[b][i]Carolina's Dream[/i][/b]

([i]A long, unfinished piece of writing of what was supposed to the start of a Romance novel.)[/i]

A summer house.

Carolina was tending the garden outside. She was wearing a green dress, with a burgundy front, and her hair was done-up in a straw bonnet. Her ginger hair was curled behind her ears as she pulled weeds and threw them into a bucket by the steps that ran across the patio. Her cat, Ginger, walked the wood slats which guarded the cherry trees, prowling for grasshoppers, or otherwise chasing the field mice who lived in the back-end of the garden. She watched the rows, the eaves and the wild fields across, studying how Constable Raymond patrolled the hayfields upon the back of his black destrier with a sword upon his hip. Even from here, he caught her watching, and lifted his hand to her politely.



Carolina smiled and waved back, then dipped her head briskly to avoid his gaze.



Often, Carolina would find herself in this garden and men would walk by. She would watch them thoughtfully, sometimes waving if they waved back, but would never draw attention to herself. It was not that she was shy. She had never been shy. She knew what she wanted, and Constable Raymond wasn't it. He was too strict. He hadn't learned to smile. And he often spoke just a little too curtly about matters of the heart, which had led her to believe that he was under the assumption that his opinion was the only one that mattered. Just such an occasion had happened the week before when he'd made her an undue marriage offer, and frankly, whilst she approved of him as the lawmaker of the town, she had ultimately refused him. The rumours had already begun around town that she was something of a prude, of course. But she did not care. He simply didn't thrill her the way some men did.



It was the lumberjacks she had eyes for. The fishermen. The labourers. She would watch as they returned home from work to their pretty, doughy wives; how they would lift them up out their skirts in a flurry; and how they would rough-up their hair in their hands. As Carolina plucked weeds, she swiped at her cheek and breathed out through her nose sharply as she felt a warm feeling pass through her stomach. Large hands... gruff from mining... working the coal pits, lonely from days spent far away from home; only a glass of milk and a warm supper was needed to tend their woes, and then they would be pawing at her to come closer and spend the night in their arms. And her, feeling tense from housework, tired from working in the garden, would find herself filled with newfound energy as she sat upon a working man's lap and leaned in for the slightest of kisses, hoping such things might extend even further. To a kiss along the inside of her throat, perhaps. Her hand came up and wandered the outside of her neck with the gardening glove. Or along the nape of her collar. She felt down to the delicate gold necklace which hung between her breasts. Or perhaps, even lower still....



Ginger let out a curious meow and went sprinting across the garden, and blinking, Carolina quickly looked up to see what had happened.



At the gate — at her gate — was a man. He was broad-backed, with heavy-set arms and big, curling fists. He was attempting to haul a crate through the gate, and apparently, struggling due to his size.



She leaped to her feet at once.



''I didn't see you! Oh, I'm sorry!'' She said. Then she came and helped him tackle it. He turned towards her, and she almost gasped.



[i]Who is this...?[/i] She wondered, and realised she felt rather funny.



A man with russet curls, deep brown eyes, and a shallow beard turned to face her. He was lean across the face, and held his eyes courteously low as he struggled with the crate. Though to his credit, he remained uncomplaining as she helped him get it inside.



''Thank you,'' he said breathlessly, his tone sounding rather strained. ''It's your sapling orders, Miss.''



Her saplings, of course! She had ordered several of them! Cherry trees! She caught herself staring at his hands and guffed, then leaned harder against the crate to lift it with her chest. With their strength combined, they hauled it into the front garden. Though by the time they set it down, they were already sweating.



He laughed. His tone was rich and melodious. Then wiping his brow with a hairy arm, he murmured: ''Hellfire, you're a strong woman,'' and glanced at her in amusement. She simply grinned back at him awkwardly, leaning far across the crate as she caught her breath.



Clearing his throat, he then chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, eyeing her a moment longer. She saw the way he was looking at her and quickly gathered herself, feeling rather shy all of a sudden. Was he... laughing at her? For grinning so stupidly? She should think not?



''Um,'' she said all of a sudden. ''You'll be wanting your payment... how far, did you happen to carry it?'' She said, getting to her feet rather curtly and adjusting herself. She turned away from him at once.



