CAROLINE AND THE RAIDER

by Linda Lael Miller

  “If he knew you were just my woman,” Guthrie whispered back, grinning as he lifted her down from the saddle, “he might expect me to share you.”

  Caroline trembled with fury, but there was nothing she could do. “’Just your woman’ indeed,” she breathed, through her teeth.

  He let her slide down the length of him before waggling a finger in front of her nose. “Don’t press me to prove my point, Teacher,” he told her in a jovial undertone. “There are a lot of long, lonely miles between here and Laramie.”

  “You got any chewin’ tobaccy?” Mr. Fisk wanted to know. He was standing in the flow of a breeze, and the smell of him made Caroline’s eyes water.

  Since Caroline had never seen Guthrie chew tobacco, she was surprised when he produced a tin of the stuff from his saddlebags and tossed it to the rancher with a friendly smile.

  Mr. Fisk opened the lid, dipped in a finger, and filled one cheek with tobacco. His eyes wandered over Caroline’s frame just as though they had a perfect right, and that made her stiffen.

  “Like to come inside and set a spell?” he asked.

  If he smelled this bad in the open air, Caroline could well imagine what he’d be like in the confines of a ten-by-twelve-foot cabin. She declined with a polite smile and a shake of her head. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said.

  Guthrie was busy drawing water up from the well. He filled the canteen first—Caroline’s face ached at the memory of him washing her so intimately the night before—then let Tob and the horses drink their fill.

  “I got a nice mutton stew in the house there,” Mr. Fisk cajoled and, while Caroline sympathized with his loneliness, she wouldn’t have eaten anything he’d cooked to save herself from starvation.

  Guthrie scanned the western sky. The land unfolded into the horizon like a bumpy brown blanket. “I reckon we have time to stay a while,” he said.

  Mr. Fisk beamed with delight, turning and hobbling back into the cabin, and Caroline fixed Guthrie with a desperate stare. “Why?” she whispered balefully. “He probably cooked that poor sheep hooves, wool, and all.”

  Guthrie’s eyes laughed, though his lips only quivered slightly. “Don’t forget the tongue and eyeballs,” he replied, propelling her toward Mr. Fisk’s gaping front door.

  The inside of the tiny cabin smelled even worse than Caroline had expected it to, but she couldn’t help being touched by the way their host scrambled about picking up shirts and boots. He wanted the place neat for company.

  “The missus is carrying,” Guthrie said confidentially, as Mr. Fisk took a kettle from a hook inside the fireplace and set it in the middle of the table. “That makes her a little fussy about what she eats.”

  Carrying? Caroline thought. Then she realized he meant carrying a child, and embarrassment made her drop her gaze.

  Somehow, Guthrie managed to spoon and chew and convince Mr. Fisk he was eating the half-spoiled stew without ever putting a bite into his mouth. When the rancher went out to fetch a jug from the barn, Guthrie set the bowl on the floor and Tob gobbled up the contents.

  “You’d be welcome to bed down in the barn tonight,” Mr. Fisk said, when he returned, uncorking the earthenware jar he carried and handing it to Guthrie.

  Guthrie raised it to his lips and drank—Caroline saw him swallow—then expelled a huffing breath and dragged one arm across his mouth. “Thanks,” he answered. “That’s mighty kind of you.”

  Caroline kicked him under the table. Even though night was coming, and there were probably Indians and other menaces abroad, she felt uneasy in that depressing place and eager to move on.

  She smiled warmly at Mr. Fisk. “Don’t you have to get back to your cattle?”

  “Sheep,” Mr. Fisk corrected her, after taking a healthy swig from the bottle. The tiny red and purple veins on his nose seemed to writhe like little snakes when he reached to pass the jug back to Guthrie. “I got sheep. Right now, my brother Feenie is mindin’ ’em.”

  Feenie Fisk. Caroline savored the name for a moment and widened her smile. “We wouldn’t want to put you out,” she said earnestly. “The—mister and I, we’ll just be moving on—”

  “We’ll stay,” Guthrie interceded.

  “Believe I’ll see if that ole hound dog of your’n is diggin’ in my rutabaga patch,” Mr. Fisk said diplomatically, rising from his chair and faltering out the door.

