Guthrie sensed her quandary, it seemed, for he smiled down at her and immediately whisked her into the lively swirl of dancers. Tonight, Caroline thought, looking up at him in amazement, she could almost believe it was a contrary ex-Confederate she loved, and not Seaton Flynn. She wondered if Guthrie had learned to dance in the planter’s big house, the way he’d learned his reading, writing, and arithmetic. Or had a woman taught him—the mysterious Annie for instance?
They danced until Caroline was breathless, and then they danced some more. Guthrie seemed unaware of the other women stuffed into the schoolhouse, hoping to catch his eye, and he left Caroline’s side only to fetch a glass of punch for her when the amateur musicians went outside for a smoke and a few nips from their flasks.
“Is that the drifter who struck copper up in the hills?” Hypatia demanded, appearing the instant Caroline was alone. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, and she kept patting her field mouse hair with a hand that trembled slightly.
“His name is Guthrie Hayes,” Caroline said, feeling flushed and, for the first time since before Seaton’s arrest, happy. “And he’s not a drifter.” She told herself she was standing up for Guthrie because she wanted people to believe she cared for him, so they wouldn’t guess who was behind the upcoming jailbreak.
Hypatia was fanning herself with her dance book. “We all know,” she simpered, “what a sterling recommendation means, coming from you.”
Caroline’s blood heated. Hypatia was referring to her staunch support for Mr. Flynn, of course. Like the rest of the town, Hypatia believed Caroline’s loyalty was misplaced. But before she could think of a suitably scathing response, Guthrie returned with a cup of punch.
His green eyes seemed to devour Caroline, while dancing with mischief at the same time, and his lips curved in that sideways grin that always made her feel a little dizzy.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayes,” she said, as grateful for the interruption as she was for the punch.
Hypatia hovered, waiting for an introduction, and Caroline took a leisurely sip of the fruity drink before saying, “Miss Furvis, may I present my friend, Mr. Guthrie Hayes? Mr. Hayes, Miss Hypatia Furvis.”
While Guthrie inclined his head to Hypatia, he hardly seemed aware of her presence. She finally skulked away.
“She wanted you to ask her to dance,” Caroline said.
Guthrie took her arm and squired her toward the door. On the steps, men were tipping back flasks and laughing, but they stepped aside to make way, falling silent as the couple passed.
He led her to the playground, and Caroline settled into a swing, still sipping from her punch. Guthrie took a cheroot from his pocket, lit it, and leaned against the framework that supported the swings, watching her.
She knew the moonlight glowed on the rounded tops of her breasts, but Caroline made no effort to hide herself as she normally would have. She decided she was under some kind of spell.
“Do they throw these shindigs often?” Guthrie asked. His voice sounded a little gruff, but Caroline attributed that to the nasty habit of smoking cheroots.
Inside, the fiddlers began to play again, and most of the people who were outside wandered in. “Once a month or so,” Caroline answered with a shrug. She was remembering the kiss she and Guthrie had shared in the shadow of the maple tree, and the way it had felt to brush against him when they danced.
He drew on the cheroot and looked very deliberate as he exhaled the smoke. “I’ll be leaving for Laramie tomorrow,” he said. “I want you to tell me everything you can remember about the circumstances of the stagecoach robbery.”
Just then, two little girls came running down the schoolhouse steps, giggling and squealing. Behind them was a boy, holding what looked like a frog. All three of the children were Caroline’s students.
“Maggie,” she said.
One of the girls stopped as she passed and looked at her with big eyes. The child wore an enormous satin bow at the back of her head, blue to match her party dress. “Yes, Miss Chalmers?”
Caroline handed her the punch cup. “Would you take this back inside for me, please?”
Maggie nodded, eager to please, snatched the cup and scurried off toward the schoolhouse.
With a sigh, Caroline hoisted herself out of the swing. For her, the joy of the night was over; reality had intruded, and there would be no ignoring it.
