by Dale Rogers
Wrapped in an old quilt, Caitlyn walked out of her bedroom and onto the small porch. Her bottom was still stinging a little and a few stray tears trickled from her eyes. She sat down in the antique oak rocking chair and gazed up at the deep Wyoming sky full of stars, many of which she had never seen before. In the distance, just below the horizon, she could barely make out the snowcapped summit of Sheep Mountain, majestically silhouetted against the darkness.
But she wasn't really thinking about stars or mountains. Rather her mind was filled with the memory of what happened only thirty minutes ago. The cowboy had spanked her - hard and fast. Even though he had warned her what would happen if she continued to display her rather non cooperative attitude, she still couldn't believe he actually did it. She had foolishly tested him, and now she had the sore bottom that proved he was a man of his word.
At first, she had cursed and called him every foul name she could think of. She told him she hated him, that she hoped he and his ranch would get sucked down into the bowels of Hell. But she didn't really mean the words she had so angrily spewed out like so much lava from an erupting volcano. In truth, in the ten days she had been at the Mitchell Creek Ranch, she had come to greatly admire Daniel Cartwright both for his work ethic and his integrity. She also couldn't help admiring the way he looked, the way his muscular body filled out his old jeans and western shirt, the manly way he walked and straddled his horse - a true cowboy, not at all like the drugstore cowboy wannabes she had known in Denver.
Still, he had spanked her. He spanked her until she cried real tears, something that she had rarely done in the past few turbulent years. And after he was finished spanking her, instead of taking her in his strong arms and holding her until she was calm again, he had simply dismissed her, sending her to her room with yet another warning to curb her behavior, a reminder that she would do things his way or go back to where she came from.
Now, she felt a strange mixture of anger, confusion, and frustration. She was angry over being spanked (even though she knew she deserved and had, in fact, provoked it), confused because he had summarily dismissed her, and frustrated because this beautiful hunk of a cowboy apparently took his role seriously and wouldn't make a move on her even if she wanted him to (which, at this moment, she did, in spite of her anger).
Safe and warm inside the big quilt, Caitlyn shifted her gaze to the black hole in front of her. Having lived her life up to now in the city, she had never seen a darkness this profound. It both scared her a little and filled her with awe. It also made her think about how she came to be here in the first place, how her life had turned on the spin of a bottle and the benevolence of a judge. She sat back in the comfortable old rocker and allowed herself to drift back in time, to remember.
It wasn't the view of Denver that Caitlyn Nichols ever wanted to wake up to. Rather than the majestic Rocky Mountains or the impressive skyline of downtown or the tree-lined streets of nearby Boulder where she had grown up, she opened her eyes to the glare of a florescent light in a high ceiling, four dirty yellow cinder block walls, and an iron door with a small window near the top.
Slowly and painfully, she sat up on the thin bare mattress and rubbed her eyes to clear her vision. In one corner of the room were a small sink and toilet made of dull metal. She rose to her feet and tested her legs. She wobbled for a second, nearly toppling backward onto the bunk, then righted herself and took a tentative step toward the toilet.
Caitlyn glanced down at herself while she was moving and saw that she was wearing a short plain blue dress with small dark stains on the front. The thin cotton smelled of beer, and for an instant she gagged reflexively. She also noted that her feet were bare and cold against the concrete floor. She felt miserable and very much alone.
She used the toilet, and while she sat, tried desperately to remember what happened. She knew she was in a holding cell in one of the Denver police stations. She even recognized the cell as one she may have been in before. However, what she didn't know was how she got here - this time.
When she was finished, she stood up, splashed some cold water on her face, and walked over to the window in the door. She looked out and saw an empty corridor. She had no idea what time it was or even what day it was. "Hey," she shouted. Her voice echoed in the emptiness. "Hey, anyone," she shouted again, a little louder this time.
"Hey, yourself," a harsh female voice down the hall answered. "Shut up!"
Caitlyn bristled for an instant but realized quickly that she was in no condition to engage in a verbal battle with some unknown woman, probably feeling the same way she did, nauseous and hungover. She stepped away from the window and resumed her seat on the bunk. She put her heavy head between her hands and tried to think.
Slowly, fragments of disjointed memories appeared and began to form themselves into some kind of distorted whole. She seemed to remember going into the Carson Alley Bar and Grill, probably around five-thirty, her usual time. She remembered stepping up to the long unpolished bar and ordering a drink from Troy, the middle-aged bartender and probably her last remaining friend in the world - or at least the only one left who would listen to her as long as she kept ordering drinks and paid her tab.
She thought she might have had two or three (or maybe three or four) quick shots of straight bourbon and eaten a greasy hamburger while sitting at the bar, watching the other patrons, mostly regulars like herself.