  “I don’t like it here,” Caroline whispered to Guthrie, the moment the older man disappeared. “I want to leave!”

  He aligned his nose with hers, and she could smell the moonshine on his breath. “Then you just go right ahead and leave, Teacher. And when you catch up with that Shoshone hunting party we’ve been trailing, you tell them hello for me.”

  Caroline’s eyes went wide, and she felt the color drain from her face. “You saw them?”

  “I saw their tracks and what was left of their campfire. We’re just lucky they didn’t stop by last night and roast Tob for supper.”

  “You’re just trying to scare me,” Caroline protested. But she was thinking of the distance they still had to travel, and of all the terrible stories she’d heard about Indian attacks. “Aren’t you?”

  He regarded her solemnly. “What do you think?”

  Caroline shifted on her upturned orange crate, which was doubling as a chair. “I’ll stay,” she said, in a generous tone.

  Guthrie gave her braid a gentle tug. “Good. Then you’ll probably get to keep this. Now, don’t give me any more trouble or I’ll suggest that you clean the cabin from top to bottom to thank Mr. Fisk for his kind hospitality.”

  “You don’t have the nerve.”

  He raised his eyebrows in silent question as he stood. Pausing at the door, he said, “I’m going to settle the horses in the barn. While I’m gone, I’d like you to reflect on how a good wife comports herself.”

  Caroline shot to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides, and then sank disconsolately back to her orange crate again. There was no way she could retaliate, since she depended upon this man for safe passage to Laramie. Poor Adabelle, she thought. The woman’s life was going to be a misery.

  Except at night, of course. That just might make up for everything.

  When she was sure Guthrie was gone, Caroline stood and went outside, where she shaded her eyes with one hand and scanned the horizon for signs of Indians. Satisfied that a massacre wasn’t imminent, she proceeded to the barn at what she hoped was a circumspect pace.

  Guthrie was grooming his tired horse when she walked in, and although he acknowledged her arrival with a grin, he didn’t speak or stop his work. Mr. Fisk was tending the pinto mare, and he was doing enough talking for everybody.

  Caroline sat down on a musty bale of hay and pretended to be reflecting on how a good wife comports herself.

  After the horses had been taken care of, Mr. Fisk announced that he felt festivelike and slaughtered a hen that had stopped laying. Smiling demurely and batting her eyelashes at Guthrie whenever he looked at her, Caroline dutifully cooked up a dinner of chicken and dumplings, mashing a panful of boiled rutabagas for good measure.

  Mr. Fisk allowed as how it was the best meal he’d had since Christmas of ’68 and offered to sleep out in the barn himself, so that Caroline and Guthrie could have his bed.

  Caroline was certain the barn was cleaner, but she didn’t want any more trouble with Guthrie, so she kept her opinion to herself. Guthrie smiled and thanked the old man and said he liked to sleep where he could keep an eye on his horse when he was away from home.

  Mr. Fisk was gracious and provided them with a kerosene lantern to light their way through the darkness to the barn.

  Tob, who had dined on the remains of the mutton stew, trotted along beside Caroline, nuzzling her palm every now and then with a cool, wet nose. Her mind was on the dilemma of how to spend another night with Guthrie Hayes without giving in to his practiced charms and making a wanton of herself all over again.

  Inside the barn, he steered her toward the r
ickety ladder leading into a hayloft. “I tossed the blanket up earlier,” he said. And then he turned down the wick in the lantern and the barn was pitch dark, except for a few stray beams of moonlight coming in through the cracks in the wall. “After you, Mrs. Hayes,” he added, giving her a brazen little pat on the bottom.

  Caroline’s choices were limited, so she climbed the ladder, but she was fuming inside. In the hayloft, she found the blanket easily, since there was a window to let in the light of the moon, and began making a bed in the straw.

  “That was a fine supper you made in there,” Guthrie said, plunking down on an upended bucket to pull off his boots. “That stage-robbing, trigger-happy beau of yours doesn’t deserve a woman like you.”

  Caroline wasn’t about to tell Guthrie she’d decided not to marry Seaton. She didn’t want to have to explain the reasons. She sat down on the blankets and kicked off her own boots, “He probably won’t even want a woman like me.”