“Seaton was away on business when the robbery and killing took place,” she said, starting toward the street, and Guthrie followed, one hand resting lightly, reassuringly, on the small of her back. He opened the gate with one hand and ushered her through.
Guthrie nodded thoughtfully. “Wasn’t there anybody who could vouch for that?”
Caroline shook her head. “He went to Laramie, and the—the crime happened between here and there. The stage was stopped by half a dozen men wearing masks, and the leader was tall and dark-haired, like Seaton. A witness said he shot and killed the driver even though the man had already handed over the strongbox.” She paused, shuddering, envisioning the scene and finding it impossible, as always, to picture Seaton there, doing such a cold-blooded, heartless thing.
“There must be a lot of tall men with dark hair between here and Laramie,” Guthrie observed. “What made them identify Flynn?”
Caroline swallowed. “There was a man inside the coach—he said he saw the robber’s eyes and that he’d never forget them, no matter how long he lived.”
“That still doesn’t explain why they arrested Flynn,” Guthrie insisted quietly.
“The witness met Seaton in a saloon, a few days after the robbery and—and murder. He said he recognized him.”
They stopped beneath Dr. Lendrum’s maple again, but this time the mood and the reason were painfully different. Guthrie’s hands cupped Caroline’s elbows gently. “That’s still the word of just one man,” he said. “It isn’t enough.”
Seaton’s innocence was a stone wall to Caroline, but she was beginning to see tiny chinks and cracks. Anger surged through as she realized that, even though Guthrie undoubtedly knew the story from the papers, he was cruel enough to make her tell it. “A man claiming to be part of the gang that robbed the stagecoach was arrested after a saloon brawl,” she said stiffly. “He named Seaton as the leader.”
Guthrie sighed and let go of her elbows to jam one hand through his hair. “Damn it, Caroline—doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“The stage passenger was old and half blind,” Caroline cried, “and the other man was nothing more than a common criminal! One was mistaken, and the other was lying!”
“What if you’re wrong?” Guthrie shot back.
“What if I’m right?” Caroline immediately retorted.
Guthrie swore and propelled her along the path toward her house.
“You’ll hear from me in a few days,” he said when they reached her porch. “I want you to sit tight until you do.”
Caroline nodded, but she wasn’t giving her word on anything. She was just trying to keep the tentative peace. She watched with her heart in her throat as Guthrie turned and strode down the steps and along the walk to the gate.
He untied his horse and swung into the saddle, watching her for a long moment before reining the animal away from the fence.
Caroline remained on the porch until he was out of sight, and then she hurried into the house.
Miss Ethel and Miss Phoebe had already retired to their rooms for the night, but there was a light burning in the parlor.
Her mind on the man riding into the night, Caroline turned down the wick until the lamp flickered out, then made her way quietly upstairs.
In her room, she hastily shed her shawl and the lovely pink dress and searched through her wardrobe until she found the divided riding skirt she’d made a few years before. She put it on, along with brown boots and a plain white shirt, then began flinging spare clothes and toilet articles into a carpetbag.
If Mr. Guthrie Hayes thought she was going to trust him with her whole future, he
was sadly mistaken.
Caroline paused in the hallway, wondering if she should wake her guardians and tell them she was leaving. After standing there gnawing on her upper lip for several minutes, she decided against the idea. Such a scene would only upset everyone, and there was nothing that could have changed Caroline’s mind.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, she wrote a hasty note and propped it in the center of the table, against the sugar bowl.
I promise I’ll explain everything when I get home, she wrote. Please don’t worry about me.
In a week or so, when the whole unfortunate misunderstanding was cleared up, she would return to Bolton with Seaton and apologize for her hasty departure. Her guardians were sure to understand.
At the livery stable, Caroline awakened Joe Brown, the night attendant, from a drunken sleep and asked for a horse. In return for a sizable chunk of the little money that remained to her, Joe turned over a swaybacked mare.
