Sagebrush Bride (14 page)

The odor of horseflesh and stale hay assaulted her
nostrils as she entered the dusky stable.

“Hello,” she called out. “Hello... anyone here?”

A tall, robust man stood up within the second
stall. His face screwed in annoyance, though when he saw her, he smiled
brightly, revealing a missing upper tooth. Resisting the urge to finger her own
straight teeth, she locked her hands into a fist and held them in front of her.
“I’m sorry if I intruded?”

“No, no,” the man assured, shoving at the stall
door and coming toward her. He wiped his soiled hands upon his already filthy
denims. “I was cleaning the stall some... Birthed a mare.” He gave her a guilty
smile, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Anyhow, name’s Pete Monroe,
ma’am; what can I do for ya?”

When she heard that his name was Monroe,
Elizabeth’s brow creased. Suspicious, to say the least. Still, she had no
choice but to deal with the man. She proffered her hand, trying to look as
fearsome as she was able. “Elizabeth Bowcock, and I need a good mount, Mr.
Monroe. I’m willing to purchase it outright.” He gave her a skeptical look.
“I’ve got cash,” she assured, thinking that was what he was contemplating. “Mr.
Monroe—” she emphasized the name “—at the trade store.” Mr. Monroe
nodded. “He said you would deal fairly with me.”

Pete Monroe acknowledged that fact with a brief
nod. “Yeah?” He winked at her. “Well, Miss Bowcock, if my cousin Will sent you,
I’ve just the thing. Haven’t really been sellin’ my horses outright, but this
once, I’ll make an exception.” He smiled suddenly, his missing tooth
conspicuous. “Anythin’ for a pretty gal like you,” he told her.

Turning, he started into the dusky building,
launching into what promised to become a sad sales tale. “Just please don’t
breathe a word o’ this, or I’ll have the townsfolk at my door. You see... I
haven’t had any new blood in stock for a good while now, and old man Rutherford
has been after me ta sell him what I got... but he keeps jiggerin’ em, and I
ain’t willin’ ta let him do that to anymore o’ my horses. They’re like family
ta me.”

Family? Not likely! As they went deeper into the
stable, the smell of stale hay became rank, almost sour. No man served his
family spoiled rations—at least, not if he could help it. But then, maybe
he couldn’t help it. She considered that a moment. Indian Creek wasn’t exactly
a prospering town.

Mr. Monroe led her to the very last stall, where a
mustang mare stood staring emptily back at her, its liquid dark eyes blinking
at her somberly. All thoughts of duplicity fled her at once as she stepped
forward, seeing only the reflection of herself in the ebony eyes, her misery,
her loneliness, and she was at once in love.

The mare stretched its neck forward to investigate
the newest trespasser to its stall. Elizabeth was surprised by the warm
welcome; her eyes widened slightly and she turned to smile warmly at the big
man beside her.

“She’s beautiful!” Reaching out cautiously, she
stroked the mare’s forehead, brushing its forelock gently with her fingers. Her
markings were exquisite: white with scattered spots, ranging from dark gold to
deep cocoa.

Elizabeth’s hand slid down to its flaring
nostrils. There she held it, letting the animal become used to her personal
scent, all the while keeping alert for some sign that it would balk. It never
did, and finally she moved to caress its fine muzzle.

The mare retreated somewhat at that, but Elizabeth
continued to caress the animal reassuringly. Abruptly she withdrew her hand,
placing it at her side, waiting to see what the animal would do next. After a
long moment, the mare moved forward, as though seeking out her gentle touch,
and Elizabeth’s heart swelled with pride of accomplishment. She stood without speaking
for the longest moment, admiring the animal’s beauty, reveling in her good
fortune.

“I’ll take her,” Elizabeth declared, without the
least hesitation.

Mr. Monroe smiled shrewdly, giving her a pleased
nod. “Thought so,” was all he said. “Now, as ta the price, Miss Bowcock.”

Cursing roundly to himself, Cutter rapped sharply upon
Elizabeth’s door for the third time. Giving it a last whack, he tried the knob
and found it securely locked. Every inclination urged him to beat it down, but
he doubted it would do any good. If Elizabeth were in her room, she’d have
responded by now.

Where else
could she be?

Pivoting on one heel, he spun away from the door.
He’d come in early this morning, after having spent most of the night drowning
his troubles at the Rushing Bull and cursing Elizabeth Bowcock to China and
back. Simply put, he’d stayed out carousing too long and had overslept. Hell,
he’d had half a mind to just walk away last night, leave the lady stranded, but
couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d brought her this far, and he aimed to
carry it through despite her contemptuously given demands and her bigotry.

That bit
stuck in his craw.

What did she think he’d been playing at his entire
life? All he had remaining of his mother’s people were a priceless few
memories, the recollection of Jack McKenzie’s intolerance, and the white man’s narrow-minded
views of a people with whom they generally refused to empathize.

He felt torn between two worlds that likely would
never meet. But that in itself was nothing new. He’d been sittin’ on the fence
most of his life. Question was, why did he feel obliged to slither off at this
point in the game, when he’d never even considered it before?

He was what he was. To blazes with anyone who
couldn’t accept him for it!

Images of Sand Creek came back to haunt him
suddenly, and he shook them away, thrusting his hand through his hair and
raking his fingers across his scalp.

Despite the fact that Chief Black Kettle had been
assured that he was under protection of Fort Lyon, and that he’d raised the
American flag over his lodge—as well as the white flag of surrender—as
a symbol of good faith, Chivington and his men had charged into the sleepy
Cheyenne camp, showing no mercy. Many of the slaughtered had been children, yet
all Colonel Chivington had had to say over the matter was that “nits make
lice.”

And they
called the Indians heathen bastards?

It made Cutter sick to his guts.