  “He will if he has any sense,” Guthrie replied, making a distinctly masculine sound as he stood up and stretched. “Wildcats are rare, and they’re precious.”

  Caroline settled herself as close to the edge of the make-shift bed as she could. She lay with her back to Guthrie, praying he wouldn’t touch her, because she knew if he did, she’d be lost. For all that, she couldn’t resist asking, “Is Adabelle a wildcat?”

  Guthrie made a production of getting into bed and making himself comfortable. “I hope so, Teacher,” he yawned. “I really hope so.”

  Something skittered out of the straw, just a few feet from where Caroline lay, and stared at her with close-set crimson eyes. She inched a little nearer to Guthrie. “You’d think Mr. Fisk and his brother would be nervous, living clear out here all alone, wouldn’t you?”

  Guthrie yawned heartily and stretched again. His arm came to rest lightly across Caroline’s hip. “Go to sleep, Wildcat,” he said. “We’ll be getting an early start tomorrow.”

  Caroline ran her tongue over her lips. That thing with the red eyes was still looking at her—speculatively. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t refer to me as Wildcat,” she said primly.

  He chuckled and drew her into the curve of his body. “I know,” he answered. “But I like the sound of it, so I’ll probably go right on doing it.”

  Caroline closed her eyes, hoping the watchful creature would go on about its business. The next thing she knew, dawn was breaking and the straw around them glowed as though it had been spun into gold during the night.

  And Guthrie was poised over her, his eyes smiling.

  Caroline knew what he wanted, and she knew she should refuse him, but somehow, the words just didn’t come. She arched her neck and bit down hard on her lower lip as Guthrie opened her blouse and her camisole to find her breasts.

  He suckled slowly, gently, until Caroline was whimpering deep down in her throat and her hips were twisting beneath his, seeking any contact he would allow her. With her own hands, she unbuttoned her skirt and pushed it down, along with her drawers.

  Guthrie entered her smoothly, in one long, gliding stroke, and she welcomed him by lining herself high to receive him. He cupped his hands under her bottom and groaned into the flesh of her neck as he nibbled there.

  “Have mercy, Wildcat,” he breathed.

  But there was no mercy in Caroline. Not for Guthrie Hayes, anyway.

  Chapter

  Release wrung a series of throaty cries from Caroline, and Guthrie muffled them by laying a hand over her mouth. A moment later, he gave up his seed, muttering a raspy exclamation as his body arched repeatedly against Caroline’s.

  He lay entwined with her until his breathing returned to normal. Then, without a word, Guthrie rose, fixed his clothes, and climbed down the ladder.

  Caroline knew despair awaited her beyond the lingering shimmer of pleasure that enclosed her like a cloud, and she held it off as long as she could. Guthrie returned with a bucket of warm water and her carpetbag just as she was beginning to hurt.

  He said nothing. He just set the bucket and the valise where Caroline could reach them and climbed back down the ladder.

  Caroline took a handkerchief from the bag and gave herself an impromptu bath. Once she’d washed, she put on clean drawers and camisole, then the same old shirtwaist and skin. It would be grand, she thought distractedly, to get back to a civilized way of life.

  When she reached the cabin, her hair was freshly brushed and braided and her face and body had been scrubbed. She felt equal to another day on the trail, if not enthusiastic.

  Guthrie was frying eggs at the cabin stove when she came in, and his eyes moved over her once in intimate affection before he said, “Sit down, Wildcat. Breakfast is ready.”

  Caroline looked around even as she took a seat on the upended crate she’d used the night before. “Where is Mr. Fisk?”

  Guthrie shrugged one shoulder as he peppered the eggs from a metal shaker. “He’s around somewhere.”

  The timbre of his voice touched things deep inside Caroline that were still tender from his lovemaking, and she shifted on the crate. “Will we be moving on today?”

  He scooped two eggs onto a surprisingly clean plate and set them in front of her. They stared up at her like two enormous golden eyes.

  “Yes,” Guthrie answered.

  Caroline picked up her fork and examined it carefully before starting in on her breakfast. “What about the Indians?”

  Guthrie sat down next to her with a plate and fork of his own, and she sensed mischief in him, rather than saw it. “I could probably swap you and the dog for safe passage to Laramie.”

