The Promise (25 page)

"Cran what?" She tried to say the name but
failed.

"Crannog Mhór. It means lake dwelling. To hear my
father talk about it, it must be the most beautiful place in the
world. It's real remote. Up in a mountain valley somewhere."

"That would explain why he liked it here."

"I never thought about it one way or the other, but I
imagine you're right."

"So what made him leave, if he loved it so much?"

"Well, like I said, there was the adventure of it.
That, and the fact that he was the fourth son. His brother Calum
was set to inherit." Patrick shrugged. "And there were two more in
line after that. So he set off for America."

"And landed in New York. He told me a little of
it."

"Yeah. That's where he hooked up with Owen. They were
just boys really. Younger than me. But they hit it off.
Complimented each other really. I mean Father has always had his
dreams, but not really any focus, and Owen, he's always been the
practical one. Their friendship just seemed a natural thing. And
Owen, well, he's always been there for all of us. Many was the time
when the money he made put a roof over our heads and food in our
mouth."

"You're close to Owen, aren't you?"

He nodded. "Since my mother left us, Owen has been
more a father to me than my own. For a while he was the only one I
could talk to. Michael was too angry. And Father was too drunk."
Bitterness rose in him, its sour taste almost physical.

"But he wasn't always like that."

Patrick smiled, remembering. "Oh, no. Once upon a
time, Duncan Macpherson was a charmer. His smile could light a
room, and he could make you believe anything was possible."

"Was New York where Duncan met your mother?"

Patrick smiled. "Yup. According to my father, she was
the prettiest girl in the city. And I reckon it's a mighty big
city."

"Her name was Rose?"

"Just like the flower. Hell, she even smelled like
roses." He inhaled deeply, remembering the sweet scent that had
marked his mother. "She was just off the boat herself, from
Ireland, waiting tables at a place called Paddy's. That's who I'm
named for."

"A bar?"

"No, the man who ran the place. My mother always said
he was an angel."

"And that's where your father fell in love with your
mother?"

"To hear him tell it, it was a magical thing. One
look and he knew she was the woman for him. Owen says it wasn't
quite as magical as my father would have us believe. According to
his version of the story, it took quite a bit of wooing on my
father's part."

"And what did your mother say?"

Patrick fought a wave of sadness. He'd loved his
mother more than anyone in the world. "She'd always say that Duncan
Macpherson was the finest gentleman in the whole world, and that
she was the lucky one. I really believed she loved him,
Loralee."

She squeezed his hand. "I imagine that she really
did."

They sat together in the moonlight, listening to the
whisper of the wind in the pines, and Patrick thought, just for a
moment, that maybe she really had. Maybe she'd loved them all. His
heart contracted in anguish. But if she'd loved them, then how
could she have ever left them—left
him
?

"Were you born in New York?" Loralee asked, breaking
the silence.

"No. Michael was. But tempers started flaring between
the north and south. Owen and my father decided they didn't want to
fight a war they had no stomach for, so they high-tailed it to the
gold fields."

"California?" She shifted slightly, her hand still
warm in his.

"Um hmm. I was born in a shanty in some long
forgotten boomtown. We kicked around California for awhile, until
the gold got scarce and folks started talking about Colorado."

"Silver." She said the word almost with
reverence.

"Except, of course, we never seemed to be able to
find any."

"Until the Promise."

"Yeah, fat lot of good it did us."

She looked up at him, her wide eyes filled with
concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to dredge up old memories."

"It's all right. They seem to have a way of coming up
all by themselves anyway." Which brought them full circle.

If the Promise hadn't failed, maybe his mother would
still be around. And if she were still here, then his father
wouldn't have become a drunk. And he and Loralee would certainly
never have hooked up. And then she wouldn't be in danger.

He blew out a sigh. Yup, everything always seemed to
lead back to the Promise.

Michael reached the clearing and began
methodically searching the far bank of Shallow Creek for the blue
spruce. It wasn't particularly easy. There were plenty of the trees
mixed in among the aspens. And the course of the stream was
different than it had been in his time.

