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.
