He laughed, then lost himself in a cavernous yawn. “I admit I haven’t actually met one,” he said, a few moments later, turning onto his side to face her. The expression in his green eyes was solemnly tender, or so it seemed to Caroline. The firelight could have been playing tricks. “We’ll be in Cheyenne in a couple of days.”
Caroline turned onto her back and looked up at the ceiling, where shadows played tag with fragments of light. “I guess you’ll be paying a call to Adabelle as soon as we arrive,” she said, trying to sound as though the idea didn’t matter.
Guthrie caught her chin gently in his hand and made her look at him. “Yes, Caroline,” he said. “I will be.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, Guthrie was regarding her steadily.
“I’m going to tell her we can’t be married,” he said.
Caroline was certain she’d only imagined his words. “What did you say?” she asked, her cheeks warming.
“I said I’m going to tell Adabelle the wedding’s off,” he answered gravely. Now he was looking at the ceiling, and that gave Caroline leave to watch his face.
“Why?” Her voice was soft, uncertain.
He withdrew one of his hands from behind his head and thoughtfully rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Because I’ve got to figure out what the hell it is I’m feeling for you before I go promising to spend the rest of my life with somebody else.”
Caroline had no answer for that. She was still afraid to tell Guthrie she loved him and, besides, if they didn’t find Mr. Flynn, she might spend the rest of her life in federal prison or even hang. She moved close to him, more by instinct than by willful choice, and laid her head on his shoulder.
He put an arm around her, combing her long, loose tresses with his fingers once or twice, then holding her against his side. “Caroline,” he breathed, as though the name embodied everything in the universe that was too mysterious for a mere man to comprehend. And then he closed his eyes.
When a long time had passed, and Caroline was sure Guthrie was asleep, she raised herself up on one elbow to look into his face. He really was remarkably handsome, in a rakish sort of way, and even in sleep his mouth had a look of mischievous amusement to it, as though he knew some funny secret and wasn’t about to tell.
Because the future was uncertain, and the past had been difficult in so many ways, for all the generosity and love of the Misses Maitland, Caroline allowed her mind to stray into a time that would probably never exist.
She imagined herself as Guthrie’s wife, living in a big house at the edge of Bolton, her stomach protruding with his baby. This wasn’t their first child, but the second—no, the third.
It was winter, and snow sprinkled the rosebushes Caroline had planted in spring and outlined the points of the picket fence in iridescent white. As she gazed out the window of her warm parlor, where a fire was blazing and an evergreen tree stood in the corner, resplendent with Christmas decorations, a carriage of the sort she had only read about drew up at the front gate.
The driver, wearing a top hat and an ulster, climbed gracefully down from the box and opened the door. A beautiful woman with coppery hair and dark blue eyes climbed out, with his help, followed by a graceful, brown-eyed blonde.
Her sisters! Caroline flung open the door without bothering to reach for her cloak. “Lily,” she cried, barely able to contain her joy. “Emma!”
But before the three sisters could embrace, the lovely image faded. Caroline felt Guthrie’s arm tighten around her briefly.
“You’ll find them,” he promised, in a quiet voice, and Caroline knew then that she’d said the names aloud.
“Please God,” she answered, and then she closed her eyes.
In the morning, Caroline sat up in bed, blinking, to see Guthrie standing in front of a small mirror affixed to the wall. His face was covered with lather, and he was singing a bawdy saloon song as he shaved.
“It’s about time you woke up, Wildcat,” he commented cheerfully, dipping the blade of his razor into a basin of water and scraping away another section of beard and lather.
Caroline scrambled out of bed and ferreted through her valise for her divided riding skirt and plain blouse. The garments were hopelessly rumpled, but they were still better than wearing those dratted trousers again. “I didn’t realize you were one of those people who feels cheerful in the morning,” she commented critically. “And keep your back turned, please.”
Guthrie chuckled and went right on shaving, while Caroline looked for a part of the room where she wouldn’t be visible in the mirror. There wasn’t one.