''From Glensdale,'' he answered, still knelt there and adjusting his hat. He wore a flat cap across his curls. She tried not to look at him again as she took the time to gather herself. She took a few coins from her purse, which had been sat on the warm brick outside her country cottage. She came over through the long grass and extended it out to him, forcing him to step forwards.



The man clambered up, big as he was, and she tried hard not to let her eyes falter as he came and accepted the payment. Yet her knees felt vaguely weak when she saw the way his shirt stretched across his chest. That's what had her mind bubbling with weakness; the nervous way he plodded across the garden. For such a big man, it was hysterical. Why was he so timid after hauling a crate that weighed almost as much as she did?



''Thank you Miss,'' he said gratefully, then he took the coins and bowed his head to her courteously, pocketing them in the lint-hold of his shirt. She glanced at his strapping arms, chewed her lip, then boldly stared at him, nodding matter-of-factly.



''You certainly deserve it for carrying it all the way from Glensdale,'' she just said. ''I'm Carolina by the way. This' my plot, I don't suppose you get around much? I can't recall seeing you before,'' she ventured. Then turning to her new saplings, she began to break into the box using a short prybar she retrieved from an empty plot beneath her windowsill.



''No Miss. Can't say I do,'' he smiled at her kindly. Having done fussing with his shirt, he was now fussing with his hands. She then watched as he came down; and without asking, he reached out to help her.



Adjusting the prybar in her hands, he ruggedly dug it into a vague slot she hadn't quite made out. Then glancing up at him, he nodded at her encouragingly; once, the same way her father had done when she'd been but a girl. And glancing at the box, she then put her weight behind the prybar: and to her surprise it snapped open.



''Always a nook,'' he said softly, shuffling with the lid.



She watched, curious, as he reached in and delicately retrieved her saplings from the crate.



Carolina studied the man as he lumbered to his feet, stripping the saplings from their packaging the same way a child would a sweet wrapper. The man rubbed away the crust of mud from around the plants with his bare hands, shaping them with his fingers, and she went to say she had a second pair of gloves if he needed — but he had already begun digging up the earth from one of the open plots. He went across the garden and shovelled earth into the beige pots she'd set out the day before, and smoothing them over with his hands, he dug deep before easing the saplings into their new homes. His method had her eyes gazing at him almost lazily now; and she was stunned to see that Ginger was already slipping between his ankles, purring immaculately as she studied him from beneath his legs.



''Ha,'' Carolina simply said, her mouth falling open. Then she stared at him in disbelief as he began wiping his hands on his trousers.



Don't. You'll get them dirty. And then you'll have to take them off—



The man swiped gravel and dirt on his denim, then lifted the cat and patted her over roughly. At that point, Carolina had to turn away. Her hand had already begun folding over her mouth like one of those doughy wives she had watched so enviously from behind her garden fence. She stared low at the ground as she stood up and made her way to the doors, pretending to put the prybar away. But secretly, she was confused by this man and his actions. Why had he just decided to plant her saplings without asking? She then turned back to him and found him looking up at her thoughtfully. And to him, she spurred:



''What?'' She said quite vaguely, lifting her eyebrows, not letting her emotions show whatsoever.



He blinked at her, then looked confused himself. ''I was just lookin' at you, Miss. My name's Grey, by the way. Suppose I didn't get chance to introduce myself proper.''



''No, you were too busy planting my saplings.''



A vast reservoir of silence filled the space between them. He stared at Carolina, holding Ginger in his arms, then carefully put the cat down. Carolina almost felt sorry for her when he did that, as the cat looked like she'd been enjoying herself. But still, she wouldn't let her conceit be noticed. She stared proudly at the man, as if to remind him this was her house, her plot, her land. She drew her eyes across him at length until he formed the exact expression she hoped he would.



''I'm sorry Miss,'' he said insistently. ''I like my plants as well. When I knew what they were... I just thought I'd help out,'' he confessed. ''If you want 'em somewhere else I can put 'em somewhere else?'' The man offered gruffly, his eyes rushing over hers. He then angled himself towards the garden.



Good. Better. She thought, subtly chewing the inside of her lip. At least the man had a sense of propriety.



