The Promise (30 page)

Patrick ran a hand through his hair, leaving it
sticking up every which way. "I've been over it and over it,
Loralee. There's just nothing to do but try and wait him out. Maybe
he'll make a mistake."

She stared out at the tall grass waving in the
breeze, trying for courage. "You could make a run for it."

"I'm not leaving you alone."

"If leaving me alone saves our lives, it'd be more
than worth it, don't you think? If you do get out, then you'd be
able to bring back help. And I can hold the fort until you're
gone." She shot him a determined smile.

"No. Even if I could get out—and I'm not saying I
could—I'm not about to leave you and Pete undefended."

"Patrick, I've been taking care of myself as long as
I can remember. I reckon I can handle it just a little bit
longer."

He ran the back of his hand along her cheek. "You're
as brave as they come, but you're no match for whoever's out there.
Hell, neither am I. That son of bitch is holding all the
cards."

"Don't mean nothing." They both turned to look at
Pete, who had struggled to a sitting position.

His face was ashen and Loralee marveled at the
strength of his constitution. A lesser man would be dead to the
world right now. Or just plain dead. "Pete, you shouldn't be up.
You need rest."

"If we don't do something real soon, I'll be doin'
nothing but restin'. Figure now's as good a time as any to
formulate us a plan." From Pete, it was a speech. Loralee crawled
over to his side and dipped a square of linen in the pan of water.
She reached to wipe it across his brow, but he pushed her hand
away, his gaze never leaving Patrick. "So what you thinkin' of
doin'?"

Patrick crossed the room, staying low, settling on
the floor beside them. "I was thinking that if you covered me, I
might make it to the barn. From there I could try to ride for
Silverthread."

Pete closed his eyes, scrunching his face up in
thought. "Might work."

"Yeah, and it might not."

"But it's worth a try." Loralee looked from one man
to the other. "You said yourself, sooner or later, he's going to
get us if we stay pinned like this. Seems to me a little chance is
better than no chance at all."

"Girl's got a head on her." Pete nodded with approval
and Loralee felt her chest swelling with pride. Nobody had ever
called her smart before.

"I still don't like it. If I get shot, how are you
all going to manage?"

"If you don't try, we're gonna be in the same kettle.
It's just a matter of time." Pete leaned back, all the words
exhausting him.

Loralee met Patrick's gaze, her own steady. She'd
played poker before. Wasn't half bad at it actually. And she knew
it was time to call the hand. "Pete's right, and you know it."

Patrick looked from one to the other and then out the
window, his eyes narrowed. "All right. I'll do it, but not until it
gets dark. It'll be safer then."

Loralee blew out a breath and raised the damp cloth
again, successfully wiping the old man's brow. "You get some sleep
now. You'll need your strength later."

Pete looked across the room at Patrick. "More likely
we'll need a miracle."

Michael scanned the scene below him,
searching for signs of life. The ranch yard was peaceful, almost
serene, but in his estimation it was too quiet. There was nothing
to indicate any activity at all. No horses in the corral, no smoke
from the chimney, no gear lying about. Nothing.

The place looked deserted, the skeleton of the new
barn casting long shadows across the house and stable, giving them
an almost sinister look. He shook his head, clearing his vision.
Maybe it was just his mood.

"Can you tell anything?" Cara lay next to him, her
voice lowered to a whisper.

The ridge was sparsely dotted with trees, but the
little clump of aspen provided cover. Tucked in among the tall
meadow grass, there was no way they could be seen. And from this
vantage point, they could see the entire ranch. "No, but it just
doesn't feel right."

"Well, it looks calm enough."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"True." She narrowed her eyes, studying the scene
below. "So what is it that seems off?"

Michael focused on the ranch, trying to identify what
was bothering him. The late afternoon sun shone on the front of the
cabin, its rays sparkling off the windows. He blinked slowly, and
refocused on the house. Nothing changed.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to find the
inconsistency. He knew it was there. He just had to find it. It was
amazing really how the light reflected off the windows. They looked
like rainbow-hued jewels, colors winking in the sun. He sucked in a
breath, his mind finally identifying the anomaly. The window to the
left of the door wasn't twinkling. Granted the porch provided some
protection, but the glass ought to be reflecting at least a little
of the sunlight.