Though he’d proven himself a dependable scout for
the U.S. military, he’d also made it crystal-clear that half of him was
Cheyenne, and that no matter the cost, he wouldn’t track his blood kin.
Deserters, fine. And he had no qualms over sniffing out other Indian tribes,
either, but he’d gone so far as to refuse his commanding officer outright when
he’d been ordered to ferret out a particular Cheyenne winter camp.

After Chivington’s butchery at Sand Creek, the
government had feared reprisal from neighboring tribes—and rightly so.
Little more than a month later, the regular westbound express mail coach, en
route to Denver, had been attacked just six miles short of Julesburg.

But hell, he wasn’t precisely U.S. military; he
was merely under contract to them, and he didn’t intend to betray his mother’s
people—not when there were bastards like John Chivington around to dance
on their graves.

In spite of all that, he was about to do what he’d
sworn never to do. Through the years, he’d had little enough to do with his
mother’s people; still, he felt it a disloyalty to shed those things that
declared him Cheyenne, and he’d not even done so for his own sake. Yet that was
exactly what he aimed to do just now.

He’d show Miz Bowcock that he was no different
from the next man. Trouble was, he hated the piss out of it!

So why
bother?

Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way
down, his gut clenching at the possibility that came suddenly to mind. She wouldn’t
have gone back to Sioux Falls on her own. Well, hell, now, would she have?

Relief sidled through him upon entering the lobby;
he spotted her at once, her god-awful skirt and thick blond braid of hair
unmistakable. Turning from the clerk, she met his gaze, and for the briefest
moment, he thought he saw that same relief in her glance as well. Then she
seemed to compose herself and gave him a glare he was likely never to forget.
Despite his anger, he found himself chuckling as he followed her out of the
small lobby, his long legs catching her quick strides with very little effort.

Resisting the urge to scream that he “just go
away,” Elizabeth turned to regard him with ill-concealed ire. As much as it
galled her to admit it, she needed him. Despite that, she couldn’t bring
herself to ask for his help again. She’d laid her cards upon the table last
night, and he’d just walked away. The next move was his, and she refused to
humiliate herself further by begging. He would either accept her offer or not...
Either way, there was little she could do about it. If he chose not to, she
would, for the first time in years, find a nice, quiet place and cry her heart
out... because there was no one else to whom she could turn.

And he knew
it.

Trying her darnedest to ignore him, Elizabeth
hurried down the front steps, only to realize Cutter was no longer pursuing
her. She turned at once to find him standing upon the top step, leaning with
one arm braced casually against the crude wood post that supported the awning. Those
obsidian eyes of his glittered devilishly beneath the brim of his hat, and his
mouth twisted cynically. In greeting, he touched his hat brim lazily.

She felt like cursing him to high heaven, but
doubted she knew any of the words to do it. And she would have liked to tell
him off for leaving her to worry all night, but she knew it would be wiser not
to antagonize him.

He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn last
night, she noticed, shoving her spectacles up the bridge of her
nose—denims and a dark green shirt. And his jaw was still unshaven,
making his swarthy face look all the darker for the whiskers. He said nothing,
only watched her, and Elizabeth spun toward her horse, unwilling to be the
first to speak. The truth was that she had no idea how to go about making
amends with all the turmoil that was in her soul.

She’d worried all night. Even in her sleep, she’d
been plagued by dreams of him. And this morning—never mind that she’d not
been caught—he’d forced her to suffer the humiliation of skulking out of
the hotel without settling the bill... only to return and find he’d already
paid!

Her cheeks flushed as she recalled the clerk’s
words. The man had all but leered as he’d informed her, “Been settled, ma’am...
Must have been real satisfied with ya.” And then he’d winked at her. He’d
winked. Lord, she’d been mortified!

Her horse was tethered little more than three feet
away, next to the salina and she went to it, wrenching open the saddlebag, and
dropping her belongings into it.

“What is that?”

“What does it look like, McKenzie? It’s a horse,”
she said evenly, answering her own question without turning to face him. “A
mustang, to be precise.”

“I know what the damned thing is!” Cutter snapped.
“What I’d like to know is what you’re doing with it.”

As she turned to face Cutter, Elizabeth’s chin
rose determinedly. Her eyes flashed with defiance. “She’s mine, now.” Her gaze
returned to the mare, her feelings wavering on the brink of pride, and her tone
was softer when she spoke again. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Cutter came down the steps, skipping the last two
and touching down on both feet, scattering dust. Some of it settled on
Elizabeth’s skirt. She glanced down at it, her eyes narrowing.

“Hope you didn’t pay much. She’s nothing but a
sugar-eating Sunday horse. Aside from that, being a Cayuse, she’s probably as
contrary as they come.” He arched a dark brow at her. “Like someone else we
know.”

Since they had no common acquaintances besides his
sister, that narrowed the list down considerably.

Choosing to overlook the barb, Elizabeth
refastened the saddlebag and began to stroke the mare’s flanks. “I really don’t
think it’s any of your concern how much I paid for her, Mr. McKenzie!”

He was standing just over her shoulder now, and
though he hadn’t touched her, Elizabeth could feel the heat of his body.

Or was it
her imagination?

Her flesh prickled, and her heart picked up its
tempo, skipping erratically. More than anything, she wanted him to leave her in
peace... and yet her brain worked feverishly for a way to keep him with her.

How could she want both things at once—so
desperately?

“It is if I’m gonna be your guide, Miz Bowcock,”
he said softly, mocking her.

Elizabeth was certain this was as close to
offering his help as he would ever come again.

His breath was warm against the sensitive skin of
her neck and she had to fight the dizzying desire to lean back into his broad
chest. A shiver passed down her spine, but she covered it quickly, turning to
Cutter slowly, her emotions rioting.