She turned her back and exchanged her nightgown for the riding skirt and blouse as modestly as she could. It seemed vitally important to keep the conversation away from the things that had been happening between them.
“Why do you suppose Mr. Flynn would go somewhere like Cheyenne, when Marshal Stone has probably already wired the marshal there to be on the lookout for him?”
“Why did he go to Laramie after robbing the stage?” Guthrie retorted. “Flynn likes taking chances. And, of course, there’s the obvious possibility that he’s hoping we’ll follow him so he can avenge himself.”
Caroline had to pause in the act of buttoning her blouse to shudder as she remembered Seaton’s threats. In the jailhouse, and later, when she’d happened upon him and Guthrie by the waterfall, Mr. Flynn had sworn he’d have her and pay her back for her supposed betrayal. “How did he know?” she wondered, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
Guthrie tossed the water from his basin out the window, refilled it from the pitcher on the washstand, and splashed his face thoroughly before replying. “It was natural to think we’d been intimate, given the fact that we’d been traveling alone together for days,” he said, holding a white damask towel in both hands. “Flynn may be a murdering son of a bitch, but he’s no fool.”
Caroline sighed, took her brush from her valise, and began to groom her hair. When she’d freed it of tangles, she braided it and wound it on top of her head in a coronet. Then, when Guthrie had left the room, she used the last water in the pitcher to wash and to brush her teeth.
Callie was serving a hearty breakfast of sausage patties, eggs, and fried potatoes when Caroline came out. Although she would normally have been hungry, that morning the mere smell of food was almost her undoing. She accepted a cup of coffee and went outside to drink it while Guthrie ate.
Tob, who had probably slept on the porch or out in the barn, since Callie disliked dogs, came whimpering and whining to meet her. Smiling, Caroline petted him, but her gaze was fixed on the mountains looming all around her, covered with pine and fir and birch trees, seeming to touch the sky.
She wondered if Callie and Homer stayed on here in the winter, when the snow was probably several feet deep and the stagecoaches couldn’t get through.
The barn door creaked and Homer appeared, a thin little man with a narrow face and a good-natured expression. “‘Mornin’, Mrs. Hayes,” he said. “You feelin’ poorly? Not many folks like to miss one of Callie’s meals.”
Caroline shook her head, even though she was a little queasy. There was absolutely no sense in troubling Homer with her maladies. “I’m fine,” she answered. “I had some venison pie last night, and it was the best I’ve ever tasted.”
Homer beamed at the compliment to his wife. “She’s got a way with food, my Callie.” He patted Tob idly. “You like to cook, missus?”
She thought of her well-equipped kitchen back in Bolton. Guthrie had certainly seemed to favor her fried chicken and pie. “Yes,” she answered. “When I get the opportunity, that is. Do you and Callie stay here all year around?”
To her surprise, the small man nodded. “We get snowed in, long about the end of October,” he said. “Sometimes we don’t see another soul all the way ’til the last of April.”
Before Caroline could make a comment on that, the door opened and Guthrie came out. He gave Homer a friendly nod and threw so
me scraps to Tob, who gobbled them up eagerly.
“Ready to leave?” he asked, and his voice was gentle.
Caroline knew he was probably wondering if she was pregnant or not, and she would have given just about anything to know whether he hoped she was or wasn’t. “Any time,” she answered.
Guthrie went back into the way station and came out a few minutes later with her valise. Homer entered the house, and Caroline walked to the barn with Guthrie.
“Callie and Homer are snowed in from October to April,” she marveled. “Sometimes they don’t see another human being in all that time.”
Pulling open the barn door, Guthrie shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind that, if I could have you and plenty of food and firewood.”
“You wouldn’t miss your poker games?”
“I could play poker with you,” Guthrie answered, opening a stall gate and giving a low whistle to his gelding. The animal nickered and came to him.
Caroline folded her arms. “I don’t know how to play.”
Guthrie grinned. “Fine. That means you’d lose a lot, and every time you did, I’d make you hand over some of your clothes.”
