“An infusion of the leaves would be perfect,” she explained, but Cutter wasn’t listening, he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from her mouth.
“Just perfect!” he heard her repeat gleefully, and then she suddenly kissed him—in the eye. With a heartening smile, she turned again to her patient.
“Now, don’t you worry,” she said, a note of gaiety shining through. She lifted one knee, preparing to rise. “I’ll have you well in no time! You’ll see!” She patted his arm reassuringly.
As though in response, the Indian abruptly lifted his lids, and Elizabeth rocked forward onto both knees at once, as though, with that small effort, he had somehow jerked her back to him. She gave a startled little cry.
The dark stare was vacant, the pupils dilated and huge. Noting it, Elizabeth felt suddenly ill. Too late was her first thought, but she shoved it resolutely away.
He was not going to die!
She wouldn’t let him!
This was the first time since her father’s death that a patient’s life was at stake... the first time ever anyone had depended solely on her skills to survive. She couldn’t fail—her father wouldn’t have, and neither could she.
Ignoring the implications of what she saw in the young Indian’s eyes, she thrust her palm boldly over his brow, her own brows slanting dejectedly at the feel of his flesh. He’d been as hot as an iron over a fire only moments before, but his skin was swiftly losing its rosy tint, turning as pale as though he were already dead.
A knot formed in her throat. “If only... if only I could make... the infusion,” she began, her voice painfully soft, catching abruptly on the last word as though it were suddenly too difficult to speak.
As though by cue, a soft drizzle began. Cutter watched as Elizabeth caught the brave’s hand into her own, clutching it stubbornly. A lone tear trickled down her cheek and she took a shuddering breath as the jet black pupils constricted before her eyes.
“No,” she whispered dismally. “No—don’t die. I’m not finished yet...” Her plea sounded pitiful, like a forsaken child calling out for comfort. When, an instant later, the brave’s last breath passed with a slight tremor of his limbs, her shoulders immediately began to quake.
Even knowing there was nothing more she could do, Elizabeth couldn’t tear her gaze away, couldn’t release his hand. To let him go was to let him slip away forever. Her lips began to quiver as his pupils became little more than pinpricks, his stare as empty as black glass. “Oh, Papa,” she cried softly, still unable to release the young brave’s hand. Nor could she look away. “Oh, no... no... no...”
She looked up, pleading. “Oh, Cutter,” she sobbed, swallowing the thickening lump in her throat. Against the back of her hand, the mist continued to fall in cool sprinkles, while against her palm, the Indian’s flesh turned as cold as the mist. And she knew, as surely as she breathed, that he was irretrievably gone.
“Not fair!” she cried out suddenly, and with a choking sob, she laid the cold hand reverently upon the unmoving chest. Vaguely she was aware of Cutter reaching out for her. Turning to him, she thrust herself into his arms.
Chapter Fifteen
“Life ain’t fair,” Cutter whispered. Comforting her the only way he knew how, he stroked Elizabeth’s back and shoulders soothingly, profoundly moved by her compassion for the Indian. He lifted her chin so that he could see her tearstained face, but she stubbornly avoided his gaze and kept her eyes downcast as another tear slid past her dark lashes. His own eyes stinging against his volition, he wiped her cheek with his thumb. This time she didn’t protest his callused touch. “Your first?” he whispered hoarsely.
Elizabeth nodded jerkily, restraining her sobs.
“Thought so,” he said gruffly. “Listen to me, bright eyes, there wasn’t a damned thing more you could have done to save him. Nothing.” His tone was gentle, soothing, though his blood was beginning to heat with the feel of her in his arms. Whether he wanted to or not, in that moment he felt more drawn to her than he’d ever thought possible. More than he had ever been to any woman.
At last Elizabeth peered up at him through dampened lashes, but her eyes seemed darker somehow, deeper than before, as though this single death had in some way shaken her deep, deep down.
“I should have known what to do!” she cried mournfully. Her palm splayed upon his chest, her fingers toying nervously with his button.
As he felt the timid gesture, Cutter’s blood began a slow simmer. Damn him, if she wasn’t making this hard on him. He forced his gaze away from her budding nipples. Her body’s innocent reaction to him both thrilled and tormented him simultaneously.
“I should have saved him. I could have—my father would have! There must have been something I missed... something I didn’t do right... something...” she broke off miserably, glancing up at Cutter with pleading eyes. Tears sparkled on her lashes.
With a will of their own, his hands slid to her waist, then inched to her back as he kissed her forehead once, firmly, feeling his body tense. Then again, his control slipping with every second she lingered in his arms.
He took a deep, mind-cleansing breath, but it was the worst thing he could have done, because with it, the scent of her filled his nostrils. He groaned, and thought with self-disgust that at the moment, he didn’t feel much more than aggravation at the Indian for dying so inconveniently.
Hell, he felt for the man, but not as much as he felt for Elizabeth. Unfitting as it was, his body didn’t seem to have grasped the seriousness of the situation. Thankfully, his mind still clung to a shred of sanity.
His voice sounded gruff, tortured. “You did all you could for the man, Doc.” His fingers brushed aside a damp tendril from her face.
“Don’t call me that!” Elizabeth protested weakly, jerking away from his touch, smacking at his hand when he brought it back to her face.
Misunderstanding her reaction, Cutter sighed and gently drew her away from him.
“They were right to doubt me,” she murmured unhappily, “all of them! It’s just that... that... I—I tried so hard... so very hard...”
