The Promise (15 page)

The old hands' quarters still stood across the way,
its walls and roof looking just as dilapidated as they did in his
time. Pete's haven. The old man wouldn't hear of any improvements,
no matter how much Michael argued that he needed them. He almost
expected Pete to be in the painting.

The corral, the out buildings, all of it. Clune.

"When did your grandfather buy it?"

"I don't know for sure. I think his father bought it
actually, sometime in the '20's. The 1920's," she added
sheepishly.

"Do you know whose it was before that?"

"Not really. It belonged to one of the founders of
the town, I think. Someone named Preston."

"Prescott?" Michael felt the hair on his arms start
to rise.

"Yeah. That's it. The library's named after him." She
chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. "I don't think he was the
original owner, though. I think some Scottish fellow homesteaded
it." She met his gaze. "I'm sorry, I…" Recognition dawned. Her eyes
dropped to the sgian dubh fastened to his belt. "You're Scottish.
Macpherson. My grandfather's ranch is yours?"

He nodded. "Clune."

"Oh my God."

"Do you still own it?"

"Yes, but I lease it to some people who've turned it
into a retreat for fishermen. That's why I live up at the
cabin."

His head was spinning. How had Owen wound up with his
ranch? Had Patrick sold it to him? The boy was never interested in
ranching. Another more sobering thought occurred to him. Maybe
something had happened to Patrick. Patrick and Owen had always been
close. Especially after his mother left. If anything happened to
Patrick, his brother would definitely leave the ranch to Owen.

Not that Owen would have any particular interest in
it. But Owen was a sentimental man. He'd keep it just to remember.
Michael ran a hand through his hair, alarm racing through him. What
the hell had happened? Unanswered questions rattled around in his
brain. Suddenly, he felt an overwhelming urge to run, to try and
get home.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked down into clear
green eyes.

"I know this is hard for you. I wish I knew what to
do to help."

Get me the hell out of here
. He shook his
head, dispelling his panic and pulled her close, inhaling her soft
scent, letting her warmth soothe his soul. Tomorrow he'd find out
what he could and then head back to the tunnel. But right now he
wanted to be here, with Cara.

*****

"Can I see
The Promise
?"

Cara tipped back her head, trying to focus on his
words not his body. "Of course. It's the only one still not
crated." She led the way to the back, a work area separated from
the gallery by screens. Her head still reeled with the knowledge
that her grandfather's ranch—her ranch now—had actually belonged to
Michael.

"We call it the Meadows."

"What?" Michael's breath was warm on her neck as he
stopped behind her.

She turned, looking up into the deep blue velvet of
his eyes. "The ranch, it's known as the Meadows now."

Michael smiled and brushed a strand of hair back from
her face. She resisted the urge to capture his strong fingers in
hers. "Clune is Gaelic, Cara. In English, it means meadow."

"I just can't believe I grew up in your house. That
somehow, my home is—"

"
My
home. It seems we're attached in more ways
than we even imagined." He traced the curve of her lip with his
thumb.

She sucked in a breath and tried for a lighter note.
"
The Promise
is behind you."

She watched as he turned slowly around, his shoulders
tightening as he took in the scene depicted in the painting. She
wanted to rub the tension out of his shoulders, to soothe the worry
away, but she couldn't find the courage to move. This was so far
beyond anything she had ever experienced. And if she felt
overwhelmed, she could only imagine what Michael was feeling.

"There's nothing left."

At first she was confused, but then she realized he
was talking about the painting. "No. It's almost gone. I'm
surprised I even found it."

"Maybe you were supposed to find it. You said you
felt drawn to it, maybe it wasn't just a feeling."

A shiver ran up her spine and she suddenly felt
chilled. "Is it your father's mine?"

"Yes. This is the upper entrance. There's another one
below here." He pointed to the cliff edge. "On the side of the
mountain. My father spent most of his life looking for the mother
lode. The Promise was supposed to be his dream come true. It
assayed out at hundred ounces of silver per ton. Even for
Silverthread that was rich."