“You are reprehensible,” Caroline scolded, but there wasn’t much conviction behind the words and they both knew it.
Guthrie saddled the gelding, whistling through his teeth again, while Caroline led her mare out of its stall and stood patting its neck. Fifteen minutes later, they were riding through the woods again, avoiding the muddy stagecoach trail.
They climbed all morning, reaching a grassy meadow in the early afternoon. The grass was deep and richly green there, and dandelions, blue bells, daisies, wild violets, and tiger lilies encircled the clearing like a crown of flowers made of a princess’s head.
“Oh, Guthrie,” Caroline breathed, gazing around her in wonder as she slipped down off her horse’s back. “It’s so beautiful—to think all this splendor was sleeping under the snow!”
He led the horses to a little stream bubbling its way down from the top of the mountain, making a silver ribbon to compliment the wildflower crown. When he came back, he brought the inevitable jerky and a surprise—a slice of white cake wrapped in a piece of oilcloth.
Caroline was moved by this small treat, however crumbled and squashed it was. Her hands trembled a little as she reached out to accept it. “Thank you, Guthrie.”
He grinned, looking pleased. “Feeling better?”
She took a bite of the delicious cake, savoring the sweet white icing. “Much,” she answered.
Guthrie touched her lip and then laid his finger to his tongue. “Annie used to be sick in the mornings,” he said.
And Annie had been pregnant. Caroline felt sad all of the sudden. “You needn’t feel obligated if there’s a baby—”
“Obligated?” Guthrie frowned. “Of course I’d be obligated. A man doesn’t just walk away from a situation like this, Caroline.”
“My father did,” she said. “And so did Lily’s and Emma’s.”
Guthrie sighed, broke off a corner of the cake, and popped it into his mouth. “I’m not any of those men, Wildcat, and the sooner you get that straight in your mind, the better. I have my own set of rules, and one of them is that I take responsibility for what I do.”
She and the baby, if there was one, would be mere responsibilities to him, then. He’d look after them because it was the right thing to do, not because of any feeling so sentimental and silly as love.
“I hate you, Guthrie Haves,” Caroline muttered, turning away. She finished the cake in two bites and was thus mightily embarrassed when he turned her to face him and grinned because her cheeks were bulging out like a squirrel’s.
The grin turned to a chuckle, then an uproarious laugh.
Caroline chewed and swallowed hastily, her face red. “Don’t you dare laugh at me!” she shouted, spewing crumbs.
Guthrie dragged in a few breaths in an effort to compose himself, but his eyes were still dancing with amusement long after the laughter had stopped.
Irritated, Caroline approached a cluster of tiger lilies and picked one exotic orange blossom. After a few moments, she’d regained her temper, and was about to turn around and speak to Guthrie when she saw six mounted Indians lining the next ridge. They held spears in their hands and Caroline could see something that looked disturbingly like blood spread over their chests in some ritual design.
Swallowing, she stepped back, and her voice came out as a squeak. “Guthrie!”
He was right behind her; Caroline felt herself strike the solid wall of his chest. His hands came up to grip her upper arms, and his words and tone steadied her. “I see them, Wildcat,” he said evenly, his breath touching her ear as he spoke. “They’re Shoshone, probably a hunting party. And unless we give them reason, I don’t think they’ll bother us.”
Caroline had heard and read about the things that happened to women who were stolen by savages, and she was appropriately terrified. “What, exactly, would they consider a reason?”
Guthrie chuckled. “A couple of shots from my .45, or any sudden move.” He paused and gave that familiar low whistle through his teeth, and Caroline heard the jingle of bridle fittings as his horse trotted obediently toward him.
“Are we going to make a run for it?” Caroline whispered, still staring up at the Indians, who were staring back.
“No, Wildcat,” he answered easily. “I just want my rifle within reach, in case we need it.”
The most colorfully decorated of the red men gave an invisible signal to his painted pony, and the other Shoshone filed along behind.
