in his
chest intensified.
“Mmm,”
she said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips, and Cutter found himself
wondering with a scowl who she thought she was with.
“Too
dark,” she whimpered. “Please...”
Almost
tenderly, as he would with a child, he smoothed the hair from her face. “Please
what?”
She
moaned something unintelligible, then whimpered again, the sound mournful. It
twisted his gut.
He
shook her, though not enough to wake her, just enough to prod her into speaking
again, wanting to be sure she was all right. “Lizbeth?”
“Hum—to—me...”
Hum?
Cutter
furrowed his brow. She wanted him to hum? Shaking his head in puzzlement, he
shrugged, thinking that anything that kept her quiet was worth a try. She
settled back against him, as though she’d somehow felt that affirmative gesture
in her sleep. And for the first time in years, Cutter put sound to the melody
he’d first heard from his mother’s lips as a toddler. As he hummed, he looked
down every little while to verify she was still asleep.
Jo
had warned him she would be mad.
Just
how mad would she be?
With
a smile, he decided that he rather liked the brightness of her eyes when she
was angry and he couldn’t wait to see her expression when she awoke.
He
continued to hum softly, remembering and interjecting Cheyenne words, a phrase
here, a phrase there, and Elizabeth was soon completely subdued by the vibrations
that came from deep within his chest.
As
absorbed as Cutter was with his thoughts of the woman lying loosely over his
lap, he never anticipated the jab of her elbow to his crotch. It had been a
halfhearted movement, with little enough strength behind it, but it impacted
just right...
Or
just wrong.
For
the briefest second his jaw dropped, as though he couldn’t quite believe what
she’d done, then snapped shut, jarring his teeth into his skull. Resisting the
urge to jump from the saddle, he clenched his jaw over the pain that shot
through his jewels, and he barely heard her grumbled words.
“Shcoot
over... not ’nough room.”
Oblivious
to the pain she’d caused him, and without waiting to see that he shcooted , she sighed in her sleep,
wiggling to make herself more comfortable.
Crushing
the urge to howl out in agony, somehow Cutter managed to hold on to the reins
as he seized her arm and gently lifted her off his belongings. Even the
slightest movement worsened his predicament. Holding his breath against the
pain, he managed to lift himself somewhat in the stirrups and hunker over,
desperately seeking a tolerable position.
Couldn’t
wake her—damn, damn, couldn’t wake her—couldn’t throw her either!
His
hands were otherwise occupied, or he would have shielded himself at once. Were
Elizabeth not on the horse, he’d have reined in and hurled himself into the
ground—praying for a swift death.
Hell,
if the blasted woman hadn’t been in his lap to begin with, he wouldn’t have
this friggin’ crisis to deal with!
Sweat
beaded his brow, his palms turning clammy as he held Elizabeth steady so she
wouldn’t slip. Just before he turned blue from lack of oxygen, he blew out a
breath, gulping in the sweet night air.
Unable
to hold his position any longer, he sat again, white-faced, clenching his thigh
muscles against the loping movement of his Palouse. And with arms that felt
suddenly sapped of strength, he managed to shift Elizabeth so that she was
sitting astride, the back of her head nestling cozily against his chest.
Incredibly,
she slept on, oblivious to his crisis. In spite of the jerky maneuvers it had
taken to sit her upright. In spite of the knuckle-whitening pain that lingered
in his rocks.
Damn,
but it’d be a good idea to get her her own mount as soon as possible.
Every
bump and bounce served to urge Elizabeth toward a wretched state of
wakefulness.
She
didn’t want to wake up. Deep down, something warned her against it. She prayed
for mercy, but the movement continued, rocking her,
chest intensified.
“Mmm,”
she said, a ghost of a smile touching her lips, and Cutter found himself
wondering with a scowl who she thought she was with.
“Too
dark,” she whimpered. “Please...”
Almost
tenderly, as he would with a child, he smoothed the hair from her face. “Please
what?”
She
moaned something unintelligible, then whimpered again, the sound mournful. It
twisted his gut.
He
shook her, though not enough to wake her, just enough to prod her into speaking
again, wanting to be sure she was all right. “Lizbeth?”
“Hum—to—me...”
Hum?
Cutter
furrowed his brow. She wanted him to hum? Shaking his head in puzzlement, he
shrugged, thinking that anything that kept her quiet was worth a try. She
settled back against him, as though she’d somehow felt that affirmative gesture
in her sleep. And for the first time in years, Cutter put sound to the melody
he’d first heard from his mother’s lips as a toddler. As he hummed, he looked
down every little while to verify she was still asleep.
Jo
had warned him she would be mad.
Just
how mad would she be?
With
a smile, he decided that he rather liked the brightness of her eyes when she
was angry and he couldn’t wait to see her expression when she awoke.
He
continued to hum softly, remembering and interjecting Cheyenne words, a phrase
here, a phrase there, and Elizabeth was soon completely subdued by the vibrations
that came from deep within his chest.
As
absorbed as Cutter was with his thoughts of the woman lying loosely over his
lap, he never anticipated the jab of her elbow to his crotch. It had been a
halfhearted movement, with little enough strength behind it, but it impacted
just right...
Or
just wrong.
For
the briefest second his jaw dropped, as though he couldn’t quite believe what
she’d done, then snapped shut, jarring his teeth into his skull. Resisting the
urge to jump from the saddle, he clenched his jaw over the pain that shot
through his jewels, and he barely heard her grumbled words.
“Shcoot
over... not ’nough room.”
Oblivious
to the pain she’d caused him, and without waiting to see that he shcooted , she sighed in her sleep,
wiggling to make herself more comfortable.
Crushing
the urge to howl out in agony, somehow Cutter managed to hold on to the reins
as he seized her arm and gently lifted her off his belongings. Even the
slightest movement worsened his predicament. Holding his breath against the
pain, he managed to lift himself somewhat in the stirrups and hunker over,
desperately seeking a tolerable position.
Couldn’t
wake her—damn, damn, couldn’t wake her—couldn’t throw her either!
His
hands were otherwise occupied, or he would have shielded himself at once. Were
Elizabeth not on the horse, he’d have reined in and hurled himself into the
ground—praying for a swift death.
Hell,
if the blasted woman hadn’t been in his lap to begin with, he wouldn’t have
this friggin’ crisis to deal with!
Sweat
beaded his brow, his palms turning clammy as he held Elizabeth steady so she
wouldn’t slip. Just before he turned blue from lack of oxygen, he blew out a
breath, gulping in the sweet night air.
Unable
to hold his position any longer, he sat again, white-faced, clenching his thigh
muscles against the loping movement of his Palouse. And with arms that felt
suddenly sapped of strength, he managed to shift Elizabeth so that she was
sitting astride, the back of her head nestling cozily against his chest.
Incredibly,
she slept on, oblivious to his crisis. In spite of the jerky maneuvers it had
taken to sit her upright. In spite of the knuckle-whitening pain that lingered
in his rocks.
Damn,
but it’d be a good idea to get her her own mount as soon as possible.
Every
bump and bounce served to urge Elizabeth toward a wretched state of
wakefulness.
She
didn’t want to wake up. Deep down, something warned her against it. She prayed
for mercy, but the movement continued, rocking her,
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