CAROLINE AND THE RAIDER Read online

  At that, Seaton laughed again, albeit nervously. “Sorry, sweet thing, but I’m not stupid enough to do that.” He slipped the pistol deftly into its holster at his hip and backed away, both hands raised at his sides. “I guess maybe you would shoot me to save that no good bounty hunter of yours,” he said, “but I’m banking that you won’t pull the trigger just to keep me from getting away. You loved me once, Caroline. And if you shot me, your conscience would torment you from now until the day you drew your last breath.”

  He was right. She couldn’t shoot him, but it wasn’t just because the act would haunt her for the rest of her days. She wasn’t sure how many bullets remained in the chamber of Outline’s .45, but Seaton might know. She couldn’t risk firing and missing and then having to face him with an empty weapon.

  “We’ll find you,” she warned, and her arms were beginning to ache from the effort of supporting the gun. She wished Guthrie would wake up and take over, instead of just lying there like a lump and being no help at all. It’s was God’s own wonder that he’d ever been able to get anybody out of a Yankee prison, let alone earn a reputation as a raider.

  Seaton smiled. “No, I’ll find you,” he replied, following that with a low whistle through his teeth. A horse ambled out of the woods in answer to the call. “And when I do, you won’t have any defenses against me—no down-on-his-luck Rebel drifter, no mangy dog, no .45 to aim at my head. I’m going to kill Hayes when that time comes, Caroline, and you’ll be traveling to Mexico with me whether you want to or not.”

  “You flatter yourself, Mr. Flynn,” Caroline replied, operating on sheer bravado. “Mr. Hayes caught you once, and he’ll catch you again. Probably before the sun goes down.”

  Seaton chuckled and shook his head, mounted his horse, and touched the brim of his hat with his pistol barrel in an insolent gesture of farewell. Then, mercifully, he turned and rode away.

  Caroline knelt there, holding the gun straight out from her body, for long, agonizing minutes before she felt safe in dropping her guard. The instant she did, she crawled around Guthrie’s other side, dipped her cupped hands into the racing stream, and splashed the icy water over his bruised and bloodied face.

  No warm greeting or grateful endearment passed Guthrie’s lips when his thoughts cleared again. He burst out with a string of swear words, sprang upright so rapidly that he nearly sent Caroline toppling into the water, and wrenched the pistol out of her hands.

  “Where is he?” he rasped, blinking against obvious pain, and running one sleeve across the gouge above his temple.

  Caroline winced, not because she was afraid of Guthrie’s wrath but because she saw dirt and pine needles clinging to his bloody cut. “He got away,” she said resolutely, pulling a bandanna from the pocket of her trousers and dipping it into the water.

  Guthrie pushed her hand away when she would have wiped the wound clean. “Don’t touch me, damn it!” he barked, rising awkwardly to his feet. “Which way did the bastard go?”

  Caroline remained calm, because she knew what Guthrie apparently did not: he was in no condition to go chasing after Mr. Flynn on the back of a horse. When he took a faltering step, his knees gave out and he rolled back to the ground.

  Once again, Caroline dipped the bandanna in the water, and this time Guthrie allowed her to clean the wound. The look in his eyes as he glared up at her, however, was hardly consoling.

  “Are there any fish in that creek?” she asked, ignoring his rancor as she inspected the wound. “I haven’t had anything to eat for the longest time, and I’m starved.”

  Guthrie’s eyes widened, then went murderously narrow. “Of all the scatterbrained, pesky, interfering females …”

  Caroline smiled, rinsed the bandanna, and gave it to Guthrie to hold against his wound as a compress. “I must say, I was pleasantly surprised to find you here, tending to business and capturing Mr. Flynn,” she remarked. “I thought you had probably gone straight to Cheyenne, married Miss Adabelle Rogers, and forgotten all about my unfortunate situation.”

  “I spent a week looking for that son of a bitch!” Guthrie raved, opening his pistol with one hand and spinning the chamber with a practiced thumb. Caroline saw that she’d been right to be cautious, since there was only one bullet. “I was a damn week tracking him down, and what do you do? You get out of jail and ride right to us, just at the exact worst moment! Now I ask you, what kind of damnable, chickenshit luck is that?”