  Before Caroline could think of a comment on that, Mr. Fisk came limping into the cabin. He’d plainly made an effort where his appearance was concerned, for his face and hands glowed with cleanliness and the chill of well water, and his bushy white hair stood out crisply under the brim of his derby hat.

  “Mornin’,” he said cheerily, taking eggs from the pan on the stove and dumping them onto his plate. The yolks were clearly visible in his mouth when he went on. “When Feenie finds out he missed them dumplin’s of your’n, ma’am, he’s goin’ to spit green nickels.”

  Caroline muttered a modest thank you and continued to eat, knowing she’d need her strength for the day ahead. Besides, unappealing as they were, the eggs had one thing in their favor: they weren’t beef jerky.

  “You and Feenie ought to get yourselves some wives,” Guthrie said, in the same tone he might have suggested that they buy wire for a chicken pen or curtains for the cabin’s one window.

  Mr. Fisk chuckled at the notion. “I reckon one could probably do for the both of us, since one of us is gone most o’ the time.”

  Caroline choked and Guthrie gave her an indulgent pat on the back.

  “Two women would be twice the trouble all right,” he agreed thoughtfully, though Caroline saw an imp dancing in his eyes.

  She glared at him disapprovingly. He was in dire need of some civilizing, and she didn’t envy Adabelle Rogers the job.

  After breakfast, Caroline cleaned up the dishes while Guthrie went back to the barn to saddle the horses. Although she would be glad to put Mr. Fisk’s ranch behind her, she wasn’t unmoved by the delight he’d taken in their company.

  “We slept comfortably in your barn, Mr. Fisk,” she said formally, when she and Guthrie were about to leave. “We’re obliged.”

  For the first time in their acquaintance, Mr. Fisk removed his hat, revealing a bald pate dappled with large freckles. “You come back and visit again, ma’am,” he said earnestly.

  On impulse, Caroline kissed his grizzled old cheek, and he flushed with pleasure at the small intimacy.

  When she and Guthrie and the dog were well away, Guthrie turned in the saddle to grin at Caroline. “That was a kind thing you did back there. Old Fisk probably can’t rightly recall the last time anybody touched him with affection.”

  Caroline was abashed by his praise and by the wild, disproportionate pleasu
re it brought her. When it came to this man, she had about as much dignity as Tob. “That remark he made about sharing a wife with his brother nearly sent me running for the hills,” she admitted. “I do believe it was the most scandalous thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”

  Guthrie chuckled and brought a cheroot from his shirt pocket. After lighting it and taking a deep draught of the smoke, he finally answered, “You take life too seriously, Teacher. It wasn’t as though he was going to rush out and drag some woman home, you know.”

  Caroline couldn’t help smiling at the picture that came to her mind. Whatever her regrets about making love with Guthrie, she was suffused with a sense of well-being and general happiness, and she decided to enjoy it while she could.

  That night they camped beside a stream, and Guthrie caught trout for their supper. Although Caroline had sworn she wouldn’t let him make love to her again, he bent her over a waist-high boulder and glided into her femininity from behind, and she welcomed him with a primitive shout of pleasure.

  The following day, long about midmorning, they rode into Laramie.

  Now that she was within mere minutes of facing Seaton Flynn, the man she had once believed she loved, Caroline’s newfound joy in the mysteries of womanhood was replaced by a sense of shame. She was, she reminded herself, no better than her strumpet of a mother. Perhaps in a few years she would be reduced to drinking hard liquor and bringing strange men to some shoddy little room somewhere, just as Kathleen had done. Would she even give up her own children, because some man who could give her pleasure and brandy told her to?

  “What in hell are you thinking about?” Guthrie demanded irritably, interrupting the gloomy progress of her contemplations. “You look like somebody just dipped you in flour.”

  The noise and energy of Laramie clamored all around Caroline, distracting her. She heard shots in the distance, and piano music, and men and women laughing together inside the numerous saloons. “What if we made a baby, Guthrie?” she asked, barely able to push the frightening words past her throat. She loved Guthrie and she hadn’t been able to resist him, despite the risk. Now, however, the fairy tale was ending and reality was pressing close.