Filled with sorrow, her eyes took in the precipitous cliffs in the distance, the river flowing heedlessly by, and the blooming meadow interspersed with trees. Ahead of them, the Missouri seemed eternal, the bluffs unreachable.
All in all, it was a very lonely place.
“No one will ever know that he’s here,” she lamented, her eyes shimmering.
Tapping his hat briskly on his thigh, Cutter scanned the bluff top. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied shortly. Placing his hat on his head, he tapped it low over his eyes. “I expect someone will.”
Elizabeth’s eyes immediately followed the path his had taken, finding absolutely nothing. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she turned away and mounted up.
With a last narrow-eyed glance at the bluff, Cutter did the same.
They didn’t go far, just out of sight of the tomb. And while Elizabeth hadn’t thought she could eat anything after the ordeal they’d gone through, by the time they made camp once more, and Cutter fished up dinner, she was so ravenous that she was certain she could eat an entire river full of trout.
After supper, to her surprise, instead of putting out the cooking fire, Cutter added more kindling, and then settled on a half-rotted log near it. Keeping herself occupied so as not to think of the Indian, Elizabeth unfurled her bedroll, and Cutter’s, as well, wondering how she would bear the thought of sleeping where a man had died. She didn’t think she could.
For all that he’d seemed preoccupied, Cutter hadn’t missed the look of bewilderment Elizabeth had given him over the fire, but he didn’t comment. The only explanation he could have given was that he sure as cuss was going to make love to her tonight, and he wanted to see every exquisite inch of her while he was doing it. His foot hurt like hell, but something else ached a whole lot worse. And he was tired of being chivalrous, tired of not sleeping nights because she was lying so close that he couldn’t get her scent out of his system, tired of burning. If he had his druthers, he’d be anything but gentlemanly.
It went against his grain.
Besides, it seemed they had a few guardian angels on their trail, and he doubted anyone would approach tonight without him knowing it.
He’d spotted the trio of Indians just after he’d finished burying the brave. He just wasn’t certain why they’d remained hidden from view, instead of coming forward to help bury their own—unless they hadn’t trusted him?
Still, if there were only three of them, it was likely they hadn’t approached because they weren’t packin’ iron. And that was another reason he’d decided to get the hell away from the tomb. Totin’ or not, Cutter was sure they intended to reclaim their friend—or, at the very least, check out his handiwork. In either case, he had no desire to get in their way.
As he saw it, there wasn’t too much cause to be concerned about them stealing into camp tonight, because he’d purposely left the dead Indian’s horse for them as a token of good faith. He was glad Elizabeth hadn’t asked over it. Luckily, she’d been so distraught that she hadn’t even noticed the horse grazing in the meadow when they’d left. But he was certain the Indians had, even if she hadn’t.
With a quick glance at the darkening bluff, he slid down to sit on the ground, setting his back against the log. It had been at least an hour since he’d last spotted the Indians, and unless he missed his guess, they were likely at the tomb, even now.
And that suited him perfectly.
His gaze was immediately drawn to Elizabeth. Walking into his hands, like a butterfly to a spider’s web, she approached him, a fair amount of her slim calves showing below the tattered hem of her skirt. Her sturdy black shoes were grimy as hell, and he focused on them as she sat primly on the log beside him. Smoothing her fingers across the deep-set wrinkles in her skirt, she looked a lot like a dirty little waif sitting there, trying to impress him with her self-control—when he knew deep down she wasn’t finished with her cry. She was holding it back stoically, and he had to admire her for that.
“That certainly was satisfying,” she remarked conversationally, alluding to the fish. “Much better than jerky or...” She glanced at him coyly. “What did you call it? Puddle leaper?”
Cutter chuckled at her ascetic tone. “Jumper,” he corrected, with a glance upward. “Puddle jumper.” Her tawny eyes still held a certain sheen to them, seeming to glow in the fading light. Without being asked to, Cutter rose and sat beside her on the log, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, his legs spread till they were just shy of hers. There he remained, staring at the ground a sober moment, before turning to look her in the eye.
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened as his smoldering black eyes met hers. He was sitting so very close. So close that if she only moved her leg a fraction to the right, they’d touch. Did she dare? Lord, give her strength. They were so close that his body heat made her burn. Like a wick to fuel, she felt his intoxicating warmth seeping into her, feeding her in some unknown way, making her restless.
Swallowing tightly, she stared at his powerful-looking hands, which were now threaded loosely in front of him, and closed her eyes with the sudden undeniable need to reach out and touch them. She was sitting so close, it seemed impossible not to. And before she could think to deny herself, she did exactly that.
More so than she’d imagined, his flesh burned where her fingers touched his forearm, sending lightning bolts shivering through her, clear to the tips of her breasts. She thrilled to the texture of his skin—so masculine, so warm. She resisted the urge to smooth her fingers along the springy hairs of his arm.
Mesmerized by the feel of him, it took every ounce of her will to emerge from the haze of pleasure enveloping her, and she tried desperately to seem casual. But her voice didn’t quite sound normal, even to her own ears. “Thank you, Cutter, for understanding... when I needed it most.” She swallowed convulsively, clearing away the raw ache from her throat. “And... and for your kind words.”
Cutter’s gaze met hers briefly, softening. “No kindness intended, I assure you. Just the truth. You did real good back there, Doc.”
“Did you think I’d won my title by default?” she asked, without offense. Too many had wondered the same about her to fault Cutter for his misgivings.
He gave her a guilty twist of his lips. “Reckon I’d be lying if I said no. The thought had crossed my mind a time or two.” His eyes returned to her hand on his arm, her trembling fingers, then back to her face, as though to caution her somehow.
She sighed a little tremulously. “And you wouldn’t be all wrong. I didn’t take instruction in some fancy school back east.” She looked up into his eyes. “But I made an eager pupil to my father—and he had earned his degree. Besides that, I devoured every book on healing and herbs I could get my hands on.”
Her eyes moved down to where Cutter’s were still focused. Her fingers. But, try as she might, she couldn’t remove them from his arm, even knowing she must appear appallingly brazen. Somewhere, deep down, she knew what she was inviting... and couldn’t stop herself.
Her lashes fluttered closed with that revelation, and she willed her breath to slow. When she opened her eyes again, her heart turned over violently. The unmistakable heat flickering in Cutter’s black eyes startled her.
Was it possible? she dared to hope. That he could desire her, too? Suddenly she felt giddy. With all the terrible things Elizabeth had heard of men’s self-control, it had been impossible to believe that Cutter had done nothing more than kiss her now and again, when they’d spent so much time alone together. Yet it was true. And though she’d told herself it was what was right... that she was glad of it... it also stung.