The changes seemed to mock him, pointing out with
painful clarity the precariousness of his situation. Lost in time.
It sounded like the name of a dime novel, not reality.

He blew out a breath and tried to concentrate on his
search. One spruce in particular, kept catching his eye. It towered
above the others, its limbs fanning down to the ground. Something
about the rocks jutting out beside it rang a bell. The little
scraggly tree of his memory had filled out majestically.

He started to cross the creek, then stopped short,
his mind filled with a picture of Cara disappearing into the
gallery minutes before it exploded. He let out a string of words
fit for the crustiest miner. He was a fool. Letting her go alone
had been a mistake. Especially with Nick Vargas out there.

He spun around and headed back toward the cabin.
Hopefully, he was just making a mountain out of a mole hill. She'd
come bursting through the brush any minute. Fifteen minutes later,
he wasn't as sure. Cursing himself, he increased his pace, fear
lancing through him. Oh God, he prayed, let her be all right.

*****

"What are you doing here?" Cara tried to keep
the tremor out of her voice, but only succeeded partially.

Nick smiled, a slow, lazy smile that never reached
his eyes. "I think you already know that."

Cara felt the hairs on her arms rise. Why hadn't she
seen the truth about him before? "You took my paintings." She was
amazed at how calm her voice sounded. It wasn't everyday she had a
gun pointed in her face.

He sounded amused. "Well, I did try to buy them. I
told you that honest heart of yours would get you in trouble.
Where's the boy toy?"

"He's not here."

"This gets better and better, Cara mia. How
delightful to have you all to myself." There was a caress in his
voice that sent shivers of dread down her spine. He frowned. "Of
course I'll still have to deal with Mr. Macpherson." He spat the
name out like it was a curse. "But first, I'll have the pleasure of
dealing with you." The lecherous look was back. "Come here,
darling." He motioned her forward with the gun.

It took everything she had to hold her ground. "I'm
not coming anywhere near you."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, darling." He was
across the room before she could blink, his free hand closing
around her wrist. She would never have guessed he was capable of
moving so quickly. He pulled her close, the barrel on the gun
digging into her ribs, his warm breath fanning across her face.

"Back off, Nick." She gritted her teeth and tried to
wrench her wrist free.

"I hardly think you're in a position to be giving me
orders." He twisted her arm behind her, pulling her even closer,
her hand pinned against her back. He traced the tip of the gun
along one breast, then used the barrel to work the buttons on her
shirt free. "I've been waiting for this a long time."

*****

A scream split the air.

Michael broke into a full run, leaping over the fence
into the yard. His brain clicked into gear, just as he was starting
to bound onto the porch. No sense in tipping his hand. He swerved
to the side, bending low to the ground.

The Jeep was parked at the side of the house. He
moved to its far side, inching the door slowly open. The rifle was
still hanging against the back window. Reaching for it, he prayed
that whoever was inside wasn't looking out the window.

His hand closed around the stock and he lifted it
carefully out of the brackets. He had to admit, it felt good to
have it in his hand. There was definitely something equalizing
about carrying a weapon, no matter what century a man occupied.

He slid along the side of the house, ducking under
the window. Slowly, slowly, he inched his way up, until he could
see into the room. He choked back a cry of rage. Vargas had Cara
trapped, his gun at her… He clenched a fist. The bastard would
pay.

He ducked back down and slipped around the corner to
the rear of the house. The bedroom window was cracked open
slightly. He heaved a sigh of relief and shoved it higher. He
tossed the rifle onto the bed and he threw a leg over the sill.
Dropping onto the floor, he retrieved the gun and edged forward
toward the open door.

*****

Cara closed her eyes, trying to think what to
do. Nick's hand was firmly holding her captive, threatening to snap
her wrist each time she tried to rebel against his ministrations.
She squirmed against him as the hand with the gun dipped lower,
tracing a path against the bare skin of her abdomen.

