The Promise (6 page)

"He told me he was looking for Arless."

"So he said." They rode on for a bit in silence. Then
Pete picked up where he'd left off as if there'd never been any
lapse in the conversation at all. "But then again, you ever hear of
Arless using the line shack for one of his escapes?"

Patrick looked at the old ranch hand. "No. Not
firsthand anyway. But you've got to admit, it's as good a place as
any to hole up for a while."

"Maybe."

"So you think Amos was lying?"

Pete shot a stream of tobacco at a bush. Getting him
to say what he was thinking could be a painful experience. Patrick
had learned that it was best to just wait it out. Pete would talk
when he was good and ready. They rode for a while in silence.

"Didn't say that. Just think it bears thinking
about."

Patrick slowed as they reached the cut off. The
narrow wagon ruts continued on toward Silverthread. The
perpendicular trail to the ranch was barely discernible in the high
grass. Off to the left something red shown through the waving
weeds. Patrick reined in the stallion, and signaled Pete. Whatever
it was, it wasn't supposed to be there.

He slid off the horse's back, his heart pounding a
rhythm against his chest. Pete stayed in the saddle, rifle drawn to
cover his back. Out here a man simply couldn't take a chance. As he
moved forward the red thing began to take on a shape, a cotton
encased arm extended from a clump of grass, the hand open,
beckoning. Pushing through the knee high plants, Patrick searched
for signs of life.

"Michael? Is that you?" Nothing moved except the
meadow grass swaying in the wind. He dropped down on his knees
beside the body. Black hair spilled out from under the broad brim
of a hat. With a shaking hand, he gently rolled the body over, his
heart accelerating to a staccato tempo that echoed through his
brain.

"Is it Michael?"

Pete's voice sounded far away. Patrick fought to pull
in his breath. The bloodied dead man before him was not his
brother. But the craggy features were still familiar. Achingly
familiar. His stomach rolled and he swallowed convulsively, trying
to keep the bile down.

"Patrick?" Pete dropped into the grass beside him,
pulling him back so that he could see. "Oh, Sweet Jesus, it's your
father."

"But they told me…they said…I mean…you're not
real." Cara knew she was talking gibberish, but her mind simply
couldn't grasp the fact that Michael Macpherson,
her
Michael
Macpherson, was walking right beside her.

She shifted, locking her arm around his waist,
supporting his weight with her body. Michael groaned as she
stumbled. "Believe me, I'm flesh and blood, and right now, I feel
like it's mainly blood." He sagged backward, his breathing coming
in irregular gasps.

Cara tightened her hold, whispering in his ear.
"You've got to hold on. I can't do this by myself. Come on, we've
gotten this far. Just hang on a little while longer. Please."

His muscles bunched and tightened, as he pulled
himself upright, but he kept walking. "How… much… farther?"

"Not much more. Just around the next bend." Keep him
talking, her mind asserted. Keep him awake and keep him talking. "I
looked for you, you know. After you disappeared."

"I looked for you, too." His voice was rough, colored
with pain.

"Then I don't see…" She stopped, not knowing how to
continue.

"How we missed each other? Me either. But just at the
moment I think there are more important things to deal with."

"You're right. I'm sorry." There was just so much she
wanted to ask him. So much she needed to know. But not now. He
slumped forward again, his shoulders relaxing. She tightened her
grip. "Michael, you've got to stay with me. I can't keep you up
here on my own."

He jerked his head upward, pulling himself back to
consciousness. "I'm here."

"Good." She stared at the side of his head,
concentrating on the way the dark hair curled against his collar,
trying to find something of the boy she remembered in the man he'd
become. "Just keep talking to me, okay? Tell me what happened to
you."

He nodded, shifting a little, leaning into the curve
of her body. She could feel the heat from his fever. His shirt was
damp with sweat. "I...don't know. Snuck…up on me…shot me. Lucky to
escape."

"Someone shot you?" She tried to make sense of the
insensible. "Was it a hunter do you think?"

"Man hunter maybe." He groaned, tensing with pain as
they hit a rough spot.

