CAROLINE AND THE RAIDER

by Linda Lael Miller

  He had different ideas about the sequence of things, joining her in the tub sheltered on four sides by dirty canvas tarps. The moonlight shone down on him, emphasizing the majestic planes and hollows of his body.

  His mouth covered Caroline’s in a fierce kiss, and she put her arms around him, moving downward into the rapidly cooling water to kneel. Using her soap, he gently bathed every inch of her. Then, solemnly, he handed the bar to Caroline.

  She washed him in the same way, and when he was clean, she fell to kissing his slippery chest and hard belly. But then he stopped her, lifting her face back on a level with his for another consuming, desperate kiss. His eyes blazed with passion when he drew back from her.

  With a despairing groan, he gripped the sides of her still slender waist and hoisted her upwards. When he lowered her again, it was onto his shaft.

  The slow, fiery pleasure made Caroline thrust her head back, and Guthrie bent to take one of her nipples greedily into his mouth. He suckled, all the while lifting Caroline along his length, then lowering her again. The process continued until she was moaning and trying to increase the pace.

  Guthrie wouldn’t allow that; he held her to the slow rhythm that threatened to ignite into flames and consume her soul. When she pleaded, he began having her with such ferocious thrusts that water splashed over the sides of the tub.

  Caroline repeated Guthrie’s name like a litany and then she stiffened as her body went into a series of violent buckling motions in response to the unbearable pleasure. He covered her mouth with his own, swallowing her cries.

  When he came, she was brushing her nipple back and forth across his lips. He grabbed onto her with wild hunger and her flesh absorbed his moans as he surrendered without reserve.

  Chapter

  The townspeople of Laramie stared at the odd procession led by Caroline and Guthrie. Behind them rode Seaton Flynn and McDurvey, hands bound to their saddle horns, followed by the five dead men draped over their horses’ backs.

  Marshal Stone came out of his office to investigate the ruckus and strode forward when he saw the grim caravan.

  “So you did it,” he said, with a half smile, as he looked up at Guthrie. “I could use a man like you, if you can see yourself as a deputy.”

  Guthrie grinned easily and shook his head. “Thanks, but my plans are a little different.” With that, he dismounted and helped Caroline down. While she stood watching on the steps in front of the marshal’s office, Guthrie and John Stone dragged the live prisoners from their horses and took them inside.

  Caroline sagged against the rough board wall of the jailhouse when she heard the clang of the cell door slamming shut. It was over, she would go free now, and she and Guthrie could make a real life. He could work his mine again, and she’d go about making up to her guardians for the grief she’d put them through. And when the moment was right, they’d travel to Chicago and start a new search, this time for Lily and Emma.

  Guthrie came back out and took her gently by the arm. “Come on, Wildcat. You need some good food and some rest.” With that, he started leading her across the street, toward one of the hotels. Caroline didn’t pay attention to the name.

  “We can go back to Bolton now,” she said distractedly. Until a few minutes ago, she’d been able to keep her fatigue at bay. Now she felt exhausted.

  “That’s right,” Guthrie agreed, with a nod. “Seems like we’ll be able to build that house sooner than we thought, Mrs. Hayes. There were rewards posted for Flynn and McDurvey and for two of the others.”

  Caroline’s heart gave a weary little leap, but any other response was quite beyond her. She let Guthrie take charge and he arranged for a room, then led her upstairs, unlocked the door, and put her to bed as gently as he would a tired child. The last thing she remembered before nodding off to sleep was the warmth of his lips touching her forehead.

  When she awakened, hours later, Guthrie was sitting on the edge of the bed with a tray in his hands. Once she’d drawn herself up to lean against the headboard, pillows propped behind her back, he set the food in her lap and kissed her.

  “Have you been with the marshal all this time?” she asked, yawning. She was dressed only in her underthings.

  “Most of it,” Guthrie answered, going to stand at the window. “I wired Roy Loudon to let him know you’re all right, and I sent a similar message to the Maitland sisters in Bolton.”

  Caroline sensed something in his voice and manner and put down the fresh wheat roll she’d been slathering with butter. “Guthrie?”