"You didn't realize a weapon could be used with love,
did you, Cara mia?"

She heard the slide of her zipper and sucked in her
stomach as cold, hard steel rubbed against soft skin. "What you're
doing has nothing whatsoever to do with love, Nick."

"You disappoint me, Cara, I thought you were more
adventurous." He kissed her, forcing her mouth open and drilling
into her with his tongue.

Cara gagged and tried to wrench her head away.
Yanking her free arm from between them, she dug her nails into his
skin. He jerked back, a queer smile lighting his face, a trail of
blood along his cheek. She sucked in a ragged breath, realizing
she'd played right into his hands. The man got off on pain.

"So the lady likes it rough." He jammed the gun
upward, digging into her tender flesh. "Do you realize, darling,
that if I were to pull the trigger now, you would be shattered
inside and out?" He waited, watching her, wanting a reaction.

She bit her lip and met his gaze full on, trying to
keep her emotions in check. She'd be damned if she'd add to his
pleasure.

He frowned and moved the gun muzzle up to the tender
skin under her chin. "But then, we don't want things to go too
quickly, do we? After all we're still waiting for your man of the
hour." He pushed the pistol into her neck, pressing it against her
larynx. Then he slid around so that he was behind her, her body
pressed against him, her arm trapped between them.

"Let her go, Vargas."

"Ah, Macpherson, right on time," Nick jeered. "I've
been expecting you."

"I said to let her go."

Cara had never seen Michael look so angry. He held
the rifle pointed at them, his stance stiff and unyielding. His
eyes were narrowed into thin slits of cobalt, and if the old adage
that looks could kill was true, then Nick Vargas was a dead
man.

The gun bit into her throat. "I hardly think you have
the upper hand here, Macpherson. If you don't want to see Cara's
brains splattered about this charming living room, I suggest you
drop the Rambo imitation and the gun."

Cara wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the
situation. Michael didn't even know who Rambo was. She heard the
click of the safety being removed and held her breath.

Michael dropped the rifle, but kept his tense stance,
looking a lot like a snake about to strike. "All right, I've
dropped it, now let her go."

"Well, now, that would be a mistake, wouldn't it?
Just the edge you need." Nick's voice was even and pleasant as if
they were attending a dinner party together. "Kick it over
here."

Michael kicked the rifle and it spun away to the
left.

Nick watched the rifle slide across the wooden floor.
"Not very good at following orders, but it will have to do. I know
who you are, Macpherson."

Cara sucked in a breath and watched as Michael
stiffened. How could Nick possibly know?

"Did you think I wouldn't recognize the name? I had
your family thoroughly investigated, but obviously the buffoon
missed a branch. According to him, the only Macphersons left are in
some godforsaken lake valley in Scotland."

"Crannog Mhór."

"Whatever." Nick waved the gun. "The point is I have
no intention of sharing my find with you."

"Find?" The words popped out before Cara could stop
herself.

Nick slammed the gun back into place at her neck.
"Why yes, Cara, treasure beyond my wildest dreams."

"What treasure?" Michael spat the words out.

"Remember, Mr. Macpherson, curiosity killed the
cat
." Nick's eyes narrowed, his voice malevolent. "But then
I suppose there's no harm in the telling. Dead cat's tell no tales
after all." He tightened his hold on Cara, his breath hot against
her temple.

"It all began with the fact that little boys are
great listeners. And doddering old men love to talk. One in
particular." Nick sneered. "My grandfather. He spent his days in
the bar. And I spent my days at his feet.
Listening
.

"It seems
his
father, a cowboy named Amos, was
obsessed with finding the silver from a lost mine. A fortune in
silver to hear him tell it. Anyway, my grandfather inherited the
obsession. Sadly, he died before he could find it." His voice held
no remorse. "So the quest passed to me, along with his worldly
goods. And until recently I was cursed with his bad luck.." Nick
sighed. "you see, there's been the little problem of finding the
mine."