"You mean you think someone shot you on purpose?"

"Seems likely." His words were a bit disjointed, but
if she was following the conversation, he was talking about murder.
Or attempted murder.

"My God, Michael, are you saying someone tried to
kill you?"

"And did a damn fine job of it." He drew in a ragged
breath and she felt his body slide forward.

"Hang on," she ordered. They stopped and she
automatically turned toward him, supporting his weight. "We're
here."

The warmth of his body surrounded her as he braced
himself against her. She closed her eyes, feeling his heart beating
beneath her hand. The tangy smell of male enveloped her and
somewhere deep inside her, despite the odor of blood and injury,
she responded to the memory. She knew this man, knew his scent,
knew the feel of his arms. And no matter what anyone had told her,
he was real.
Real
.

The feel of something sticky against her fingers
pulled her from her thoughts. "Oh God, you're bleeding again."

He touched the stain on his shirt. "Yeah, I think the
walk opened the wound."

"Look, Michael, we've got to call a doctor."

"No time." Their eyes met and she saw the certainty
in his gaze. "The bullet has to come out now."

She helped him into the house and across the living
room, for once thankful that the cabin was small. Reaching the door
to the bedroom, she paused, summoning the last of her strength.
"We're almost there." She wasn't certain who she was talking to,
Michael or herself. She steered him across the room to the bed.
With an exhausted sigh, he dropped down on it, his eyes closed, his
lashes dark against the ashen pallor of his skin.

"Come on, we've made it this far. You've got to stay
with me."

Blue eyes flickered open. The pain reflected there
made her gasp. With steely determination, he struggled to sit up,
leaning back against the pillows. "Have you ever removed a bullet?"
He spoke slowly, as if each word were an effort.

"It's not something I list on my resume." He frowned.
"I'm sorry. It's just that I haven't dealt with anything like this
before." Her voice trembled. What if she lost him?

He reached out, covering her hand with his. "It's all
right. I know how. I'll guide you."

She bit her lower lip and nodded. She could do this.
A man's life depended on it.
Michael's
life depended on it.
"Okay. I'm just going to go get some bandages and things."

Pulling her hand away from his, she hurried into the
bathroom. Throwing open the doors to the medicine cabinet, she
searched among the antacids and cold remedies for something that
could treat a gunshot wound. A bubble of laughter rose in her
throat. Pepto Bismol was a poor substitute for anesthesia.

Oh, God, she prayed, help me.

Clamping down on her rising hysteria, she forced
herself to focus on the assortment of containers in front of her.
Alcohol, that was important. She picked up the bottle. What else?
She grabbed a tube of Neosporin, feeling a lot like a fireman
fighting a raging forest fire with a squirt gun. Pain killer. She
needed a pain killer. The best she could do was a bottle of Advil,
but something was better than nothing.

Reaching for the analgesic, she spied a prescription
pill bottle. She picked up the plastic container. Antibiotics. They
were probably old. A refill she'd never used. They'd have to do.
She grabbed the pills along with the Advil, adding them to the
things already in her hand. In her haste, she dropped the lot.

The alcohol bottle bounced against the wooden floor,
but didn't break. The tube of antibiotic landed near the wall. The
pill bottles rolled into a corner. Grabbing a basket of potpourri
from the back of the toilet, she dumped the contents into the bowl.
Then, on hands and knees, she retrieved the bottles, placing
everything in the basket.

Her breath was coming in ragged gasps now and tears
threatened. She had to calm down.

Standing with the basket clutched in one hand, she
pushed aside bottles and tubes, discarding the metal box of
Band-Aids when she came to it. Hardly adequate for the job at hand.
Finally, in the back of the cabinet, she found a roll of gauze and
some tape. Tossing them in the basket, she turned, her gaze falling
to the counter.

A pair of tweezers lay by the sink. She swallowed
back a wave of queasiness. She'd need something to pull out the
bullet. Throwing them in with the rest, she grabbed a pillow case
and a wash cloth from the linen closet and headed for the
kitchen.