She moved to stand beside him, entranced by the
painting, lost in his memories. "Why did he name it the
Promise?"

A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth.
"For my mother. She'd been after him for years to settle down. And
he kept promising he would as soon as he hit it big."

"So it was his promise to her." She studied the
painting. "What happened?"

"The mine played out. And my mother ran away with the
profits."

Cara flinched at the bitterness in his voice.

"She was always the center of our family, my mother.
Rose O'Malley. We all adored her. But no one could have loved her
like my father." He reached for her hand, holding it tightly, his
eyes still locked on the painting. "My father had two partners.
Owen Prescott, an old family friend and a man named Zachariah
Bowen. Zach was a muleskinner."

"Muleskinner?" The name did not conjure a pretty
picture.

Michael smiled. "He drove a wagon for one of the
freight companies in town. They call them muleskinners because to
get down the mountain in one piece the driver had to be pretty
handy with his whip. Using it to control the team of horses—"

"Or mules." She finished for him.

"Right. Anyway, Zach was young and a hard worker, so
my father was glad to have the help. Since the mine was isolated,
they did most of the work by hand. It was too expensive to carry
the ore out of the mountains, so my father built a crude smelter on
site."

"I don't understand."

"Silver is mixed with loads of other minerals. So the
oar often weighs tons. Getting it out of there would have cost
almost more than the silver was worth. Especially after the mine
played out. Anyway, the idea was to smelt the ore at the mine, and
reduce the size of the load to be shipped."

"Wasn't it dangerous to keep the silver at the
mine?"

"Safer than a bank actually. You've been up there. It
was hard to find, and even harder to reach. Even Owen never went up
there."

"But I thought he was a partner."

"Silent partner, mainly. He bankrolled my father. I
don't think he ever spent any real time up at the mine." He
squeezed her hand, but Cara could see that he didn't really even
remember she was there. "Anyway, once the mine played out, it was
time to sell the silver."

"Was there a lot?"

"Not really. We'd sold some already. To makes ends
meet. And to continue working. There was enough left to fill the
wagon."

"But the stories make it sound like there was more—a
treasure."

"Even when the mine was new there were stories like
that." He smiled, caught up in the memories. "And my father didn't
help. He loved to spin a story. To hear him tell it, the Promise
was going to be the new El Dorado."

"Except silver instead of gold."

"Right. Anyway, there wasn't anything close to a
fortune. But there was enough to have gotten by for a long
time."

"So the last of the ore was smelted?" Cara said,
picking up the story again.

"Yes. Each one stamped with a rose."

"For your mother?"

He nodded. "My father's tribute. It was a surprise.
He didn't tell a soul, not even Owen. Just unveiled it there on the
mountain for her." He smiled with the memory. "She was so pleased.
My father's dreams—our family's dreams—finally coming true. I can
still see them standing there, arms locked around one another. It
was a magic moment, Cara."

"Then how can you believe—" She met his eyes, shaken
by the pain she saw reflected there.

"I had no choice." He stood there, staring at the
painting again, lost in the past, and she thought for a moment that
he wasn't going to continue, but then he drew a deep breath, his
shoulders tightening. "We crated the silver, and then Zach and I
loaded the crates onto the wagon. He was going to drive it down the
mountain to the railroad station."

"Where was Owen?" It didn't really matter, but she
wanted to reach Michael somehow, remind him that he wasn't alone
with his memories.

His gaze met hers, some of the pain easing from his
face. He turned back to the painting. "He was meeting us at the
station. Even at the end, he didn't have time to come up the
mountain." Cara felt tears well up in her eyes. His voice was so
bitter.

"Mother asked Zach if she could ride along as far as
Silverthread. She kissed my father, gave me a hug, then hopped up
on the wagon and blew kisses at us until they were out of sight."
He paused, wiping a hand angrily across his face. "I never saw her
again."

Cara waited for more, but the silence hung between
them as heavy as a wet blanket. Finally, she asked the question,
not knowing for sure if she wanted to hear the answer. "What
happened?"

