At least they were dry, he told himself.
And the shelter wasn’t really all that bad. Little enough rain blew in at them on account of the roof being so low. The only thing he could see to be concerned over was the fact that water was beginning to trickle in. But it was a slow stream, and he doubted it would do much harm... unless the rain didn’t let up. But if he knew anything about late summer storms, and he fancied he did, then it would be over before much longer. It was likely to end as swiftly as it came.
And if worst came to worst, he’d just scoot closer to Elizabeth. He glanced at her suddenly, feeling the tension he’d just alleviated return with full force as he contemplated scooting nearer to her.
Like a pesky gnat, that thought badgered him.
His lips twisted cynically.
Hell, it wasn’t as though there were a wall between them—though he’d be damned if it didn’t feel like it.
Besides, sainthood never had appealed to him much.
Damn her, anyway—his brows collided—if she thought for a minute he was gonna lie here and freeze to death just to protect some squeamish female’s tender sensibilities!
With a savage curse, he unsheathed his knife from his left boot, setting it aside, and then he kicked it off. As he undid his shirt buttons, he struggled with the other boot, prodding it with his bare toes, unable to get it off fast enough. It wouldn’t come, and he cursed again.
A glance in Elizabeth’s direction told him that she was busy ignoring him. But that suited him just fine. Jerking his shirt out of his britches, leaving it wide open, he moved to unfasten his soggy denims—just the thought of being free of the restrictive fabric lightened his mood considerably.
It had nothing to do with the fact that with his own clothes off, there’d be one less barrier to overcome. Hell no, his motives were purely honorable... or, at least, not dishonorable.
Well, not really.
Elizabeth heard the pops as he released the buttons of his wet denims, and she tensed. Having ignored the previous warnings—his boot sliding off of his foot, the crinkling of his shirt as he fumbled with it—she was afraid to turn and look Cutter’s way. Pulling the blanket a fraction higher, she asked, though she knew better than to do so, “All right, Mr. McKenzie. Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Chapter Thirteen
“What do you think I’m doing?” he returned smoothly, not a trace of misgiving in his tone.
Actually, he sounded more as though he were... grinning? “Not undressing, I hope?”
Cutter chuckled richly.
“You can’t!” she shrieked, taking his laughter as confirmation. “You can’t just lie there with nothing on—not beside me! You do at least have your...” Good night, she couldn’t even think the word—much less say it!
Cutter chuckled again. “Reckon you’ll just have to turn around and find out,” he told her, his voice liberally tinged with laughter as he twisted to remove his other boot. His britches were now wrapped about his ankles, their removal hampered by his boot.
Wrenching the blanket over her head, Elizabeth burrowed herself deeper into the wool as his husky laughter rang in her ears... along with another sound that seemed strangely like... like...
A horse’s whinny? And it sounded so near... yet it couldn’t be—but it was—and there it was again!
Cutter, too, had heard and was no longer laughing.
Her curiosity getting the best of her, Elizabeth burrowed out of the blanket and turned to stare out into the downpour.
Cutter’s body was still twisted, his hands frozen in a death grip upon his right boot, but he was peering out as best he could from under the overhang. In the meantime, Elizabeth stole into his spot, so that when he leaned back for a better view, his back touched Elizabeth’s damp camisole.
“Cutter, do you see that?”
The proud but blurry silhouette of an Indian materialized from the rain and mist, his horse treading along at a tired pace. Elizabeth crawled forward to better see. Squinting, she could see that he held his head upright, proudly, though it teetered suspiciously before her eyes. What appeared to be two large feathers were outlined in his hair, tilted downward on one side, and his hair seemed to be free, falling just below his broad shoulders. Blinking from the strain of her scrutiny, she refocused and could barely make out a bare chest, painted with what appeared to be red streaks on one side. On his legs, he wore buckskin trousers. The features themselves never sharpened.
Still, she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
“What is it?” Cutter fidgeted in order to get a better look.
Suddenly the Indian lurched forward in the saddle, and Elizabeth cried out. “No—oh, no! He’s hurt!”
Cutter quickly tugged his denims back up. “Who’s hurt?” he demanded.
