His color is good, she told herself. As long as he was still feverish, he was fighting. But how could he be feverish if he’d only just been shot? She shook her head. It wasn’t possible. And then she recalled the shots that had killed O’Neill. Had Cutter been hit then, too—all those hours ago—and said nothing of it? It still didn’t make sense.
“Katie,” she said, trying not to give in to hysteria, “turn around, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
Again Elizabeth looked up, beseeching Katie to understand. “Because I have to look somewhere you can’t,” she said bluntly.
Katie nodded abruptly, seeing something frightening in Elizabeth’s eyes. She turned obediently, and Elizabeth immediately began to unbutton Cutter’s denims, tugging them down as far as she was able without removing his boots. Nothing. Puzzled, she lifted one leg slightly, then the other, peering beneath.
Still nothing.
Stupefied, she removed his knife from his left boot, set it aside, and began tugging off the right one. It came off without difficulty, but when she came back to remove the left one, it seemed bonded to his foot. Grunting, she hauled on it with all her might, yanking it down, one frustrating inch at a time. At last, when it was nearly off, she caught a glimpse of the angry red streak, and her breath snagged. Her heart pounded as she tugged again, more frantically this time, releasing the boot with a final sucking sound. She toppled backward from the force of her tug. Shaking her head in denial, she righted herself at once, and began to remove his sock. She tossed it aside in disbelief, her heart filling with an unbearable ache.
“Dear God!” she exclaimed.
“Can I look?” Katie asked.
“No, Katie... no,” Elizabeth sobbed.
The red streak climbed his leg, originating from a gash in his left foot and disappearing into the leg of his denims. She hadn’t realized he’d even cut himself! How could she not have known? Why hadn’t he mentioned it?
He didn’t trust in you, a little voice taunted as she tugged frantically at his denims, removing them.
Cutter didn’t believe in her abilities as a doctor any more than anyone else did.
He watched you kill a man with your ignorance, that same voice sneered.
But she could have done something. Anything... anything would have been better than nothing at all! She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat, for in that moment, it hurt so deeply that he’d preferred to suffer—or die, even—rather than have her tend him!
Perhaps he’d had good reason to doubt her, she mocked herself. She hadn’t been able to keep the Indian from dying, had she? But she’d tried. Dear God, with all her heart she’d tried!
He didn’t trust her.
The Indian chose that moment to return. “Eháomóhtâhéotse,” he said, halting dead in his tracks when he saw Cutter’s swollen, angry foot.
Katie buried her face into Elizabeth’s lap, hiding from him, and Elizabeth never felt more torn; she wanted to soothe Katie, wanted to help Cutter, wanted to cry.
“It’s infected,” Elizabeth informed him briskly, even knowing he wouldn’t understand. She held back every emotion. Except for the anger that crept into her heart. Anger that Cutter would have let this go so long without having it tended. Anger that he hadn’t trusted her. Anger that he might die because of his stubbornness. Anger that she had let herself love him.
Why, oh, why had she allowed herself to love him?
Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. “I’ll need you to start a fire,” she said, looking up at the Indian, her lips trembling and her eyes shimmering. “Fire!” She set Katie aside and made a desperate motion with her hand, and then, remembering the cartridge Cutter usually kept in his pocket, she searched for it. Not finding it, she mimed building herself a fire, and then cooking, and then eating what she cooked.
The Indian nodded. “Meséestse!” he said with a grin, and without another word, set about the task assigned to him.
When he began to build the fire, Elizabeth returned her attention to Cutter, satisfied that she had gotten her message across. Her heart ached as she spied Katie’s frightened pose. She was holding her knees to her chest and watching the Indian through her little hands. “Katie,” she admonished gently, “don’t be afraid, honey. And don’t hide your face,” she added firmly, her breath catching on a sob. “He won’t hurt you, and it will hurt his feelings.”
Katie nodded mutely and dropped her hands, looking up at Elizabeth with haunted eyes. Elizabeth’s hand went to her mouth as silent sobs wracked her within. Her lips clamped to contain them. Unable to keep them down, she choked suddenly. Glancing over her shoulder, her heart in her eyes, she met the Indian’s comprehending gaze.
There was no language barrier between them in that instant. He seemed to see everything that was in her heart. He went back to his task, and Elizabeth turned back to Cutter, her emotions too turbulent to be seen. Too embittered.
“I hate you, Cutter!” she choked out suddenly her hands flying to her mouth, covering the telltale trembling of her lips. No... you don’t! You love him, that same voice countered fiercely. You love him!
“Aunt Lizabeth!” Katie sobbed.
The Indian said nothing, only watched her show of emotions from out of the corner of his eyes. When the fire was kindled finally, he left without a word.
Her throat seemed to close up as she lifted Cutter’s knife to the fire, watching it flare bright red within the glowing blue flames. When it was heated enough, she removed it, swiping the black ash on her skirt, not caring that it singed the material, not caring that she could feel the burn clear to her flesh.
