The Promise (26 page)

"The Promise."

"A star for the boy toy."

Michael frowned. "That's why you wanted Cara's
paintings."

"They were really just insurance." Nick relaxed his
hold and Cara tried to struggle free. "Do hold still, darling." He
twisted his hand, turning her wrist until she thought it would
snap. An involuntary moan slipped between her clenched teeth.
Michael's look turned murderous.

"Insurance against what?" Michael growled.

"Perhaps I should have said back-up. You see, Cara
here is the real prize." Michael took a step forward. "I'd stop, if
I were you." Michael held his ground. "Now, I know you have the
hots for our little girl. Truth be told, so do I." He dropped a
kiss on the top of her head. "But she is oh so much more important
than that. You see Cara can take me to the Promise."

"There's nothing to take you to, Vargas. There is no
silver. It was stolen long ago."

"That's what you'd like me to believe, isn't it? But
I think your appearance here, is testament to the fact that there's
something up there. And Cara here is going to show me the way."

"She doesn't remember where it is," Michael said.
"But I do."

"Rubbish. But a good try, Macpherson. In fact, the
truth is you have absolutely no value at all. So…" He slowly
pointed the gun at Michael.

Cara reacted instantaneously. She slammed her free
hand into Nick's arm and bent back her leg, driving her foot into
his groin with all the force she could muster. He grunted in pain
and relaxed his grip. She wrenched free just as a shot rang
out.

She ran for the rifle as Michael dove for Vargas,
Nick's shot ricocheting harmlessly off a wall. Circling Nick's gun
hand with steely fingers, Michael shoved him backward. They
struggled and the gun went off again, the bullet embedding itself
in the ceiling. Cara scooped up the rifle, but realized that the
two men were too tangled for her to get a clear shot.

They continued to wrestle, each, from Cara's vantage
point, seeming to hold his own ground. Somehow, Nick managed to
twist their arms around so that the gun was between them, pointed
at Michael. Cara froze, watching as an unholy smile lit Nick's
face.

"Michael." She screamed his name in warning. He
reacted instantly, managing to turn Vargas' hand just as the gun
exploded. The sound reverberated through the room. Nothing moved.
Gripping the rifle, she inched forward, her heart beating a frantic
cadence in her ears.

One of the bodies moved, disentangling itself from
the other. "Michael?" Her voice came out a croak. She seemed to be
incapable of saying anything but his name. Dropping the rifle, she
threw herself at the man standing before her.

His arms locked around her, and she heard him
murmuring her name over and over. She breathed his scent, feeling
the press of tears now that the danger had passed. They stood
locked together, for a minute, an eternity, content to simply feel
the other breathe.

Finally, she tipped back her head, meeting his
blue-black gaze. Blood streaked his cheek and she reached to wipe
it away with gentle fingers.

"Is he dead?"

"I think so." He pulled away and walked toward the
body. Nick lay face down, blood staining the floor.

Suddenly she felt sick. "Don't touch him. Let's just
get out of here. Please." She felt the world start to spin. Michael
caught her just as her knees gave way, swinging her into his arms.
He started for the door. And she remembered their mission. "The
pendant."

He nodded and deposited her gently near the door to
the mud room. "Stay here."

She leaned against the wall and smiled weakly. "Don't
worry."

He dashed into the bathroom and was back in an
instant, handing her the necklace. "Shouldn't we call the sheriff?"
He jerked his head toward Nick's body.

"Not now. There isn't time. It's already nearing
sunset. And if we're right about time being the same then tomorrow
is the day."

Michael's face tightened. "All right. Let's go."

*****

"It's not working." Cara was exhausted,
driven on only by her overriding need to help him get back to his
brother.

Michael looked as tired as she felt. "I've been in
and out of this blasted tunnel in every conceivable way. I don't
know what else to do." He sank down on a rock in the entrance,
staring off at the orange rays of the sinking sun.

There wasn't much time left and they didn't even have
a flashlight. She rubbed her arm. It ached where Nick had twisted
it, but, thank God, nothing was broken. "We've just got to try
again. It has to work." She reached for the pendant, surprised when
it wasn't there. "Michael, the necklace. It's not here."

