They mounted their horses and rode on in silence, not speaking until they came to the top of a canyon and looked down on a small log cabin nestled among pine, fir, and birch trees, smoke curling from its chimney. There was a barn, and a well, and the beginnings of a vegetable garden, carefully fenced off with chicken wire. Sheep and cattle grazed together in a grassy meadow nearby.
Outside of the cabin, two saddled horses stood patiently in the sunshine, a paint and a sorrel. It all seemed very innocent, and Caroline was looking forward to a chat with someone besides Guthrie, but when she would have ridden down the hill, he reached out and caught hold of her horse’s bridle, stopping her.
“Quiet,” he ordered, and even Tob, who normally would have been barking, was silent.
The sound of raucous laughter drifted up the dandelion-scattered slope, and Caroline frowned as she realized the cabin door was open. That was odd, since most women didn’t like to let the flies in. And there was a woman living in that cabin; Caroline could see her bloomers and petticoats drying on the clothes line.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered.
Guthrie shook his head. “I don’t know. But something isn’t right.”
No sooner had he said the words when a woman screamed and two shots were fired inside the cabin. The paint and the sorrel nickered and tossed their heads, frightened by the noise.
Caroline drew in her breath and raised one hand to her throat in an agony of suspense.
Guthrie pulled the rifle deftly from his scabbard and cocked it. Without even looking at Caroline, he commanded, “Stay here.”
Caroline was frozen in the saddle, watching as Guthrie rode rapidly down the hill. There was more loud masculine laughter from inside the cabin, and the woman screamed again.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Caroline prayed. Dear God, help that poor woman. And please, don’t let Guthrie be hurt.
Before his horse had even come to a complete stop, Guthrie was dismounting. He ran through the tall grass toward the cabin, the rifle gripped in both hands.
Reaching the door, he kicked it the rest of the way open with the heel of one boot.
Immediately, a shot was fired from inside, and Caroline watched in horror as Guthrie stumbled backwards. He’d been hit!
Warnings be damned, Caroline was already on her way down the hill when Guthrie got back to his feet, aimed the rifle through the cabin doorway, and fired twice. The outlaws’ nervous horses bolted and ran.
She hit the ground running or, more properly, stumbling, her braid flying behind her. “Guthrie!” she screamed. Now that she was nearer, she could see the bloodstain spreading to encompass the whole front of his shirt.
“Damn it,” he rasped, “stay back!”
Caroline ignored him entirely, and when he stepped cautiously inside the cabin, she was right behind him.
Two men lay dead on the bare wood floor, while a blond woman of about Caroline’s age crouched in the corner by the fireplace. The front of her simple calico dress was torn, and she looked at Guthrie with huge, hollow eyes.
Caroline stepped over the dead outlaws to go to the woman and kneel beside her. “It’s all right now,” she said gently, putting her arm around the quivering, slender shoulders. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
Guthrie had set the rifle aside. Gripping his wounded shoulder with one hand, he looked down at the men he’d killed with an expression Caroline couldn’t read. She knew well enough that it wasn’t the first time he’d taken another human life.
She patted the silent woman’s hand and stood. “Let me have a look at that wound,” she said to Guthrie.
He stared at her in a strangely disoriented way for a few moments, as though he didn’t recognize her, and then wavered slightly on his feet. Caroline hurried forward and gripped him by the shoulders, and her hands were stained with his blood.
He pushed her away distractedly, grasped one of the corpses by the shirt collar, and dragged it outside. Not until he’d done the same with the other body did he stagger back into the cabin. He was deathly pale now, and Caroline feared he’d already lost too much blood to survive.
She pulled back a chair from the oak table in the center of the cabin and pressed him into it. Biting her lower lip, she unbuttoned his shin and laid it aside.
The sight of his torn flesh made her sway slightly and sent vomit rushing into the back of her throat. Caroline swallowed hard and closed her eyes for a moment, praying for strength. Then, determinedly, she turned to the woman, who had risen from her place in the corner and pressed both hands to her mouth.
