Sagebrush Bride by Tanya Anne Crosby

flesh... but there it was, like feathers over stone.
    At
the moment her head was resting lightly in the crook of his right arm, and her
legs were dangling over his left thigh. He shook his head as he eyed her bulky
skirts, thinking that they were gonna be a pain in his ass. He’d swear she was
wearing a size three times larger than she needed. Her limbs were all but lost
in the folds. Resisting the urge to lift up the torn hem and see for himself,
he felt himself growing tense and knew it had nothing to do with her too big
clothing.
    She
looked peaceful lying there in his arms, but as the moments passed, there was
no peace for Cutter. He felt the blood humming through his veins, and the pulse
in his head, the beat of it ancient and haunting.
    Sometimes
he could see himself in his mind’s eye as a youth, his dark hair long and
braided, clad in buckskin britches and moccasins, standing under the moon and
listening to the night sounds; his mother’s wailing, his father’s drunken
bellows, his sister’s bare feet scampering into the dark woods in fear. And he
would once again feel the surging of his blood, hear the call of his spirit…
and seek his peace in his native blood.
    That
incredible feeling sometimes still overwhelmed him. It was something his sister
desperately resisted in herself. Comfort to her came in denying their mother’s
legacy; forgetting the language, along with everything else their mother
struggled so hard to instill in them. Their father had trained her too well.
    But
Cutter refused to forget.
    You always have to wear at least one tellin’
piece...
    As
he glanced down at the fringe of his jacket sleeve, his lips twisted cynically.
It was a reminder that no matter how firmly planted he seemed to be in the
white man’s world, there would always be that song in his soul—that
spirit he could no more deny than he could his next breath. It was as
inexpressible as the sound of a wolf’s lonesome howl at the moon—and
whether he liked it or not, it felt more right than anything could.
    As
right as it felt to crave the woman in his arms, to want to bury himself deep
inside her, feed his ruthless hunger, protect her.
    Squirming
in his lap, Elizabeth sighed groggily, lifting her head slightly. Her fingers curled
into the button front of his shirt, and his body reacted accordingly. He closed
his eyes, commanding control, but it was wrong thing to do, because in his mind
he saw her ripping off his shirt, popping his buttons, kissing his chest.
    He
saw himself letting go of the reins, cradling her head in his big hands,
lowering his lips to hers. Almost feverishly, he kissed her, lapping at the
flesh of her lips and neck, remembering the taste of her. In his fantasy, her
eyes opened to meet his. Throwing her head back like a pagan goddess, she
invited him without words. Eagerly he unbuttoned her shirt. His hand kneaded
softly at her flesh, then fell to cup one velvety breast.
    With
a groan, he imagined how it would look against his dark skin, soft white globes
illuminated by the pale light of the moon.
    “Sooo
dark,” she whispered, startling Cutter from his fantasy. It sounded almost a
child’s plaintive voice, and he shuddered, willing the images away. He knew she
was dreaming, because her eyes were still closed. But just in case, he slowed
the pace to a brisk walk, hoping to lull her back into a deeper slumber with a
slower gait.
    “Shhh,”
he murmured, his heart hammering—an after-effect of his overactive
imagination. “Everything’s fine,” he whispered hoarsely. He withdrew the ring
from his pocket and slipped it onto her finger. “You’re with me,” he said, and
as he spoke, he felt the truth of those words, and took in a satisfied breath,
feeling more content than he’d felt in a long time.
    This was meant to be.
    Right as rain.
    Elizabeth
snuggled against him, burying her face in the space between his arm and ribs.
He could feel the shape of her lips through his shirt, and the pounding