Shaking her head, she insisted: ''No,'' coyly, curling her hands then across her bonnet, urging her curls to stay put. ''No, they're perfectly fine as they are for now. Would you... like a glass of milk?'' She wondered, turning towards the door, throwing him a look which she hoped was brief.



''If it's not too much trouble. That walk sure was somethin' else,'' he agreed, now taking off his cap to follow her inside.



''Then I'll be right out with it, Sir,'' she said, shutting the door on him quickly and shoving herself against it to keep it that way.



Inside, Carolina stood there, head slightly bowed, fussing with her curls beneath her bonnet. She felt the way her fingers were rough with grout. The sensation of mud across her cheek. Then the warmth along the back of her neck and how her hair stuck to her skin. He was quite something, that man. He reminded her of Officer Raymond in a way, though far less imperious. And raising her head, she slowly went across the porch in her muddy boots and ignored the trail she was making across the floor as she went to the kitchen and ran some water from beneath the faucet. She felt a little foolish for becoming so unbuckled just because a rugged workman had entered her yard. Not to mention how he'd hardly introduced himself before her thoughts went to his arms and the way he'd so eagerly began planting in her garden. Her palms ran with water as she attempted to scour away the dirt, and then, just as she felt herself growing frantic, she heard someone had begun to sing.

Her hands slowed.



Her thoughts died.



And then, turning towards the window, she stared through the glass with wonder.


Ginger was walking along the windowsill with her tail up, flirting with the man. He was singing to her with his back to the window, elbows set against the perch, the muscles of his back — like snakes beneath the cloth. Carolina stepped closer, watching as he he palmed his hat to his chest, did something with it, and then slapped it back onto his head. With her face to the glass, she saw the lazy, thoughtful look in Ginger's eyes; quite like the lazy, thoughtless expression she now wore. She could've stayed there forever listening to him. His voice was a low, heady purr, distinctly masculine, and yet filled with warmth.

Reaching towards the fridge, she leant down and poured the man an extra tall glass of ice cold milk before summoning the courage to make her way back to the garden.



''... Remember Carolina. He isn't Officer Raymond. Be civil,'' she reminded herself before stepping out of the house. Then taking a low breath, she summoned a smile as she reentered the garden.

* * *

Carolina sat with Grey on the porch. Her on her knees, sitting with her legs to one side; and him on the bench, dominating most of it. She was playing cards with him. They had already been talking for quite some time, perhaps an hour; and in that time, she had learned quite a lot about him. Meanwhile, the late evening was drawing close, and dusk was in her garden. Her deck looked a very supple red at this hour. Grey's boots were sitting on the cherrywood balcony. His feet were up and likewise, she had removed her Chelsea boots. They sat next to one another, little and large, with Ginger obsessively sniffing his shoes as the sun set behind her. Carolina's roses were leaning towards the last of it, basking in what little there was left like a group of redheaded young women enjoying the last notes of spring.



''So you were a merchant-sailor, a military man, and now you're telling me you were a county sheriff? That's quite a job list, Mister. Greyson,'' she said teasingly, folding yet another hand. The man was an imperceptible rogue. He had beaten her on eight accounts at Liar's Bluff. She simply could not tell when he was fibbing. ''I confess that I don't have the best reputation among men of the law, I find them rather too superior for my liking.''



''Well then, I best be off,'' he said curtly, though made no move to stand.



She let out a withdrawn laugh. Then grinning at him, he did the same in return.



''You're quite the devil, aren't you?'' She matched him at cards, and for once, he actually looked at his hand.



''I sincerely hope you don't think so,'' he chuckled uneasily, struggling with his cards.



For a moment, she was at a loss for words, feeling rather amused. Then leaning back from the cards on the deck, she cleared her throat excitedly and bit her lip.



He then put down a Jack, but she had a Queen.



''Ha!'' She said at once, rubbing the card into the deck with her thumb to crush his pathetic little soldier. He sighed at once, looking upwards with his eyes, and feigned utmost defeat. Then putting down his cards on the bench beside him, he shrugged.



''I suppose that's me cooked,'' he said softly, then tipped his hat to her. She felt rather giddy. And gathering up the cards, she shuffled the deck.



''Let's go again—?''



''That man. He's still out there...''