It wasn't.

"There." He poked Cara and pointed toward the house.
"The window glass is gone."

She frowned and squinted at the cabin. "How can you
tell from this far away?"

He moved his head so that his mouth was just above
her ear. "Look at the other ones."

She studied them, and he watched as understanding
washed across her face. "Okay, so what do you think it means?"

"I don't know for sure, but I'd say someone either
shot it or knocked the glass out." He clenched a fist, his gut
churning at the thought of what might lie inside the house.

"So you think we're too late?" Her whispered words
held a trace of fear.

"No point jumping to conclusions. There might not
even be anyone in there. All the missing glass proves is that
something is definitely wrong. That window didn't break
itself."

Cara nodded, her eyes still turned toward the ranch.
Suddenly her hand closed around his wrist, her other arm extended,
pointing at something. "Michael?"

He jerked his head around, his eyes locked on the
area she pointed to. The grass in the yard between the cabin and
the corral rippled in the slight breeze. "What? I don't see
anything."

"Over there, by the big rock." She gestured, her chin
and hand both jerking upward in an almost synchronized movement.
"That spot of white. I think it's a—"

"Body." He finished her thought, a band of steel
tightening around his chest. White and blue shown through the
waving grass.

Cara's hand tightened on his arm. "Can you make out
who it is?"

Michael stared at the inert form lying in the yard,
but the distance was too great. "No." He pulled out of her grasp,
sliding back from the edge, his brain racing. It couldn't be
Patrick. His mind simply wouldn't accept the possibility. "I've got
to get down there. Now." He scrambled to his feet.

He turned to go, halting only when he felt Cara's
touch on his shoulder. "Michael, you can't just go running down
there. You don't have any idea what you're going to find. Whoever
did that," she gestured toward the ranch and the body, "might still
be there. You could be walking into a trap."

She was right. This wasn't the time for rash
decisions. "All right."

She sighed and dropped her hand. "So what do you want
to do?"

He tried to clear his mind of the awful images his
imagination was dredging up, to concentrate instead on what to do
next. They had to get closer, to get a better feel for the
situation without anyone knowing they were there. His gaze fell on
a stand of pine trees just below the ridge. Large boulders, the
residue of a long ago landslide, dotted the slope between the
aspens and the pines. "There." He pointed at the trees below them.
"We go there."

She followed the line of his hand and stared at the
trees. "And how exactly do you propose we get from here to there
without being seen?"

"Those rocks will provide cover. And once we're in
place, we should be close enough to make out who the…" He stopped,
rage and anguish mixing inside him, filling him with
hopelessness.

"Michael, it's not Patrick. You have to believe
that."

He looked down into her eyes, trying to let her
steady gaze comfort him, but the reality was too grim. "Well,
somebody's dead down there, and I'm pretty damn certain it isn't
Amos Striker. And if it isn't him…" He stopped, trying not to think
the worst.

"My grandfather always said to believe in the best
even when the worst is staring you in the face."

"Sounds reasonable." He tried to let her words buoy
him, but his doubts continued to suck at him, pulling him deeper
into the quagmire of his fear. If the newspaper article was right,
he'd already lost a father, and now it looked like he was too late
to save his brother. He shook his head, trying to shift his
thoughts away from the macabre image of Patrick sprawled across the
yard. "What else did your grandfather say?"

"That it's best to face your fears head on." She
struggled to smile, but only managed a lopsided grimace. He blessed
her for the effort.

"All right, then." He turned back to Clune. "Let's
go." He started down the hill, his mind fervently praying that the
body wasn't his brother's.

*****

"How's he doing?" Patrick knelt beside Pete
and Loralee, his gaze meeting hers.

"Not good." She ran a gentle hand along the old man's
cheek.