She took a deep breath, almost a sigh, as she tried to recall what happened after her third (or possibly fourth) bourbon. Did she engage in conversation with Tex, the drugstore cowboy with the cheap and perpetually dirty boots? Or did she stupidly come on to Jason, the day laborer down on his luck who dressed like a homeless person and smelled like one too?
She brushed a hand across her face and felt a sharp pain when her fingers touched her upper lip. What the hell happened last night? But it was hopeless. She couldn't remember anything after her fourth (or possibly fifth) drink. After a few minutes, she gave up and lay back down on the mattress. She fell into an uneasy sleep.
Caitlyn awoke some time later to the sound of voices in the corridor outside her cell. She sat up and cautiously opened her narrow blue eyes, squinting against the insistent glare of the overhead light. For an instant, she wondered if she was dreaming and shook herself to clear her head.
A face appeared at the little window in the door. Through the frame, she could see that the face belonged to a relatively young woman with rough skin and dark eyes. Caitlyn was about to say something to the face when the door opened and a big woman dressed in a guard uniform stepped in. She was holding a set of handcuffs in her right hand.
"All right, Nichols," the guard said, glaring at Caitlyn. "Get up and put your hands behind your back. If you need to take a leak, this is the time."
Caitlyn shook herself one more time just to make sure this wasn't some horrible nightmare, compliments of last night's drunken debauchery. "Wh-where are we going?" she managed to ask once she was convinced this was really happening.
"Judge Kincaid wants to see you and he don't like to be kept waiting," the guard replied gruffly.
Slowly, Caitlyn pushed herself up and off the bed. When she was standing, reflexively she attempted to smooth down her dress and unkempt long dark hair. But the gesture was ultimately futile.
The guard flashed a small smile that was more like a sneer. "You look like shit, Nichols. Too bad you don't have time to clean yourself up. But I guess you should've thought of that before." She shook the handcuffs in Caitlyn's direction. "Now, let's go. We haven't got all day."
Caitlyn nodded and stepped closer to the guard. As instructed, she put her hands behind her back and was immediately cuffed.
Confident that her charge was safely secured, the guard pushed Caitlyn roughly out of the cell and into a corridor that was even more brightly lit than the cell. Caitlyn narrowed and lowered her eyes to the dirty linoleum floor and allowed herself to be led past a series of gray iron doors set in the same dirty yellow cinder block walls. As they moved past the last cell door and approached a door with iron bars, Caitlyn dared to look at the guard and saw that her nametag read 'Whipple'.
"Guard Whipple," she said in the most controlled voice she could manage. It came out sounding more like the croak of a frog.
The guard turned. "What?"
"What time is it?"
Whipple glanced at her wristwatch. "Almost eight."
"In the morning?"
"Are you serious?" Whipple said gruffly.
Caitlyn nodded. "Yes, I'm serious," she said a bit indignantly. "There are no windows or clocks in this place, and I don't remember getting here."
The guard stopped just short of the door, wrapped her hand around Caitlyn's thin left upper arm, and squeezed hard. "Mind your manners, Nichols," she said. "And that wasn't police brutality, just a friendly reminder."
Caitlyn composed herself. The hard pinch to her arm didn't really hurt but it did surprise her a little. "Thanks, I'll try to remember it."
Whipple huffed and turned back to the door. "Prisoner transfer," she called out to a guard on the other side. "Number 4263, Caitlyn Nichols." The door opened and Whipple pushed Caitlyn through and into another corridor. "See that you do remember it," she muttered.
"Yes, ma'am," Caitlyn said, but without much sincerity. She still didn't know whether it was morning or night. As she walked (or rather allowed herself to be led), she wanted to ask more questions, questions that might serve to lift the fog still surrounding her brain. But she sensed that Guard Whipple didn't know anything beyond her instructions and was in no mood for conversation, polite or otherwise.
After another minute or two of moving through a maze of locked doors, they reached a part of the building with windows and people. Caitlyn could see that it was light outside, and her question about morning or night was finally answered. It didn't make her feel any better.
They were met by another burly female dressed in a bailiff uniform. "Good morning, Fran," the bailiff said. She eyed Caitlyn. "Is this Ms. Nichols?"
"So they tell me," Whipple replied.
"All right. Uncuff her. I'll take her from here." The bailiff moved her eyes back and forth between the guard and Caitlyn.
Whipple took a small key from her belt and unlocked the handcuffs. "Have a nice day, Nichols," she said derisively. "And remember what I said." She turned to the bailiff. "She's all yours, Judy."
"Thanks, Fran," the bailiff said. Once the guard was gone, she regarded Caitlyn again. "Ms. Nichols, I'm Judy Taggart, the bailiff for Judge Kincaid. I have to say that you look terrible. All I can offer you at this time is an orange prison jumpsuit and a hairbrush, but that's got to be better than what you're wearing. I see you need some shoes as well. I'll see what I can find. Can you clean yourself up and change in ten minutes?"
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