The Promise (32 page)

Instantly hope flared in his eyes. It was eerie how
much he reminded her of Michael. "He's alive?"

"Yes." She struggled to stand, relieved when he
reached out to help her. Once on her feet, she felt more stable.
"He's out looking for the other man."

"What other man?" Patrick asked, supporting her as
they walked.

"There were two of them. Amos over there." She
motioned toward the booted feet of the dead man. "And someone
else."

They reached the body and Cara steeled herself to
take a look.

"Did Michael kill him?"

Cara wrenched her gaze away. "No, I did."

"You?"

She felt a surge of indignation, the emotion
refreshing her. "Yes,
me
. He was trying to kill
Michael."

Patrick nudged the man with his toe, and Cara was
relieved when nothing moved. "This isn't Amos Striker."

It was Cara's turn to be confused. "What?"

"You said this was Striker. It's not. I've never seen
this man in my life."

Cara sucked in a breath, one hand clutching at
Patrick's arm. "If this isn't Amos Striker, then he's probably out
there right now—with Michael."

Patrick placed both hands on her shoulders, the
intensity of his gaze feeding her panic. "Which way did he go?"

"Toward the stand of pines behind the corral."

"How long ago?"

"I don't know. Not long. Maybe a quarter of an
hour."

"All right, you stay here. I'm going after him."

Cara ran back to Jack's stall, surprised at how
quickly she could move. Grabbing the rifle, she sprinted after
Patrick, catching him at the edge of the corral. "I'm coming with
you."

After everything they'd been through, she wasn't
about to let Amos Striker win.

Michael stood in the shelter of the towering
pines holding back a curse. Striker, if he'd ever actually been
there, was long gone. Probably hit the trail as soon as the
shooting broke out. He blew out a breath and knelt in the pine
needles beside a small sapling.

From here, the vantage point was perfect. He could
see the ranch house, and the barn. He studied the area, searching
for signs that someone had been here. Something to prove Cara's
theory that there had indeed been a second shooter.

There were soft indentations in the ground, and some
of the needles had been disturbed, but that wasn't enough. He
needed solid proof. He shifted, his eyes scanning the ground. With
a sharp intake of breath, his gaze froze on a spot at the foot of a
large pine.

Cigarette butts.

His mind's eye obediently hauled out an image of Amos
Striker, a thin cigar clamped firmly in his mouth. Cara was right.
The son of a bitch had been here. Michael scooped up the remains of
the cigarillos, glancing up at the sky. It was almost twilight. Not
much sense in trying to track Striker tonight.

What he needed to do now was talk to Patrick. See if
the two of them could make sense of what was happening. A fresh
wave of grief washed through him. If the things he'd learned in
Cara's time were right, his father was dead, and by God, the least
he could to was bring the man who did it to justice . He dropped
the cigarillo butts into his shirt pocket. Unless he missed his
guess he knew exactly where he'd find the bastard.

A twig snapped somewhere off to his right, and he
pulled his gun, pivoting in the direction of the sound.

"Wait. Don't shoot." Patrick stepped into the shelter
of the pines, hands held up in placation. "It's me."

Michael lowered the gun and stood up, anger and
relief rocketing through him. "Patrick, what the hell are you
doing? I damn near shot you."

Patrick lowered his hands, the expression on his face
mirroring Michael's feelings exactly. "Me? I should be asking you
that. You're the one who's been missing for three days. What the
hell do you think
you're
doing?"

"Rescuing you."

Patrick frowned, his eyes narrowing. "And just what
made you think I needed rescuing?"

"You didn't look to be doing so good from where I was
standing, little brother."

"Well, it was just a matter of time. I had things
under control." He shifted, emotions playing across his face.
"Father's dead." The words hung between them, anger evaporating.
"And then I thought you were dead, too…" The words trailed off,
anguish playing across Patrick's face.

Michael closed the distance between them in two
strides, pulling his brother into a bear hug, grateful for the warm
solid nineteenth century feel of his own flesh and blood.

"Michael?"
Cara
.