"What?"

"
It's not here
." She met his gaze then dropped
to the ground, frantically searching for the pendant. A sparkle
beneath the rock caught her eye. She smiled and reached for it,
surprised to see how much her hand trembled. She grabbed the chain,
but somehow, between her shaking hand and the finely wrought
silver, she managed to drop it.

It clattered against the floor of the tunnel and
rolled deeper into the mine. Cara watched it disappear, but her
tired body was slow to respond.

Michael moved faster, heading into the tunnel after
the necklace. "Cara. Come here." The words were sharp, and pulled
her immediately out of her lethargy. She stepped into the faint
light of the tunnel. Michael was standing with the pendant in his
hand. It had evidently split in the fall.

Heartbroken, she met his gaze. "I broke it?" She'd
meant the words as a statement, but they came out a plea. What had
she done?

"No." His whispered words were almost reverent. "It's
a locket, Cara. The fall must have triggered the mechanism holding
it closed."

"A locket?" She felt stupid. All she seemed to be
able to do was mumble questions.

"Yes." He extended his hand and even in the growing
shadows she could see that the broken pieces were in fact the two
halves of the locket, still joined by a slender hinge.

"Is anything in it?" She held her breath, not knowing
what to expect. She'd never even realized the pendant was a
locket.

"Yes." Again his tone bordered on amazement.

"What?" She snapped the word out impatiently. God,
she needed sleep.

"Well, there are two locks of hair. And a note."

"There's a note?" She was back to repeating. She
swallowed and tried to pull her brain online. "What does it
say?"

"I don't know. It looks like a code of some kind.
But, Cara, I recognize the handwriting."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention
as a chill splintered down her spine. "Whose writing is it?"

"My father's."

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could
even formulate her thought, a strong arm wrapped around her throat
and she felt the cold metal of a gun against her back. "I'll take
that, Macpherson."

Nick.

She twisted her head around, trying to see him and
wished she hadn't. His face was caked with blood, distorting his
features. His mouth was swollen and twisted, making him seem almost
inhuman.

Michael took a step forward, his hand clenched in
anger.

"Oh please. Let's not go through this again." Nick
shifted the gun to Cara's head. "Give me the locket or it's all
over for your lovely girlfriend."

Michael held out the necklace. Keeping the gun firmly
against her temple, Nick released his hold on her throat and
reached for the pendant. "The paper, too. What do you take me for,
a fool?"

Michael's mouth tightened into a grim line, but he
held out the note. Nick snatched it and, with a hard shove, sent
her sprawling toward Michael. Everything after that happened in an
instant.

Michael snarled and dove forward just as Nick shot
twice at the ceiling. There was a loud rumble and then the entire
earth seemed to move. Rocks and debris from the tunnel rained down
on her.

She huddled on the floor, trying ineffectually to
cover her head, surprised to hear someone screaming. It was a
moment before she realized the blood curdling sound came from her
own throat.

A solid chunk of rock crashed against the back of her
head sending shards of white light dancing through her brain. She
struggled to hold onto consciousness, but felt the encroaching
blackness take control. As her vision dimmed and the darkness
enveloped her, she whispered his name.

"Michael."

Loralee yawned and curled closer into the
warmth of the comforter. She couldn't remember the last time she'd
slept in a comfortable bed.
Alone
. It was downright sinful.
A girl could get used to it. She stretched contentedly then let her
eyes slowly flicker open.

Sunlight filtered through the faded curtains,
dappling the bedclothes in soft light. Heaven. With a blissful
sigh, she threw back the covers and sat up, marveling at the fact
that the day was hers. Totally hers.
Unless Amos Striker
arrived
. She shivered, her mind conjuring a picture of
Corabeth's lifeless body. Not for the first time, she was grateful
that Mary was safe with her sister.

