They reachedthe bluff-top to find rolling hills as far as the eye could see, white oak and cottonwood trees flecking the view. Having abandoned the riverbed and bluffs, Cutter made use of every last watering hole they encountered. While the horses fed late in the afternoon, they lunched, then set out again and didn’t stop until they reached the Grand River. By then, Elizabeth had fallen asleep in the saddle.
Seeing her waver, Cutter snatched her up into his own saddle with no small measure of concern. The last time she’d slept in his arms, she’d given him a healthy fear of doubling up on one horse, but he couldn’t very well just let her drop from exhaustion—sure was tempting, though. As they rode, that part of him was never very far from his thoughts. And because of it, he was as cagey as a stallion in a brood mare’s stall by the time they made camp.
It had been dark for over an hour when they stopped for the night. With sleepy murmurs Elizabeth allowed Cutter to tuck her into her bedroll. He placed his own next to hers, and having satisfied his hunger earlier in the day, gnawed on a tough slice of jerky as he contemplated the night before.
Lizbeth had grit—had to give her that much. With a grin, he thought about her temperament, deciding that she must have had a full-blooded Scot hanging somewhere on her family tree.
He closed his eyes and ruminated, thinking that they’d made real good time all day. But time was something he was swiftly running short on. He shifted uneasily, his eyes seeking out her huddled form in the darkness. He swallowed the last bite of jerky. Remembering the rattler necklace he’d made for her, he pulled it out of his denim pocket, staring at it a long moment. Scooting closer to Elizabeth, he carefully placed it over her head, tucking it reverently into the space between two of her buttons.
He had to make her see things his way—just couldn’t let her hire on someone else. He just wasn’t sure how to convince her of it.
Trying not to think about the ache in his foot, as well as the one in his britches, he jerked up his own blanket and drew it over Elizabeth—two blankets wouldn’t hurt her none—and then he threw a protective arm over her for good measure, and willed himself to sleep.
The next morning he was still thinking over some way to convince Elizabeth to let him stand in as her husband while he prepared to shave. After breakfast, he hung his mirror from a tree and then filled his bowl with water. He’d scrubbed his face and then lathered his whiskers, and was about to draw the folding razor across his chin when Elizabeth walked up to him, a bundle of dirty clothes squashed in her arms. He watched her approach in the mirror, admiring the soft sway of her hips—if not the bulky, ugly, ragged fabric that covered them.
“Cutter?”
With his hand still in midair, he glanced at her.
Cutter was bare-chested, his skin taut and dark, and it was difficult to remain coherent at the sight of him. Elizabeth had thought, when she’d felt the light mat of hair on his chest and arms, along with the tightness of the skin across his ribs and belly, that nothing could be so incredible. But seeing him was. It fair took her breath away.
“I—I wanted to thank you for the necklace,” she said hesitantly, her hands trembling as she clutched the bundle of clothes. She yearned to reach out and touch him, the necklace at least, but couldn’t because her hands were full. With the necklace, he’d given her a keepsake, something tangible that she could hold on to and remember... after he was gone. Something that would prove it had all been real and not a wonderful, magical dream—the most beautiful night of her life. She didn’t fool herself; she’d been available, and he in need. He just wasn’t the marrying kind, she knew, nor would it have worked out for her... not when she wanted her niece so desperately. She couldn’t take that chance.
He was still staring at her, his eyes probing, as though he were trying to read her soul. And then he gave her a nod and returned to his mirror, his thoughts obviously preoccupied. As she watched, he lifted the razor.
“Did you make it from the rattler we ate?” Elizabeth asked, her brows furrowing as she peered into the bowl, then at his beard, and again at the razor in his hand.
“Yeah,” Cutter replied, and then turned to look at her again, thinking that she’d come a long way—from not being able to even mention her body’s inborn callings to feeling at ease gawking at his own rites. There was something inherently satisfying in that, Cutter mused, and then he realized that she was scrutinizing his face a little too intently.
“I thought Indians didn’t have to shave,” she said abruptly, obviously befuddled by the fact that he was about to do just that. “I’d always heard, you see... and the others... well, they didn’t seem to have any—so why do you?”
Her question, so innocently asked, took Cutter by surprise, and he didn’t immediately reply. Elizabeth looked so interested in his response that he didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was likely the most asinine question he’d ever heard. With a confounded look, he scratched his temple with his thumb. “Hell, Lizbeth, how should I know? Maybe it’s the white in me,” he added caustically.
Averting her eyes, Elizabeth nodded, shrugging, obviously embarrassed that she’d asked such a personal question. “Just wondered, is all.” Pulling her bundle more closely against her breasts, she walked away, and for a moment Cutter just stared at her, dumbfounded, as she headed toward the river. And then it struck him suddenly, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner.
Seeing himself suddenly in a different light, he studied his reflection in the hazy mirror. Hell, he thought, Jo had been right... he really didn’t look like much of an Indian—less so with a beard. If it weren’t for his dark coloring, and the way he wore his clothes, most folks would probably never suspect. His Irish blood was just as prominent as the Indian, showing itself in the wavy texture of his hair, for one... and his body hair—didn’t have lots, but... more than he should have had.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there gawking at himself, his expression incredulous, but his dark eyes turned suddenly cunning. A slow smile lifted his lips as he washed the caking lather from his face, and dried himself briskly with a small towel. Then he meticulously trimmed his beard and, once satisfied with his appearance, went in search of Elizabeth.
He found her scrubbing laundry in the river, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her ragged skirt sopping up the water. She was washing his favorite green shirt, putting heart and soul into it, and he smiled at the image she made. The sight of her, her clothes damp and clinging to her delicate curves, at once shifted the nature of his thoughts, and his smile turned devious.
“Mind scrubbing something else for me?”
Startled by his husky baritone, Elizabeth leapt, nearly losing the shirt she was laundering in the slow but steady current of the river. Cutter stood on the bank, his arms crossed, his eyes dancing with mischief. For some reason, his imperious manner pricked at her. “No, I don’t, but must you always sneak up—” Her protest ended abruptly with a gasp of surprise. “You can’t—Cutter!”
He chuckled at her stricken expression, but his hands never ceased unbuttoning his denims. “Ain’t nothing here you haven’t already seen, Doc,” he told her coolly.
Or felt, Elizabeth wanted to add, her face heating fiercely. Still, it wasn’t the least bit proper. “Cutter,” she protested weakly. But her gaze never wavered as he began to shuck off his pants... and then his drawers, stepping out of both. Finally he stood before her as naked as the day he was born—unashamed and even a bit arrogant in his stance. To her dismay, she remained transfixed, her heart pummeling her ribs.
“If there’s anything needs washing, it’s these,” he revealed huskily, dropping the clothing in question into the pile of laundry she’d left on the bank. As Elizabeth gaped, he waded into the cool river, and dove under the rippling surface.
To her dismay, she didn’t even realize that she was still gawking, her fingers clutching at his wet shirt in her hands, until he surfaced near her, shaking his head like a wet puppy, flinging droplets of water everywhere. Yet even as the cool droplets pattered her face, she stared.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Need help?” he asked.
The water had come to midchest where he’d first surfaced, but as he stalked toward her, it dipped to his waist, his thighs... his...
“H-Help?” Elizabeth stammered, when he stood before her at last. “I—I—” With some difficulty, her eyes lifted to his face as he began to pry the soaked cloth from her hands. With a nod, he tossed it upon the bank and then turned to face her, his eyes smoldering with that same hunger she recalled so vividly. And then a tremor passed through her as they darkened before her eyes.