He released Patrick, his eyes meeting hers.
Uncertainty dominated her expression, her eyes wide, her teeth
pulling at her lower lip. He was home. But she… she was marooned
here in a time that was far less civilized than the one she'd come
from. He felt a flash of guilt. But before he could think of the
right words to say, the look vanished, replaced by determination.
Cara was a fighter.

"Did you find any sign of Amos?" Her question broke
the silence. Bringing all three of them firmly back to the
present—and the issue of Amos Striker.

Patrick's face hardened. "Was he here? Cara said
there was a second shooter."

Michael raised an eyebrow at the two of them.
Obviously there'd been introductions, and there'd come a time for
explanations. Explanations that made absolutely no sense. But this
wasn't the place. He pulled his thoughts back to Patrick's
question, reaching into his pocket for the cigarette butts.

"He was here."

Patrick eyed the tobacco remains. "Shouldn't we go
after him?"

Michael shook his head. "It'll be dark soon. Best we
wait until the morning. He won't get far tonight."

"You sound like, Pete." Patrick grimaced. "Son of a…"
He paused, shooting an embarrassed look at Cara. "I forgot Pete."
He turned his gaze to Michael. "He was shot."

"Is he all right?" Fresh concern washed through
Michael. Amos Striker's sins were racking up, and Michael fully
intended to see him pay.

"He's alive, but he's in bad shape. Loralee's with
him."

"Loralee?"

"She's ah… well she's a…" He stumbled over the words,
a dark red flush appearing under his tan. "She's a friend. She's
been helping me with Father's death."

"A friend?"

"Not like that." The blush deepened. "She knew
Father. Was with him right before he was killed. It all started
when Amos tried to tell us that you killed Father." Patrick frowned
at the memory. "Owen said he was just doing his job. But I didn't
believe him. Not after Loralee told me about Corabeth, and then
Amos tried to kill her, and I was protecting her… Ah hell. "

Michael leveled a look on his brother. "Looks like
I'm not the only one with some explaining to do."

*****

Loralee stood on the porch, her hand raised
to shade her eyes from the last of the setting sun. It would be
dark in just a little while and she hadn't seen hide nor hair of
Patrick Macpherson since he'd headed for the barn more than an hour
ago. There was only so much a girl could handle, and frankly, she
was at the end of her rope.

She glanced over her shoulder through the open door
of the cabin. Pete was settled on the cot in the corner, sleeping.
His fever was down a little, but she still didn't like his color.
With a sigh, she focused her attention back on the barnyard. Best
just get on with it. Bolstering her courage, she stepped down onto
the rocky ground, the grass brushing against her dress.

She held the rifle ready. At least it evened the odds
a bit. Besides everything was quiet. Most likely Patrick had gone
out the back of the barn. There hadn't been anymore shots, so
hopefully he was fine. Just thoughtless. Leaving them waiting like
that without so much as a word.

But then, that's what she got for depending on a man.
Seems she still hadn't learned her lesson. And it was such a simple
one: Men can't be trusted. They'll leave you crying every time. She
grimaced, wondering when it was exactly that she'd come to care
about Patrick Macpherson anyway. He was just a pup, still wet
behind the ears. Wasn't any room in her life for personal
involvement. She was a working girl, pure and simple. She didn't
need anybody to take care of her. She was doing just fine on her
own.

She started for the barn, the tall grass was waving
in the wind. Reaching the building she looked in and caught a
glimpse of color. Her stomach clenched and her heart started to
pound. There was a body here—a man sprawled on the ground in the
center of the hay.

She gripped the rifle tighter and edged up to him,
nudging him gingerly with her toe. Dead. He was dead. And he wasn't
Patrick. She released her breath on a whoosh, and pulled her skirts
back to step around him, intent on finding Patrick. But the dead
man's features were burned into her brain and she stopped short,
realizing she recognized him.

Even death couldn't remove the cruel twist of his
mouth and the harsh angle of his jaw. Joe Ingersoll. Probably
wanted in a dozen counties. She couldn't say she was sorry he was
dead. Word had it he had roughed up several of the girls over in
Tintown.