Carolina peered at him, then looked around.



Out beyond the fence, far across the street, and riding along the boundary of her wheat fields was a man riding a familiar black destrier. He carried a sword upon his hip, which was gleaming in the last light of the sun, and he seemingly couldn't take his eyes off the porch. Carolina could see them shining beneath the brim of his dark wool cap.



Tutting softly, Carolina said with a shake of her head.



''It's only the local lawman, Constable Raymond. He asked for my hand not a week ago. He likes to patrol here, I think more than the situation frankly demands it,'' she said with a thin narrowing of her eyebrows, scoffing as she dealt cards. But Grey hadn't taken them. Instead, he'd gotten to his feet. Walking across the deck, the man put a hand against the balcony and lifted the other to Raymond. The officer seemed to frown from atop his horse, then turning his mount about, begun riding towards them.



''Oh, what does he want!'' Carolina said in confusion and annoyance. She got up then, dusting herself down, and suddenly felt rather anxious. She wasn't fit to be seen by the Constable. She was still dirty from the garden and even a little giddy from Grey's good company. Why did he have to come and ruin it? Hurriedly, she stepped down from her porch and lightly jogged the garden.



''Constable Raymond,'' she said breathlessly, though with a hint of confusion in her voice. She held him to expectation, raising her eyebrows as she set her hands across her gate, as if that were a suggestion for him not to come in.



''Miss. Carolina. I was just seeing if you're quite alright?'' The man said from atop his horse, looking pointedly across the garden. He was in his officer's uniform. A dark blue felt jacket with white-laced buttons that dressed him all the way to his throat. She had once thought it a rather dashing uniform, but now she found it rather comical. He resembled one of the little tin soldiers children played with, in her opinion.



Grey came and stood at the head of the porch. He then leaned against the supports and frowned rather darkly. His eyes had a sharp edge them, and he was kneading his hat between his hands rather worriedly.



''Yes?'' Carolina said, glancing back towards the porch. ''Yes, I'm quite all right? Why do you ask?'' Carolina said, though not without demand. She certainly hoped it wasn't because of Mister. Greyson. Certainly he was a labourer and quite common, but not to the point where Raymond had to inquire as to her well-being?



''Pardon my saying Miss, but I happen to know that man over there from his reputation around Glensdale. I'm simply surprised to find him here so far up the Westbank, especially so late in the evening. How did he come to be here, if I may ask?''



''You most certainly will not,'' Carolina said defensively, shoving herself away from the gate. She turned up her nose at him, scoffing. ''I'll have you know I'm very well able to discern who to allow into my garden, Constable Raymond. And need I remind you that your jurisdiction ends at the Westbank. My property just so happens to be located just over the river crossing. Do not think I haven't noticed how you tour your little pony up here onto my wheatfields in order to check upon me!''



''Carolina, be civil. I don't know what on earth you're suggesting, but--'' the man said, his moustache quivering as he sat up in the saddle. For a moment, he shuffled anxiously with the reins. His lightly stubbled jaw had become the picture of pride.



''Miss Carolina, Constable Raymond,'' she reminded him sternly. Her freckles shone across her face as she then stepped away from the gate altogether. She then realised she had not worn any shoes down to the garden. But despite being dominated by the man in sheer size when mounted upon his horse, she was quite unintimidated and still very able to make her own decisions. ''I'll have you know that just because you made me a marriage offer does not give you the right to refer to me on such terms. Now please sir, return to your duty. Preferably across the river, where you belong; and leave the choosing of my house guests to me.''



She then turned on her feet, taking her skirts into her hands, and added as a quivering afterthought: ''... good day!'' Carolina then marched back through the garden, letting the man very well say his good-byes to her back.



''I'm so sorry,'' Grey said to her softly from the head of the porch as she marched past him. She glowered at him without intention, opened her front door, then threw herself inside; but left it all the way open for him to join her. Or not. She simply did not care in that moment and fancied herself craving the bitterness of a glass of whiskey instead.



Grey glanced down from the porch to where Officer Raymond still sat his horse. The man was glowering thoughtfully at him. Frowning lightly, Grey stepped inside and joined Carolina's after a moment's consideration, closing the door behind him.



* * *