  He grasped the window casings on either side of him and lowered his head. His raspy sigh seemed to fill the room. “Something’s happened,” he said. And then he turned to face Caroline with bleak eyes. “I wasn’t going to tell you until we were about to reach Bolton—Miss Phoebe died a week ago, and Miss Ethel was so grieved that she had a stroke.”

  The world seemed to stop turning, and a hum filled Caroline’s ears, dulling all other sounds. “How—it can’t be—I won’t believe it!”

  Guthrie came to Caroline’s bedside and gently moved the tray onto the night stand. Then he pulled her into his arms. “The Western Union operator in Bolton wired the news back after I sent my message that you were coming home.”

  Caroline’s shoulders rose and fell with the force of a tearing sob. “No—no! Oh, Guthrie, it’s all my fault—it’s because I worried them so much …”

  His hand was entangled in her sleep-tousled hair while his other arm held her within a steely circle. He kept her in his embrace, his lips occasionally touching her temple, until her sobs were spent. Then he settled her back against the pillows and reached for the bowl of vegetable-barley soup on the tray.

  She shook her head, but he lifted the spoon to her mouth anyway. “If you won’t think about yourself,” he said, “think about our baby.”

  Caroline took the soup, but for all her docility, she was frantic to leave for Bolton. She kept her composure only because she knew Guthrie would not permit her to make the trip until he was sure it wouldn’t be too much for her.

  That night, Guthrie didn’t make love to Caroline. He simply lay in the bed beside her, enfolding her in his arms. She slept fitfully, waking often from frightening dreams she couldn’t remember.

  In the morning, Guthrie brought a doctor to the room. Caroline was examined and then left to wonder what the findings were. One thing she knew; she hadn’t been comforted by the concerned look on the elderly man’s face.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she demanded, when Guthrie came in with a stack of dime novels from the general store.

  He set the thin, paperbound volumes in her lap. “Nothing, except that you’re cussed as hell,” her husband answered.

  Momentary panic overwhelmed Caroline. She’d seen so much blood, so much tragedy and death, since setting out on her quest to bring back Seaton Flynn. She pressed both hands to her belly. “I won’t lose my baby,” she vowed. “I won’t!”

  Guthrie drew up a chair and took her hand in his, running a calloused thumb over her knuckles. “That’s right, Wildcat. But the doctor thinks you need to spend a week or ten days in bed because of all you’ve been through, and I agree with him.”

  Caroline couldn’t risk miscarrying her child, but she was anxious to get back to Bolton. “Surely I’d be all right if I took the stagecoach …”

  Guthrie only shook his head. “You’re not ready for two or three days of bouncing up and down on a coach seat,” he said firmly, and Caroline knew that was the end of the discussion.

  In the coming ten days, while the July sun gleamed at the windows, Caroline played checkers with Guthrie, read, slept, and ate. When Guthrie wasn’t in the room, entertaining her or cajoling her to eat her vegetables, he was off doing business.

  Finally, late in the month, the doctor came back and pronounced Caroline well enough to travel. She put on a fresh dress—Jardena had sent her clothes from the ranch days before, by stagecoach—brushed and braided her hair, and had a late breakf
ast in the hotel dining room with Guthrie.

  At one that afternoon, the stage set out on the first leg of the trip to Bolton. Guthrie rode his gelding, but Caroline had Tob to keep her company inside the coach. Once she spotted Indians in the distance, but they offered no trouble.

  For three days, Caroline rode in various coaches. Each night, she and Guthrie shared a bed in another way station, and Caroline’s body ached for his attentions, but Guthrie didn’t touch her, except to kiss her good-night.

  By the time they reached Bolton, Caroline was convinced that Guthrie regretted marrying her. After all, she’d put him to a lot of trouble, and because of her, one innocent old woman was dead, while another barely held on to life. And because of the rewards, totalling up to a considerable sum between them, Guthrie could now go anywhere and do anything he wanted.

  When the stage rolled to a stop in front of the Bolton General Store, which doubled as a depot, however, Guthrie was there to help Caroline down. Her cheeks flared as she became aware of all the people stopping to look at her, and to point.