  “I simply followed the dog,” Caroline answered, with cool logic, “and I’ll thank you to watch your language. I’ve always believed that profanity is the hallmark of a weak vocabulary.”

  Guthrie set his teeth and made a sound that was a cross between a growl and a muffled shriek, and thrust himself back to his feet again. This time, although he was wobbly and he had to blink a few times, he didn’t topple over.

  Caroline stood at a little distance from him, biting down hard on her lower Hp. There seemed no point in talking when anything she said would have been wrong.

  He found his horse, removed the saddlebags with a difficulty that made Caroline want to leap to his assistance, and flung them at her. “There’s jerky inside,” he said.

  Since Caroline was so hungry that even jerky sounded good, she quietly opened the leather bags and rummaged until she found the dried meat. She also found a small photograph—the oval frame was of tarnished silver, no bigger than the palm of her hand—and a fair-haired woman gazed serenely back at her from behind the cracked glass.

  Caroline tossed a piece of jerky to Tob, then took a bite for herself. She’d forgotten her hunger, for the moment, all her attention being focused on the photograph. “Is this Adabelle?” she asked.

  Guthrie crossed the grassy space between them and summarily snatched the picture out of her hand. Unconsciously, he polished the glass against the front of his shirt before tucking it back into his saddlebags. “No,” he answered, not meeting her eyes. “It’s Annie.”

  Sadness filled Caroline. “Oh.”

  Guthrie put the bags back in their place behind his saddle and secured them with rawhide strings. “Get your horse, Wildcat,” he said. “We’re headed back to Laramie.”

  Caroline forgot everything but the shock she felt at Guthrie’s offhand remark. “What did you say? Guthrie, I can’t go back to Laramie. I’m a wanted woman.”

  He turned away from his horse to face her. “Caroline,” he said, “I’ve made up my mind. It’s just been plain, dumb luck that Flynn hasn’t already either killed or raped you—or both. The Laramie jail is the safest place for you right now.”

  “I won’t go back, Guthriei”

  “You will,” Guthrie replied, “even if I have to tie your hands and feet and drape you over the back of my horse.”

  Caroline took a step backwards, her eyes round, her mouth going at top speed. “Please, Guthrie—I could help you—why, just a few minutes ago, I saved your life—”

  “If you hadn’t come along just when you did,” Guthrie interrupted, “I’d be on my way back to Laramie with Flynn by now. And I wouldn’t have this gash in my head. Now, get on that damn horse and shut up!”

  A blush heated Caroline’s cheeks. “There’s no need to be rude,” she pointed out. Then, because she knew she’d been beaten, she mounted the mare. She told herself she wasn’t really obeying Guthrie’s arbitrary commands; she just needed some time to come up with a plan.

  Guthrie rode ahead of her all that day, his mood watchful and wary. Caroline knew he half expected Mr. Flynn to ambush them, and she was nervous herself.

  “So, you didn’t get time to marry Adabelle or anything?” she asked, when they stopped to rest the horses beside a stream. Laramie was visible in the distance, and Caroline still didn’t have a plan.

  Guthrie chuckled, and it was the first pleasant response Caroline had had from him all day. “No, Wildcat,” he said. “I didn’t get around to that yet.”

  She turned away, so he wouldn’t see the sweeping, magnificent relief in her
face. “I see. Well, that’s too bad.”

  “Caroline,” he said, and his tone had a bewildered sound, as though he’d spoken a word he didn’t recognize. “Come here.”

  She was stepping into Guthrie’s arms before it came to her that she didn’t want to obey. When he brought his mouth down to hers, she tilted her head back for his kiss.

  He shaped her lips with his own, then tempted her mouth open with his tongue, and Caroline whimpered. She knew she should rebel, not submit, but Guthrie had long since trained her body to ignore the dictates of her mind. As always, she responded to him on a purely primitive level, acting first and thinking later.

  His strong hands cupped her bottom, lifting her slightly and pressing her hard against him. His manhood burned like a pillar of fire against her, and she felt herself expanding to receive him into her aching warmth.

