth.”
“Hum—to—me...”
Again, his gut twisted.
She was terrified of being alone... as terrified as he was not to be. Strange thing was, for the first time he could recall, he didn’t mind the comforting... didn’t hold against the thought of companionship... didn’t mind protecting...
As long as it was her.
When Cutter’s fuzzy, dark silhouette materialized from the storm, walking determinedly toward her, clutching what looked to be their bedrolls and everything else he could carry under his arms, Elizabeth’s heart flew into her throat. His expression, when it crystallized at last, was as intense as the wind as he approached, his dark eyes discerning, and she quickly swiped away the telltale tears she’d not even realized she’d shed until that moment and moved deeper into the shelter to give him room.
The instant Cutter set eyes on her, he knew that she’d been crying. He could see her dirty handprints where she’d tried to wipe the evidence away. But he didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. With his jaw set, he shoved in their effects, securing them at her feet, then crawled in beside her. He wanted to put his arms about her, soothe away her fears, but had no inkling how to go about it.
Or whether she would even accept his embrace.
Cursing at his own ineptitude, he kicked the rolls down farther into the dugout, shoving them out of his way, cursing again as he turned to pull one of the blankets out of his own fleabag. Somehow he managed to spread it beneath himself. Then he nudged Elizabeth. “Up,” he demanded.
Obeying, Elizabeth twisted so that Cutter could thrust the blanket beneath her, and then she settled back down atop it. Obviously, she felt the tension between them, and stared, wide-eyed, as Cutter finally turned onto his back beside her.
“Christ,” he muttered, striking the low-lying roof with the butt of his hand. And then he looked at her, but it was a mistake. Her eyes seemed to reach out for him. He didn’t know what to do. “Ain’t enough room in here to swing a cat,” he grumbled. Still she said nothing, only watched him, her heart riding in her eyes, and Cutter finally looked away, uneasy with the feelings she’d stirred in him.
After taking measure of the small cavern—if it could be called that—he turned to stare at the stone ceiling a mere foot and a half above his head, and wondered how the hell he’d gotten himself into this coil. In his estimation, they had no more than three feet of headroom in spots, less in others, and the dugout was probably a little over eight feet long, six feet deep. Some of the floor was stone, some dirt, and the only opening was to their right, stretching the length of the shelter, and letting in what little light was accessible. The ceiling was lower closer to the opening, higher toward the back. It was obviously man-made, but for what purpose, he didn’t know. Only one thing was certain... whoever had made it had obviously not wished to be spotted at first glance—though up close, it was hard to miss.
He took in a deep breath—damn him, if he wasn’t feeling stifled already—but the air smelled musty and old, and it didn’t help a lick. Determinedly he ignored the sweeter scent that teased his nostrils, and focused on the sound of her shivering breath.
“I had to secure the horses,” he explained finally. “Hated to do it... but had to tie them to the nearest tree.” Rolling to his side to face her, he propped himself up on his elbow. As he scrutinized her, the sound of the rain became no more than a steady drone somewhere beyond them. “You cold?” he asked her, his voice a little huskier than he’d intended. He cleared his throat.
Elizabeth nodded.
He couldn’t look away and he couldn’t speak at all for the naked emotion still so apparent in Elizabeth’s amber eyes. A few strands of her hair had loosened from her braid and were pasted to her dirt-streaked face, one strand to her bottom lip. Gently Cutter plucked it away, smoothing it from her face.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he suggested, never releasing her gaze. His thumb rubbed at the smudges on her cheeks, without success.
She needed a bath, but in spite of it, she was a feast for his eyes. She blinked, but other than that, there was nothing about her expression that indicated she’d even heard him. He tried again. “You’ll dry off faster if you’re wearing less. I brought the blankets. They’re damp, but they should be a helluva lot more comfortable than your wet clothes.”