  She could well imagine the speculation that had taken place while she was away.

  She held her head high, though, and when Guthrie offered his arm, she took it gratefully. Caroline gazed straight ahead as she and her husband walked along the familiar streets to the house that had been her home ever since she’d first come to Wyoming at the age of eight.

  There was a black satin wreath hanging on the front door, and the shades were all drawn. The yard and the flower gardens, always Miss Ethel’s pride, were overrun with weeds and brown with the need of water.

  Guthrie opened the gate for Caroline, and she stepped through. When she took his arm again, her hold was tight.

  She didn’t pause at the front door but instead opened it and walked in. The inside of the house was neat as a pin—that would be the doing of the ladies’ aid society—but the place was dark and it needed airing out.

  “Shall I go upstairs with you?” Guthrie asked quietly, removing his hat and hanging it on the coat tree beside the door.

  Caroline swallowed and shook her head. She was the cause of all the grief and heartache in this house, and she would face her responsibility squarely—and alone.

  Just as she started up the stairs, she saw the pastor’s wife, Mrs. Penn, start down.

  “Caroline!” the middle-aged woman said, and her tone conveyed the fact that she wouldn’t have been more surprised to see Mary Todd Lincoln. She was slender, with gray hair, and she laid splayed fingers to the bosom of her prim brown dress.

  Caroline inclined her head slightly. “How is Miss Ethel?” she asked, advancing up the stairs.

  For a moment, it looked as though Mrs. Penn would try to block her progress. Her narrow face was a study in disapproval. “It’s good to know you’re concerned,” she said.

  Caroline had neither the inclination nor the patience to explain her long absence. She stepped past the woman and proceeded to Miss Ethel’s room, which was at the back of the house, overlooking the garden.

  The old lady lay with pillows behind her back, and her eyes looked sightless and glazed. One side of her face seemed to droop well below the other, and spittle gathered at the corner of her mouth.

  Caroline found one of Miss Ethel’s precious handkerchiefs, kept in a drawer with a lavender sachet, and gently wiped the old woman’s mouth. Then she kissed her lightly on the forehead and sat down in a delicate chair upholstered in rose velvet.

  “It’s me, Miss Ethel,” she whispered, in a low, miserable voice, taking the fragile, weightless hand. “Caroline. I’m back, and I’m safe. And I’m so sorry that I made you worry.”

  Miss Ethel made no sound, but her fingers fluttered slightly against Caroline’s palm.

  A sob tore itself from Caroline’s throat. She pressed Miss Ethel’s hand to her forehead and wept for all that would never be again. Presently, she fell silent, though deep inside she was still shrieking with grief. She brushed Miss Ethel’s wispy gray hair and changed her bedjacket and read to her from a volume of poetry she found on the bedside stand.

  The book was well thumbed, for Miss Ethel had loved the musical words it contained, and read them often. When Caroline closed the volume and prepared to leave the room, she saw a tear on the wrinkled cheek.

  Miss Ethel’s lips tried to form sound. “Car—Car—” she said.

  “I’m here,” Caroline said, her own eyes wet again.

  “Li-leeee,” Miss Ethel managed, with an agony of effort. “Li-leeee—”

  Caroline dried her face with the back of one hand. It sounded as though Miss Ethel might be trying to say Lily, and just the idea made her heart catch and then stumble over a half dozen beats. “Lily?” she whispered.

  But Miss Ethel was worn out by her struggle; she sank back into utter oblivion, staring blindly up at the ceiling.

  Caroline tucked Miss Ethel’s blankets in carefully, then hurried out of the room and down the rear stairs. Guthrie was waiting in the kitchen, drinking coffee from a china cup that looked ridiculously small and fussy in his hand.

  “How is she?” he asked, setting aside the cup to lay his hands on either side of Caroline’s expanding waist.

  “I think she’ll die soon,” Caroline answered dismally, and the words were out before she even knew she’d planned to say them.

  Guthrie drew her close against him. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.