She wondered what he was doing here, then dismissed
the thought. His kind could always be bought, and Amos Striker
wasn't the kind to do his dirty work alone. She resisted the urge
to kick the body, and instead stepped over him into the barn. Jack
gave a baleful whinny, but, aside from that, the place was
empty.

She frowned and stepped back into the barnyard,
scanning the area for signs of life. Nothing here but the dead.
Arless' body lay sprawled off to the left of the barn, looking for
all the world as if he'd just stopped for a nap. Tears filled her
eyes, as the old miner's voice filled her head—talk of griddle
cakes and butter.

Arless Hurley had been a good man. Maybe not a sober
one, but a damn fine one just the same. The least she could do was
show him some respect. She stepped back over Joe and grabbed an old
blanket hanging from a peg in the stable, then stepped back outside
and walked over to her friend's body.

His eyes stared sightlessly up at the fading blue of
the sky. She swallowed back tears, and bent to gently close them.
Then, with reverent hands, she flipped the blanket out, letting it
drift slowly downward, covering his battered body.

Kneeling beside him, she lowered her head, searching
for the right words. "Lord, you know I ain't exactly on your list
of holy folks, but I got an honest heart and this here was a good
man. So you be sure and open those pearly gates for Arless. He's on
his way. And if you got any whiskey, you better hide it, 'cause I
suspect he'll be ready for more than a drop when he gets
there."

She paused and studied the wool-covered mound, the
pain of the moment nearly her undoing. "God's speed, Arless." She
crossed herself, surprised that she remembered how. It had been a
long time since she'd been in a church.

She stood up and surveyed the surrounding
countryside, her eyes searching for any sign of Patrick. A slight
movement from beyond the corral caught her attention and she let go
a whoop when she recognized his tall figure emerging from a stand
of pines.

There were two others with him. One man, bigger than
Patrick, walked beside him, their dark heads bent together,
obviously deep in conversation. The other figure was smaller, a
woman dressed like a man.

She frowned, watching as the group drew closer,
trying to puzzle out who the newcomers might be. Finally she
shrugged. It didn't really matter. Whoever they were, Patrick
seemed happy to see them. She glanced down at Arless and then over
at Joe Ingersoll's body, shivering.

Lord knew they could use some friendly faces right
about now.

*****

Cara hung back a little as they walked toward
the house, wanting to give the brothers time together. The
resemblance was almost uncanny. The two dark heads, bent together
in conversation were almost identical. There was no chance anyone
could possibly miss the fact that they were brothers. She felt a
little pang of jealousy. An only child, she'd never experienced the
bond that siblings had, but looking at the two of them, she knew it
must be something special.

In the aftermath of everything that had happened,
Cara again felt terribly drained, as if all the emotion had simply
been sucked out of her.

She swallowed back beginnings of tears. Now was
definitely not the time for a melt-down. Amos Striker was out there
somewhere, and they had to find him—to eliminate the threat to
Michael. Then her job would be done, and it would be time to go
back where she belonged.

If she could find her way.

As if he'd read her thoughts, Michael slowed his
pace, waiting until she caught up, looping a casual arm around her
shoulders, still deep in conversation with his brother. She could
see the ranch house illuminated in the last fading rays of the sun.
It looked so much smaller than it did in her time, but still the
lines were familiar. Comforting in some intrinsic kind of way.
Perhaps home was home no matter the time. She shook her head at her
own silly musings.

She was a hell of a long way from The Meadows. This
was Clune.

1888
.

"Cara?" Patrick's voice pulled her from her troubled
thoughts, and she was surprised to see that they'd arrived in the
barnyard. "This is Loralee."

Cara looked over at the smiling brunette, trying to
find the energy to return the gesture, but before she'd managed to
move a single facial muscle, she froze, her eyes locked on the
necklace around the other woman's neck.

The silver was intricately carved, flowers curving
softly across its face. Cara gasped, her heart stutter-stepping to
a stop.