Sweat beaded out across Pete's forehead and he
moaned, his shoulders twitching in agitation. Patrick reached out
to still him and was shocked as heat seared his hand. "He's burning
up."

"I know. And it's just getting worse. I'm real
worried."

"How long has he been asleep?"

"For at least an hour. I haven't been able to wake
him up." She bit her lower lip, her face reflecting her fear.
"Patrick, I don't think he can wait until sunset."

"All right, I'll go now. You cover me from the
window." His Colt at the ready, he moved to the closed door and
placed a hand on the doorknob. He watched as Loralee crawled across
the floor to the window. She stopped about halfway, jerking up a
hand, sucking on her palm. "You all right?"

"Fine. I just cut my hand a little." She tore a
ruffle from her sleeve and tied it around her hand. "There's glass
everywhere." She scooted the last few feet and settled in below the
window, raising the Winchester so that the butt rested on her
shoulder, the muzzle propped on the window sill.

"You ready?"

"I think so." Her gaze darted over to him and he read
a thousand things in their luminous depths, none of them making it
any easier to pull open the door, but Pete moaned and he knew it
was time. Sucking in a breath, he yanked the door open, stepping
onto the porch just as a rifle blast filled the air.

A bullet smashed into the transom a couple of inches
from his head, and before he could even react, a second one
splintered the wood of the doorjamb. He jumped back, swinging the
door shut with enough force that the remaining window glass shook
in its frame. The door clicked shut just as a third bullet hit it
with a thwack.

He dropped down and scrambled to the window, already
hearing the crack of the Winchester as Loralee tried to return
fire. "Hang on. You're not going to hit anything and we need to
preserve the bullets. He's just trying to draw our fire."

Loralee lowered the gun. "I just wish I could see
him."

"I know, but he's not going to show himself now. Not
when he's got us right where he wants us." He looked out the
window, too, searching the barnyard for signs of the intruder.
Loralee slid down to the floor, eyes closed, holding her injured
hand in her lap. "You okay?"

Her eyes fluttered open and she held it out for him
to see. The makeshift bandage was red with blood, but it was dark
and already starting to dry. "It's just a cut."

"I promised I'd take care of you, Loralee, and
now…well, it looks like I may not be able to keep that promise." He
ran a hand down her cheek and she covered his fingers with hers, a
spark of lightning shooting up his arm at the contact.

"It's all right, Patrick, promises ain't all they's
cracked up to be anyway." She pulled her hand away, her eyes
shifting to the window. "We're not going to get out of here are
we?"

She already knew the answer. He could see it there in
her eyes. Sugar coating things wasn't going to help one iota. Now
was a time for honesty if ever there was one. "No, angel, I don't
expect that we will."

*****

"What the hell?" Michael stared at the house,
listening as the last of the shots died away. One minute his
brother had been outlined in the doorway, and the next, all hell
had broken loose, bullets flying everywhere. Everything had
happened so quickly there hadn't been time to react.

"Was that—" Cara stirred beside him, her eyes wide,
her breathing audible.

"Patrick." Michael finished for her, his eyes still
riveted on the ranch house. A gun barrel flashed in the setting
sunlight as it was withdrawn from the window. That meant there were
at least two people inside. Patrick and Pete? His eyes jerked back
to the body in the yard, recognition dawning. Not Pete. Arless
Hurley.

"Is he one of ours?" Cara's voice was soft,
reverent.

"Yeah. A friend." Michael ground his teeth together,
his eyes locked on Arless' body. Amos Striker had a lot to answer
for.

Cara laid an soothing hand on his arm. "The shooting
came from there." She jerked her head in the direction of the
stable.

Michael frowned, turning to view the building.
"Where?"

She nodded. "Up there." She pointed to the loft.

"You're sure?"

"Positive. When the shooting started, the door up
there swung open a little wider and I'd swear I saw the barrel of a
gun."

He studied the upper story of the stable, visualizing
the inside. It was nothing but a crude storage platform for hay. It
ran along the west side of the stable, opening out onto the stalls
below. There was a door in the wall they used to get hay bales in
and out. At the moment, that door stood about halfway open.