Caroline knew just by looking at the woman that she was screaming silently, but she couldn’t take the time to offer comfort now. Guthrie was bleeding to death.
“I need hot water,” Caroline said to her hostess, speaking in a firm and even voice. She forced her attention back to the wound. “Whiskey, too, if you’ve got it, and a good, sharp knife. And some clean cloth for bandages.”
Woodenly, the woman picked up an old metal bucket and walked outside.
Caroline bent to look into Guthrie’s eyes, her hands resting on either side of his face. He was only half conscious, and she was sure he didn’t know her. “You hold on, Guthrie Hayes,” she ordered, fighting back tears of frustration and fear. “Don’t you dare go and die now. If you do, I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison and Mr. Flynn will get away scot-free!”
He smiled stupidly, though Caroline was sure he hadn’t the first idea what she’d said, and she kissed him soundly on the forehead before straightening again and beginning to look around the cabin for the things she needed. She couldn’t depend on the lady of the house; the poor woman was on the verge of collapse.
But she returned with the bucket, set a large kettle on the stove, and poured water into it. Then she opened the fire door and shoved in more wood. “My name’s Penny Everett,” she said. Her voice had a peculiar, singsong quality to it.
“I’m Caroline Chalmers,” Caroline answered distractedly. She’d found a clean dish towel and was doing her best to stanch the flow of Guthrie’s blood. “And this is my—friend, Mr. Hayes.”
Once the water was heating on the stove, Penny brought out a paring knife and sharpened it against a whetstone.
“Don’t let him fall,” Caroline said moments later, and while Penny held Guthrie in the chair, she went outside to get her valise. Once the water was hot, she used her soap to scrub her hands, then lit the kerosene lamp in the center of the table and held the blade in the flame. “I’ll need a needle and thread, too,” she continued, pulling the lamp close and bending down to probe the wound with a cautious finger.
Guthrie flinched at that, and Caroline’s eyes filled with tears. She instantly blinked them back, but inside she was still weeping.
The process was long, arduous, and bloody, but Caroline finally found the bullet and maneuvered it to the surface. Once she’d done that, she poured whiskey onto another clean dish towel and pressed the cloth to the injury as a compress.
Penny, who looked as though she was about to topple to the floor in a swoon, had already laid out the needle and a spool of white thread. She watched, gripping the back of a chair, while Caroline held the needle in the lamp flame, the way she’d done with the knife, then threaded it with crimson fingers.
Carefully, she began to close the wound, and every time the needle bit into Guthrie’s flesh, she felt it herself. Each low moan he gave tore at her like an animal’s teeth.
When she’d finished the gruesome task, Penny had a basinful of hot water ready for her. Gratefully, Caroline washed her hands and forearms until they were white again. Then she washed Guthrie’s shoulder, doused it with whiskey and prayers, and bandaged him with strips torn from a sheet.
Together, Caroline and Penny moved him onto the one bed the cabin boasted. While Caroline smoothed his hair back and whispered words of comfort, Penny dragged his boots from his feet and covered him with a colorful quilt from the cedar chest in the far corner of the room.
There was coffee brewing and, while Penny scoured the table, Caroline went outside to drag in breaths of fresh air.
Instead, she caught sight of the two dead outlaws, lying neatly side by side on the ground, their bodies covered with their own blood and probably some of Guthrie’s. Feeling sick, she went back inside and not only closed the door but latched it.
“What happened?” she asked, collapsing into a chair at the table and reaching for her coffee with one hand and the whiskey bottle with the other.
Penny joined her, adding a generous dollop of whiskey to her own coffee, along with plenty of sugar. “My husband’s away, helping a neighbor of ours put up a new barn. Th-those two men showed up about an hour after he left this morning. Said they just wanted to water their horses.” She paused, drew a quivering breath, and let it out again. “They did that, all right Then they kicked open the cabin door and—and came after me.”