  “I’ve missed you, Wildcat,” he said, and his lips were against Caroline’s neck now, nibbling between words. He opened her trousers and pushed them down, chuckling when he discovered that she was wearing nothing underneath. “You’re ready for me,” he teased, and she stiffened and tilted her head back as he began to caress her.

  Guthrie took advantage of her position and bent to nip at the peak of one of her breasts, which was still hidden away under the flannel of her shirt and the thin muslin of the camisole beneath. With her own hands, Caroline unbuttoned the shirt and bared a breast to Guthrie, and he took the nipple greedily, suckling hard. And all the while he made her dance at the tips of his fingers.

  This was not a time or a place for civilized coupling, with linen sheets and firelight, and the threads that bound them together were not woven strictly of affection or even passion. They were made of anger, too, and rebellion, and a strange compulsion to do battle.

  Guthrie was a warrior, Caroline was his woman, and their vital young bodies demanded that they mate.

  Gasping for breath, he turned her away from him and, at the same time, pulled the sides of her shirt off her breasts. The camisole he simply tore, and then her bounty throbbed in his palms. He held her reverently for long moments, his thumbs shaping her nipples for the nourishment he would take later, and Caroline could barely stand, so weak were her knees.

  With a groan, Guthrie swept her up and carried her to where an elm branch stretched out like a giant arm, thick and low to the ground. After taking off his coat and laying it over the rough bark as a cushion, Guthrie leaned Caroline against it, facing away from him, and whispered hoarse, senseless words as he took her trousers the rest of the way down.

  Caroline gave a little cry of acquiescence when he gripped the tender undersides of her knees and spread them far apart, then lifted her so that she could feel him at the portal of her womanhood. He did not take her tenderly, he conquered her, and that was exactly what Caroline wanted him to do.

  The friction grew faster and keener and sweeter with every thrust of his hips, until Caroline was delirious. Eyes tightly shut, she gripped the sturdy tree limb to anchor herself to earth as Guthrie took her from one level of ecstasy to another. Then, at the exact moment that he cried out and stiffened against her, it seemed to Caroline that both their bodies dissolved for an instant, freeing their souls to fuse in a spray of golden fire.

  She stood clinging to the branch when it was over, as though a high, sheer cliff loomed beneath her feet. It was a struggle just to breathe. She was only dimly aware of Guthrie washing her tenderly and righting her clothes, and when he turned her into his arms, she sagged against his chest.

  “Oh, Mr. Hayes,” she managed to get out, “it is a pity we don’t like each other much, isn’t it?”

  His chuckle was a rumble beneath Caroline’s ear. “Yes, Wildcat,” he answered, running his hands up and down her back, “but it’s probably for the best. A steady diet of that would kill us both.”

  Caroline drew back a little and looked up into his face. The blood had dried over his wound, but he was still a little pale. “You mean it isn’t the same for you with—with every woman?”

  Guthrie kissed the tip of her nose. “No. It’s nice, don’t get me wrong. But when I’m with you—well, it’s like being dipped into hell three times and then tossed into heaven.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and rested her forehead against his shoulder. “You’re still going to make me go back to Laramie, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, holding her no less tenderly for the firm conviction in his voice. “This time, damn it, stay put until I come back for you.”

  “You have no idea how angry the marshal is going to be,” Caroline fretted, her words muffled by the fabric of Guthrie’s shirt. “He’s bound to see my escape as a personal reflection on his abilities as a constable.”

  Guthrie laughed. “Don’t worry, Wildcat. Stone’s a good man. If he weren’t, I wouldn’t trust him with you.”

  Caroline tilted her head back to look up into Guthrie’s face. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” she told him. “I truly believed that you’d forgotten all about me and gone off to marry Adabelle.”

  His eyes were incredibly tender as they caressed her in that next moment. “I’ll see this through,” he said quietly. “You have my word on it.”

  Still, the thought of being incarcerated again was almost more than Caroline could deal with. She backed away a step, wondering what her chances of success would be if she bolted for her horse and rode off as fast as she could go.