"She ran off with Zach Bowen and took the silver with
her."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." His voice was harsh. "I didn't
believe it at first, wouldn't believe it. But the evidence was
there. First Owen saw it and then my father. Finally, I had no
choice but to accept it."

She ran a hand along his cheek. "I know a little
about that. What it's like to refuse to believe something and have
people keep pounding it into your head, insisting that their
version of reality is the truth."

He covered her hand, drawing it to his lips for a
kiss, his eyes gentle again. "But in your case, they were
wrong."

"Maybe your mother—"

"No. The evidence was real. She deserted us for a
comely man and a wagonload of silver bars." He dropped her hand and
shrugged. "It was a long time ago." She watched as the absolute
truth of what he'd just said sank in. "A hell of a long time
ago."

Cara exhaled slowly, her heart breaking for him. "Can
you help me get this into the crate?" She kept her voice matter of
fact.

Together they eased the painting into its wooden box.
When it was finally lodged safely inside, the air in the room
seemed to brighten and the somber mood dissipated, as though the
painting itself had evoked the memories and accompanying
emotions.

"Come on, let's go get something to eat." Maybe
discovering pizza would help keep his mind off the past, at least
for a while.

*****

"If you liked pizza, just wait until you try
Ben and Jerry's chocolate fudge brownie ice cream." Cara swung
their joined hands between them, a satisfied smile on her face.

Again, he had the feeling that this was life as it
was supposed to be, the most pressing issue what to eat for
dessert. But he had a life elsewhere, responsibilities, and Cara
had a life here. As if to punctuate the thought, Nick Vargas
stepped out of a sleek automobile parked by the curb a few feet in
front of them.

"Cara, darling." Nick strode toward them, a smile
breaking across his face. Michael noticed that it failed to reach
his eyes. "How wonderful to see you here." He ran his hungry gaze
over Cara. Michael tightened his hold on her hand, feeling suddenly
proprietary. "Why don't you and
your friend
join me for a
drink? It'll be my treat. An apology for this afternoon."

"It's a lovely thought, Nick. But we can't. I'm
determined to introduce Michael to ice cream."

"Introduce?"

Michael jumped in, trying to cover Cara's blunder and
avoid further questions. "Yes, Cara tells me that Belle's has
particularly good ice cream. Something called Ben and Jerry's?" The
irony of the fact that Belle's was a prosperous bordello in his
time, did not escape him. It seemed the building was predestined
for confections of one kind or another.

"Pity. I could have showed Michael the bar."

Michael frowned, and looked at Cara in askance.

"Nick owns the Blue Spruce. It's the only bar in
town." She pointed behind them at a building across the street.
Michael felt the hairs on his arm rise. It was the Irish Rose.

Everything different. Everything the same.

He felt suddenly like he had fallen deep into a
nightmare and couldn't wake up. As if sensing his feelings Cara
squeezed his hand. "Maybe another time, Nick. But it's late. I
think it's ice cream and then home for me."

"All right. I'll let you off this time." Nick smiled
at Cara, his expression relaxing. It was almost as if they'd passed
some kind of test. "But next time you're in town, the drinks are on
me, Cara mia." Nick's words caressed her, and Michael fought the
urge to slug him.

Perhaps sensing his animosity, the man shifted his
icy gaze to Michael, sizing him up. "You said your name's
Macpherson, didn't you? I think there used to be a family around
here by that name. Any relation?"

"No." No sense in giving the man ammunition against
Cara. Besides it was none of his damn business.

"Hmm…" Nick pulled out a silver pocket watch and
checked the time. "Well, much as I've enjoyed our little chat, I'm
afraid I've got to run. I'm expecting some friends at the bar, and
it would be rude not to be there to greet them. I'll call you
later, darling." He tipped an imaginary hat at Cara and was gone,
disappearing into the night.

"Ice cream then?" Cara tried for light-hearted and
missed by a mile.

Still, it was nice to walk up the street with her. If
he ignored the assortment of odd items displayed in the windows, he
could almost believe he was walking down the street in
his
own time.
Almost
.