Guthrie squeezed Caroline’s arms once, then pressed his .45 into her hand. “Whatever you do,” he told her, in the same pleasant tone he might have used to ask for punch at a garden party, “don’t panic, and don’t pull the trigger unless they attack.”
He stepped up beside Caroline as the riders came closer, the powerful rifle from his scabbard resting lightly in his hands, a companionable smile on his face. He greeted the visitors with a nod of his head and, while his manner was easy, Caroline could sense the restrained power in him. For the first time, she had an idea of what a formidable opponent this man could be.
The first Indian spoke in a tangle of words that was part Shoshone and part English and, to Caroline’s utter surprise, Guthrie answered in the same unintelligible tongue.
Caroline smiled at the visitors with a fierceness she usually reserved for the school board. “What is he saying?” she asked, through her teeth, when the conversation had gone on for some time.
“They want the dog,” Guthrie answered.
“The dog?” Caroline turned and looked into Guthrie’s face, certain he must be baiting her. All she’d read and heard had convinced her that she would either be scalped or carried off to some isolated camp to serve as a slave. “Why would they want Tob?”
Guthrie elbowed her and then went on chatting with the Shoshone. “I imagine they’d like to roast him for supper,” he replied, after more time had passed.
Caroline was horrified. “No!” she cried, kneeling down beside Tob and wrapping her arms around his furry neck. The .45 was still in her right hand, and pointed straight at Guthrie’s big toe.
“Caroline,” Guthrie said evenly, “if you shoot me in the foot, it isn’t going to do our cause a hell of a lot of good.”
Carefully, Caroline maneuvered the pistol so that Guthrie was no longer in imminent danger. “I will not allow them to cook this wonderful dog. Of all the barbaric ideas! Why, when I think of …”
Guthrie interrupted her tirade in a firm but still friendly tone of voice. “Shut up, Caroline.”
The Indians were talking animatedly among themselves now, and, finally, the ringleader looked straight at Caroline, then he glared at Guthrie, burst out with what was probably a profanity, and spat on the ground. In the next instant, the little band of hunters was riding rapidly back up the ridge.
Caroline rose slowly to her feet. “What happened? Why are they leavin
g?”
Guthrie sighed, shoved the rifle back into its scabbard, and snatched the .45 somewhat impatiently from Caroline’s hand. “Believe me, Wildcat, you wouldn’t have wanted them to stay for supper.”
She folded her arms. “I want to know what made them ride away, Guthrie.”
He holstered the .45 in an annoyed motion. “The gist of it was, they figured I had enough trouble, with a stubborn woman like you on my hands, and they decided not to add to it.”
Caroline opened her mouth, then closed it again. Guthrie hoisted her up into the saddle, and handed her the reins, “Will they be back?” she dared to ask, after a long time had passed, and the flowery meadow was far behind them.
“Probably not,” Guthrie answered, “unless they have bad luck hunting, of course. Tob might start looking pretty good to them if they don’t find a deer or two.”
“They would really eat him?” Caroline’s mouth filled with acid and, being too ladylike to spit, she swallowed.
“Fried, roasted, or boiled,” Guthrie answered, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the surrounding terrain for possible danger.
“You had quite a long conversation with them,” Caroline remarked. She wanted the reassuring sound of another human voice. “And I think you were talking about me.”
Guthrie grinned at her. “As a matter of fact, Wildcat, we were. I told them that while you looked pretty good on the outside, underneath those clothes you were covered with running sores. They have a horror of white man’s diseases, with good reason. When you put your arms around the dog, they probably figured he was contaminated.”
Caroline swallowed again. “That was a clever, if disgusting, tactic,” she conceded.
He touched the brim of his hat. “Thank you, ma’am,” he replied. “I was gambling that they wouldn’t put a spear through me and strip you to see for themselves.”
Another shudder rocked Caroline’s slender frame. “I suppose I should be grateful to you,” she said thoughtfully. “Some people would say you saved my life.”
CAROLINE AND THE RAIDER Page 22