  She sighed. Guthrie would catch her before she’d gone a hundred yards. “Suppose I promise—”

  He laid his fingers over her lips. “No, Caroline,” he said.

  Dispiritedly, she righted her hair and clothes the best she could and swung deftly up onto her mare’s back. For all her mistakes, she was becoming a good rider, the soreness was gone from her legs and thighs, and she hardly bounced in the saddle anymore.

  When they reached Laramie, and the jailhouse, Marshal Stone was only too happy to arrest Caroline and put her behind bars again.

  Guthrie watched her with a sort of amused fondness as she walked into her cell, moving as augustly as Anne Boleyn being brought before her accusers, and sat rigidly upright on the edge of her cot.

  “It won’t be long, Caroline,” he promised.

  She looked at him with solemn, accusing eyes and spoke not a word.

  Guthrie sighed. “I’ll send Miss Phoebe and Miss Ethel a telegram and let them know you’re all right—”

  Caroline bolted off the cot and flew to the bars, gripping them so hard her knuckles showed white against her skin. “Don’t you dare!” she hissed. “They’d die of shame if they knew!”

  “But—”

  “Guthrie Hayes, if you say anything to my guardians about me, I swear I’ll tell Adabelle Rogers everything that’s ever happened between us!”

  Grudgingly, Guthrie agreed to keep his peace, at least where the Maitland sisters were concerned. He warned Caroline once again to stay where she was until he returned for her, and then he was gone. As glad as she was to see him go, Caroline was desolate in his absence.

  The marshal was surprisingly polite, considering all the trouble Caroline had put him to, but he made it clear that he would brook no more nonsense. Caroline’s meals were to be brought to her from then on, and she would no longer be allowed to leave the jail for baths and trips to the privy.

  That first night, she lay on her cot, tossing and turning, remembering the soul-splintering way Guthrie had made love to her, reliving every caress, every muttered exclamation. Before long, her skin was hot to the touch and a fine mist of perspiration covered her from head to foot. She closed her eyes and, mercifully, drifted off into a deep and instant sleep.

  Tob’s whimpering and the rattling of keys awakened her to a gloomy new day of rain and wind.

  “‘Morning,” said Charlie the jailer, sounding insincere. He was carrying a tray covered with one of Amy Stone’s red-and-white checked table napkins.

  Caroline sat up and, with as much dignity as s
he could manage, smoothed her tangled hair back from her face. She was still wearing her trousers and shirt, and she longed with ail her heart and soul for a hot bath. “Good morning,” she replied coolly.

  The old man unlocked the cell door, after giving Caroline a warning look, and brought the tray in. Outside, Tob’s whine grew to a shrill crescendo. “What’s that dog carryin’ on about?” he grumbled.

  “I imagine he’s hungry,” Caroline answered. “And since it’s raining, he’s probably wet and cold as well. I don’t suppose he could come in and lie down by your stove?”

  Charlie pondered the question while he backed out of the cell and locked the door. At the same time, Caroline went to the window and dropped one of the buttermilk biscuits through the bars along with a plump piece of sausage.

  “I reckon he could come in for a while,” the jailer finally conceded. “You ain’t got him trained to steal keys or anything like that, have you?”

  Caroline smiled ruefully as she climbed down off the end of her cot and began to eat her breakfast. “Unfortunately, all he knows how to do is whine and drink whiskey.”

  Charlie left and, a few minutes later, Tob came in, wet and shivering, to put his muzzle through the bars of Caroline’s cell and give a single mournful yip.

  She patted the dog’s head and gave him what remained of her breakfast. It seemed to her that Guthrie could have learned a few things about loyalty from his canine companion. The day remained dreary, wet and cold, and when the marshal’s wife arrived, she looked like an angel of mercy to Caroline. She was a pretty woman, with glossy brown hair and blue eyes, and she treated her husband’s prisoner with amazing respect and courtesy, considering the circumstances.

  “I thought you might like a bath and some fresh things to wear,” Mrs. Stone said brightly, handing soap, a towel, and some folded clothes through the bars. She shivered delicately. “It’s such a nasty day out.”