  “I’ve got to go and visit Miss Phoebe’s grave before it gets dark,” Caroline said, pulling away. Her brown eyes searched his face, looking for the recrimination she was sure he must feel. “She said Lily’s name,”

  His eyes brightened. “Your sister?”

  “I think so,” Caroline muttered. “I hope so.” She left Guthrie and took a shawl from the peg beside the back door to wrap around her shoulders. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  Caroline needed to confront her grief and guilt alone, even though she loved Guthrie Hayes with her whole heart. “No,” she answered softly, and then she went out.

  Miss Phoebe was buried in the Presbyterian churchyard across the street, and a small maple tree had been planted nearby, to cast pleasant shade on her resting place.

  Caroline read the stone with dry, swollen eyes.

  Phoebe Elliott Maitland

  Beloved Sister

  Born April 5, 1800

  Died June 30, 1878

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, in a hoarse and broken voice.

  It was then that Pastor Penn appeared. He came out of a side door, looking official in his frayed but immaculate suit. His white hair glistened in the fading sunshine.

  “Hello, Caroline,” he said in a gentle voice, coming to stand on the opposite side of the grave.

  Caroline swallowed. “What happened to her?”

  Pastor Penn sighed. “It was her heart. It just gave out one day.”

  “Because of me. She was upset because of me.”

  “Your disappearance did trouble her, of course,” the minister admitted. “But Miss Phoebe had problems with her heart for years. You must have known that.”

  Caroline had known, but it was something she’d always preferred not to think about. “Didn’t they receive my letters?”

  “There was one wire, I believe, but both Miss Ethel and Miss Phoebe thought you’d been coerced into sending it, or that someone had sent it for you.”

  Caroline gathered the shawl around her, feeling chilly despite the heat of the summer evening. “Miss Ethel mentioned my sister, Lily. Do you know anything about that?”

  The pastor was agape. “Miss Ethel spoke?”

  “She tried.”

  Penn recovered himself. “Miss Ethel did tell me that a young woman named Mrs. Halliday had stopped in one day, looking for you. But soon after that, Miss Phoebe suffered her fatal illness, and Miss Ethel’s stroke came only a short time later.”

  Lily had been right there in Bolton, Caroline was sure of it.
Lily, all grown up and calling herself Mrs. Halliday. She wondered what kind of man Mr. Halliday would turn out to be.

  She lingered a while longer, then went back to the house.

  Guthrie was in the kitchen, lifting the lid from a pot of chicken and dumplings on the stove. Caroline dished up a bowlful, took it upstairs, and fed Miss Ethel. When she came down again, Guthrie was gone.

  She ate sparingly of the chicken dish, then went up to her old room.

  It was the first time she’d entered it since her return. The room seemed like a very different place now, smaller somehow. She opened the wardrobe and the drawers, touching the clothes she’d left behind, and spent a good five minutes gazing at the framed drawing of Lily and Emma that stood on her dresser.

  “Lily Halliday,” she said out loud, smiling a little. “And what about you, Emma? Who did you marry? Are you looking for me, too?”

  Presently, Caroline took a cotton nightgown from her bureau drawer, and a wrapper from the wardrobe. Then she went downstairs to take a long, luxurious bath in the famous Maitland tub. Miss Phoebe and Miss Ethel had been the first in Bolton to own such a modern contraption.

  Caroline was in the kitchen, heating milk at the stove, when Guthrie came in the back door. He’d obviously bathed and changed clothes himself, and he’d had a shave, too, and gotten himself barbered.

  Somewhat surprised to see him, Caroline stared. “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes moved over her thin nightgown. “Looking for my wife,” he answered. “Have you seen her?”

  Caroline couldn’t help smiling, and deep in her heart a little flame of joy flickered because he hadn’t washed his hands of her and walked away without looking back. “She’s standing right here.”

  Guthrie came and took her into his arms, holding her close. “I’ve been afraid to touch you, Caroline,” he confided in gruff tones.

  She straightened his collar, even though it didn’t need straightening. “Why?”

  “Because of the baby. You’ve been through so much in the last few months …”