Caroline reached out and closed her hand over Penny’s, silently encouraging her to go on when she was ready.
“They pushed me down on the table and held me there,” Bright tears filled Penny’s eyes. “And—and they pulled up my skirts.”
Caroline gave Penny’s hand a squeeze.
Penny began to sob, apparently oblivious to the torn bodice of her dress. “They touched me all over. One of them put—did something awful. I was so scared, I thought I’d die of it. Then your friend came and there was shooting—”
“It’s all right, Penny. It’s over now.”
“It isn’t all right!” the young woman cried bitterly. “My William won’t want me now!” She bounded out of her chair, hugging herself, her eyes wild with remembered revulsion and terror. “A bath! I’ve got to have a hot, hot bath!”
Caroline rose wearily, put an arm around Penny, and eased her back into her chair. “You just sit right there and drink your coffee.” She paused to add another slug of whiskey to Penny’s mug. “I’ll get the water for your bath.”
She carried in buckets of water to heat on the stove in every pot and pan Penny owned and, finally, the woman was able to slip into a round washtub next to the fire and begin to wash.
“You must be hungry,” Penny said. Caroline didn’t have to look at her to know she was practically scrubbing off the top layer of her skin, trying to wash away the feeling of those men’s hands touching her.
The last thing Caroline wanted was food, and Guthrie certainly was in no condition to take nourishment, but Tob was probably ravenous, not to mention confused and frightened. “Is there something I could give my dog?” she asked.
“There’s what’s left from last night’s stew in the warming oven,” Penny answered. “I kept it to have for my midday meal today, but I imagine it’s about to go bad by now.”
Caroline took the cast-iron kettle from the warming oven with potholders to protect her hands and carried it outside. Tob met her immediately, whining and wagging his tail.
Touched, Caroline sat on the step while the dog ate, petting his head and silky back. She was startled to see that it was getting dark out; she’d been too busy with Guthrie’s wound to notice the passing of time. She just hoped she’d done everything right.
One thing was for sure: Guthrie wasn’t out of danger. She’d cleaned the wound, removed the bullet, and stitched up the gaping hole it had left, but there had surely been damage to his muscles, and infection could still set in. Or the bleeding could start up again.
Caroline patted the dog and went back inside. By that time, Penny was dressing modestly in the shadows by the stove, while Guthrie lay fitfully on the bed, his body drenched in sweat.
Although she was exhausted and barely able to function, Caroline nonetheless carried and heated more water. Then she stripped Guthrie of every garment, knelt beside the bed, and gently bathed him. He seemed more settled when she’d finished, and she covered him carefully and kissed his forehead.
When she turned around, Penny was scrubbing the table again, this time with a brush and soapy water. Her expression was grim, her jawline set with determination, and Caroline’s heart went out to her.
“Penny,” she said softly. “You need to rest.”
Only then did Caroline realize that there was only one bed, and her face must have clearly reflected her thoughts.
“Don’t worry,” Penny told her, still scouring. “I can put the chairs together for a bed, and William won’t mind sleeping in the barn, given the circumstances. You could lie down with your friend.”
Caroline went to Penny and stopped her incessant cleaning by gripping her forearm. “You can’t wash away what happened,” she said quietly. “You’ve got to accept it and go on.”
Penny’s eyes filled with tears, but her fingers relaxed and she let go of the scrub brush. “I’ve got two babies buried up on the hillside, and there aren’t going to be any more. Those awful men came into my house and—and touched me. You tell me, just how much is one woman supposed to accept?”
Gently, Caroline put her arms around Penny and held her close. Since there was nothing to say, she was silent.
“Shouldn’t your husband be coming home soon?” Caroline asked, later, as she and Penny set the table by lamplight for a simple meal of fried eggs and toasted bread. Guthrie was resting, though his flesh had a hot, dry feel to it.