She slid out of the bed, crossing over to the dresser
in the corner. A small mirror was the room's only adornment. She
pulled her long hair over her shoulder and began to braid it, then
twirled the finished product into a ring around her head. A halo.
She smiled at the thought, and fastened her hairpins into place.
Almost passable. With a quick smile at the face in the mirror, she
reached for her dress, skipping the corset in favor of breathing
room. Slightly immodest, but it wasn't as if she had a reputation
to ruin.

Loralee laughed; the thought oddly freeing. Finishing
the last of her buttons, she peeked under the bed, searching for
her shoes, her mind turning to her evening with Patrick Macpherson.
The man had no idea how charming he was. A real innocent. And that
was a rarity in her line of business to be sure. Men like Patrick
Macpherson simply didn't frequent the cribs. Loralee struggled into
her boots, wishing she had a button hook.

No, she'd done right to ignore Patrick's obvious
interest. A fancy feat of acting if she did say so herself. The boy
was smitten all righty. But she couldn't take the chance. Patrick
wasn't a one night kinda man, and if she let him… Her hand drifted
across her gingham-clad breast, then down across her abdomen, her
eyes drifting shut as her imagination took control.

Oh Lordy.

She forced her eyes wide open. Yes siree, she was
better off on her own. A man like Patrick Macpherson was the most
dangerous kind. Wholly approachable, and completely unobtainable.
If she ever had a taste of him, she'd only want more. And that was
something she was determined to avoid at all costs. No sense in
setting herself up for a fall. No sense at all.

*****

A rap on the door, brought Patrick to hazy
consciousness. He opened one eye, the last of a very provocative
dream bursting like a soap bubble. "Go away." He sighed and reached
for a pillow. Maybe if he covered his head, the knocking would
stop, and he could find his way back to dreamland and Loralee.
Loralee
. He smiled, wrapping his arms around his pillow, his
imagination pulsing into high gear.

The knocking continued and Patrick threw the pillow
at the door. "Patrick." There was a definite whine in Arless'
voice. "You seen Loralee? She promised me breakfast this
morning."

"She's sleeping in Michael's room, Arless, just hang
onto your drawers. I'm sure she'll be there directly." He snuggled
back down into his bed, closing his eyes, picturing Loralee's
perfectly formed rear end. It was so soft. So sweet.

"Patrick?" Arless again.

"I told you —" Lord, couldn't a man be left to his
own fantasies?

"But, she ain't in there."

He sat up, sleep vanishing in an instant. He ignored
his pants, grabbing his rifle instead. If Loralee was in trouble
there was no time for niceties. Hopping on one foot, trying to pull
on a boot, he reached for the door, almost toppling over when
Arless yanked it open.

"False alarm." The Irishman's grin broadened when he
saw Patrick's relative state of undress. "She was just in the
privy."

Loralee's face appeared in the space above Arless's
shoulder, her angelic smile, belying the wicked twinkle in her eye.
"Mornin' Patrick. I see you're up and dressed." The head
disappeared, but he could hear giggling.

"What are you staring at, Arless?" He scowled at the
man. "Haven't you seen a man in his underwear before?"

"Sure have, Patrick. Just never seen anyone turn that
color afore. And you ain't even been drinkin'." Arless backed away
from the door, leaving it standing open.

Patrick reached for his pants, his dignity hanging on
by a thread. "Would somebody please shut the damn door?"

*****

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the
bedroom, boots in hand. Loralee was dropping batter onto the
griddle, the picture of domestic tranquility. His heart quickened
at the sight. Ah, sweet Loralee. The whore, the little voice in his
head sternly reminded. And he wasn't surprised at all that the
voice sounded an awful lot like Owen's.

"Glad to see you're finally up and dressed." She shot
him a crooked smile then turned back to her cooking.

Arless was sitting at the table, lost in his own kind
of bliss. "She's making griddle cakes."

Patrick pulled on his boots and straddled a chair. "I
kinda figured that."

The other man, inhaled deeply and sighed.

"Arless, doesn't Lena cook for you?"

"Not like that she don't." He gestured to a sizzling
pan of sausage.

Patrick's mouth watered. "Well, it does smell good."
He was rewarded with another of Loralee's smiles. "Where's
Pete?"