When she sneaked up on Outline’s camp, barely an hour later, Caroline’s suspicions were confirmed. The fire was out, and Tob wasn’t barking to alert his master to another presence. That meant Guthrie had secured his belongings and ridden out almost immediately after returning from town.
Caroline intended to follow him, and she figured he was probably a good distance ahead by then. Still, he was on his way to Laramie, and that was all she needed to know.
She set out after him, hoping she was on his trail without being too close.
The night was long and, toward morning, it turned chilly. Caroline was shivering as she stopped in a lush meadow to let her elderly mare rest. A vista of sweeping plains lay ahead, bordered in the distance by more mountains.
A few doubts assailed Caroline as she ate a piece of the bread she’d tucked into her carpetbag and tried to think clearly. Laramie was probably a little farther away than she’d first thought, she admitted to herself.
By that night, she was ravenously hungry and cold clear through to the marrow of her bones. She saw a campfire ahead in the darkness and heard the exuberant bark of a dog.
Caroline knew she could be riding up on outlaws, or even Indians, but she was praying for another kind of reception, and she was too cold and hungry to hang back.
Her heart thudded against her rib cage when Tob came bounding out of the gloom, yipping happily. The old mare sidestepped and nickered, frightened, but Caroline spurred her on, toward the blazing light of the fire.
Guthrie’s manner was clear as a first-grade primer. He wrenched Caroline off the horse, holding her so that her feet didn’t quite touch the ground, and demanded, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Sweet misery filled Caroline. “Put me down,” she said.
Grudgingly, Guthrie released her and stepped back. “Start explaining,” he ordered.
Caroline sighed and raised the back of one hand to her forehead. “Guthrie, please—I’m so tired, and I’m starved, and we both know why I’m here.”
He took her arm and dragged her roughly toward the fire, while the poor old mare stumbled along after them. Caroline sat down on Guthrie’s saddle, next to the blaze, and drew up her knees. He led her horse away, speaking more soothingly to it than he ever had to her.
Presently, Guthrie stalked back to the fire, carrying her saddle, and set it down on the ground next to her. “Here,” he said shortly, and produced a piece of jerky from the pocket of his coat.
Caroline accepted the dried meat and tore into it hungrily. Tob laid his graying muzzle on her knee and whimpered.
Cold fury was apparent in every line of Guthrie’s body. “I ought to take you back to Bolton this minute, dump you on those old ladies’ doorstep, and forget this whole crazy idea!”
Trembling, Caroline finished the meat and took the coffee he offered. The stuff tasted awful, but it gave her something to do while Guthrie delivered the inevitable tirade.
“You know,” he went on, “you’re not going to have a shred of reputation left by the time you get home. Everybody will assume we spent the night together.”
Weariness and despair washed over Caroline. If Guthrie took her back and refused to help her, she didn’t know what she’d do. Seaton was due to hang the first week in May, and time was running out. A tear zigzagged down her cheek.
To her surprise, Guthrie wiped it away with his thumb. The firelight danced over his features as she looked at him. “I think you’d better get some rest, Teacher,” he said huskily. “We’ll talk about your shortcomings in the morning.”
With that, he spread a single blanket out on the ground, then laid another one on top of it.
Caroline looked from the makeshift bed to Guthrie’s face, which was hidden by the night and the brim of his hat. “You don’t expect me to sleep with you?” she asked, her voice small and uncharacteristically timid.
Although she saw his jawline move in the shadow-streaked light of the moon, Caroline didn’t know whether Guthrie was looking stern or amused. “I don’t plan to sit up all night,” he replied evenly, “and this is the only bed there is.”
Reluctantly, Caroline poured out what remained of her coffee and stood. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said.
Guthrie was sitting on the blankets, pulling off his boots. “First door to your right,” he joked. “And don’t go far. You might find yourself passing the time of day with a Shoshone.”
Terror filled Caroline, but nature was no less insistent. She went to the other side of the campfire and ventured about three feet outside its light.