Penny looked away. “I reckon he’ll be here any minute,” she said. “I don’t know what he’ll say when he sees those bodies lying outside.”
The two women sat down to eat, though Penny didn’t seem to have much of an appetite. She kept watching the door, and at every sound she started. Caroline began to wonder just what sort of a man William Everett would turn out to be.
They finished supper and Penny went out to tend to Caroline and Guthrie’s horses and do the other evening chores while Caroline washed the dishes and kept her vigil beside Guthrie.
When he opened his eyes, she felt a surge of hope, and when he clasped her hand, she was jubilant. But the name he whispered wasn’t Caroline’s.
“Annie,” he said, and then he lapsed into unconsciousness again.
Chapter
In the morning, Guthrie was still unconscious and his flesh was hot as a stove lid. Caroline bathed his face with cool water while Penny dismantled the bed she’d made by putting three chairs in a row and dressed for the day.
“I can’t imagine where my William is,” she fretted, going to the cabin’s single window and peering out past the gingham curtains. “He promised he’d be back by last night.”
Caroline thought of Seaton Flynn, out there on the loose somewhere, and hid a shudder. “I’m sure the work on your friend’s barn just took longer than expected,” she said.
Penny’s eyes were grave when she turned away from the window. “We’ve got to do something about those bodies,” she said. “We can’t leave them lying out there.”
The reminder of the two corpses killed what little appetite Caroline had had in the first place. Now she didn’t suppose she’d even want coffee. “Where can I find a shovel?”
Penny told her, and Caroline’s eyes strayed to Guthrie. She didn’t want to leave him, especially for the grim task of digging graves, but something had to be done.
“You call me if he wakes up or seems to be getting worse,” Caroline instructed Penny, then she went out to the barn to find the tool cabinet that had been described to her.
Tob joined her with a joyful yip the moment she emerged from the cabin and followed her to the barn. There she found the shovel and a large canvas tarp that was probably used to cover hay.
She draped the bodies with the tarp, then went in search of a suitable burial place. She picked a grassy meadow well away from the house so Penny wouldn’t be confronted with a constant reminder of her ordeal, and began to dig.
The work was hard, and the shovel handle wore away layers of flesh on the insides of Caroline’s hands, but she was determined to finish the task. She’d dug about three feet of dirt out of the first grave when Tob barked, al
erting her to the approach of a rider.
Caroline climbed out of the hole and balanced the shovel against the side of a tree. Then, dusting her hands together in a hopeless effort to get them clean, she hurried toward the cabin.
Penny burst through the cabin door and flung herself into the man’s arms the moment he dismounted, and Caroline smiled. William was home.
Her smile fell away when she saw him draw his pistol. Guthrie was in the doorway, wearing just his trousers, leaning against the jamb. His skin was gray with exertion, but his hand was steady where it gripped the .45.
“No!” Caroline and Penny cried in unison.
“I’d be dead if it weren’t for these people, William,” Penny pressed, while Caroline ran to Guthrie.
She was alarmed by the look in his eyes; he was like a walking dead man, with no expression and no emotion. There were no thoughts behind his actions, they were pure reflex.
“Guthrie,” she whispered, slipping under his arm to lend support. “It’s all right. This is Penny’s husband.”
Slowly, Guthrie lowered the gun, and Caroline took it carefully from his hand.
William, a tall man with rich brown hair and eyes of the same color, lifted the edge of the tarp and grimaced when he saw the bodies beneath. Then, seeing Guthrie’s knees buckle, he hurried over to help Caroline get him back inside and onto the bed.
“What the hell happened here?” he asked, looking curiously at his wife.
Caroline set Guthrie’s gun gingerly on the table and averted her eyes. Penny needed privacy to explain the events of the previous day to her husband, but Caroline wasn’t willing to leave Guthrie again. There were signs of infection in his wound, and he was out of his head with fever.
CAROLINE AND THE RAIDER Page 24