When she returned, Guthrie was in bed and Tob was curled up at his feet. Awkwardly, Caroline removed her boots and wriggled in between the blankets.
“Guthrie?”
He sighed raggedly. “What?”
“Suppose there are Shoshone out there. Won’t they see our campfire?”
“Unless they’re blind, yes.”
Against her will, Caroline moved a little closer to him. He chuckled and draped one arm across her middle. “Thank you for letting me stay,” she said, and she hoped her voice sounded calm and even. In truth, there was a riot of emotion and sensation going on inside her.
“I didn’t have much choice,” Guthrie answered, in a sleepy rumble. “Good night, Caroline.”
Five minutes later, he was snoring, but Caroline still felt as though her insides were doing battle with each other, and she strained to hear and identify every night sound. Then Guthrie shifted in his sleep and one of his hands came to rest possessively over her left breast.
Caroline’s legs immediately stiffened, and her nipple pulsed to life against Guthrie’s palm. She knew she should move away, but the sensation was pleasurable and besides, she was sure there were Indians lurking just beyond the edges of the blankets.
Guthrie groaned softly and rolled toward her, but Caroline knew he wasn’t awake. His breathing was too deep and too even. He let go of her breast, but then he splayed his fingers over her stomach.
Caroline shivered, faced with a thousand scandalous curiosities and wants that wouldn’t be easily put aside. She wanted something more from him, but what that something was eluded her completely.
“Mr. Hayes,” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve.
“Go to sleep,” was the grumbled response.
Caroline wanted Guthrie to hold her, even though she knew that would be a mistake, from a practical standpoint. The world seemed big and dangerous, and she felt small and confused. It took all the courage she possessed to whisper, “I need you to put your arms around me. I’m scared.”
“Believe me, Caroline,” he replied hoarsely, “I don’t dare.”
She began to cry softly, and Guthrie swore again, then turned over and positioned Caroline’s back against his chest, spoon fashion. She thought she felt his lips touch her hair. “I think I might be just like my mother,” she sniffled. Until that night, the fear had been an unrecognized one. Now that she was beginning to guess how powerful the pleasures of the flesh could be, it had come surging to the surface of her
mind, demanding to be faced and accepted.
Guthrie’s hand found hers and squeezed. “How do you mean?”
Caroline ran her tongue over her lips, full of misery. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been close to a man when I wasn’t standing up,” she confessed, blushing even in the darkness, full of joy and despair. “And I’m afraid I like it.”
He chuckled, and his hard chest moved against her back. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Good women are modest,” she said sadly. “They think having a man touch them is the worst thing that could happen.”
At that, Guthrie laughed aloud, and Caroline elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“This isn’t funny, Guthrie Hayes!” she cried. “Here I am, pouring out my heart, and what do you do? You laugh!”
His lips were so close to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath, “if you don’t shut up and go to sleep,” he vowed, “I’m going to show you everything there is to like about a man’s touch. And I mean everything.”
Caroline’s mouth was open to argue, but she promptly closed it. Soon enough, Guthrie was sound asleep once more.
Caroline remained wide awake, despite her weariness, staring up at the sky. It seemed her whole being was at war with itself, body and soul—she felt plenty of fear and no small measure of pain—and yet the sensations weren’t entirely unpleasant. There was wonder, too, and a gossamer sprinkling of joy.
A tear trickled down one dust-smudged cheek. With Seaton there had been no fear and certainly no pain, except for the grief so unfairly imposed by the outside world, of course. Neither, however, had there been wonder or true joy.
She wept in silence, alone even though she was tucked close against Guthrie, and finally slept.
The sun hadn’t even risen Over the mountains when Guthrie shook Caroline awake. When she sat up, he put a cup of coffee into her hands, but he didn’t look cordial. His face was stubbled with two days’ beard, and if the night before had meant anything to him, no one would ever have guessed it by his manner.
CAROLINE AND THE RAIDER Page 8