She needed a knife. Wrenching open a drawer, she
surveyed her pitiful collection of cutlery. Never much of a cook,
her array of knives was sadly lacking. Selecting the best of the
lot, she threw a paring knife into the basket and grabbed a bottle
of water from the counter on her way back to the bedroom.

She stopped in the doorway, trying to compose
herself. The situation was dire enough without adding her panic.
Breathing deeply, she crossed to the bed. His eyes were closed
again and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. She placed the basket
on the bedside table and sat on the bed beside him. "Michael?" His
eyes opened. "You've got to tell me what to do."

He nodded. "Did you get a knife?"

She held up the paring knife. "It's the best I could
find."

He reached for it and ran a thumb across the blade, a
flicker of laughter passing across his face. "If you want to butter
me, this might do, but I don't think it'll actually cut
anything."

She flushed. "I don't have anything else."

"You can use mine." He pointed at a small leather
pouch hooked to his belt.

With shaking hands, she unhooked the flap holding it
in place, and withdrew a tiny knife. Balancing it in her palm, she
examined it more closely. It was beautifully wrought. The handle
was ivory in color and striated with gray and black. The blade
itself was polished brass or some similar metal. It was flat on one
side and intricately carved on the other with interlocking circles
and curls.

"It's a sgian dubh."

"A what?"

"Sgian dubh. It's Gaelic."

"Skeen doo." She pronounced the strange words
slowly.

"That's it. Sgian dubh. It means black knife. This
one is very old. It's been in my family for generations. Came from
Scotland. But more importantly, it's sharp enough to dig out the
bullet."

She touched the blade experimentally. A thin line of
blood appeared on her finger. Definitely sharp. "Okay, what do I do
first?"

He smiled weakly. "I'd say the best thing to do would
be to pull off my shirt. Then you're going to clean the wound with
something. Do you have any whiskey?"

Actually it wasn't a bad idea. Maybe after a good
stiff drink she could do this. Or better yet, maybe a couple of
good stiff drinks. She pulled herself back to the task at hand.
"I've got rubbing alcohol. It's better than whiskey. And I brought
some Advil. It's not much, but it will help with the pain."

She put the little knife on the table and opened the
bottle, shaking out a couple of pills. She glanced up at his face,
cringing at the pain she saw etched there. She added a couple more
tablets to the pile on her palm. "Here, take these." She held out
the medicine, along with the water.

He looked at them with a puzzled expression. "I think
I'd rather have the whiskey."

She smiled. "Take them. And this one too. It's an
antibiotic." She added another pill to the pile, fervently hoping
it was still potent.

Again, he shot her an odd look, his eyebrows raising
quizzically. "Antibiotic?" He said it like it was a foreign
word.

"You know, for infection." His injury must be
affecting him more than he was letting on. He acted like he'd never
heard of an antibiotic. He stared at the pills in her hand, a look
of distrust playing over his face. Men were such babies when it
came to taking medicine.

"I'll tell you what," she said, placing the tablets
in the palm of his hand. "If you take the pills, I'll get you some
whiskey. Okay?" She wasn't at all sure letting him drink was the
right thing to do, but hey, that's always what they did in Westerns
when somebody got shot, and she really doubted the Advil was going
to do a lot to deaden the pain.

"Whiskey first."

She met his gaze and was once more surprised at the
determination reflected there. This was not a man to argue with,
even in his current condition.

She left the room and opened the cabinet where she
kept the liquor. Whiskey could mean several things, and not wanting
to waste valuable time, she grabbed a bottle of Bourbon and another
of Scotch, the 30 year old kind. If the guy had to drink his
anesthetic, it might as well go down smoothly.

When she walked back into the bedroom he was in the
process of trying to peel off his shirt. The look of agony on his
face was almost her undoing. Dropping the bottles on the bed, she
moved to his side and carefully helped him remove the shirt. The
muscles in his back were rigid, taut evidence of a pain more
intense than she could imagine.

She slid an arm around his shoulders. "Here, lean
back." Once he was propped up against the pillows again, she
reached for the bottles. "I wasn't sure what you wanted. Bourbon or
Scotch—" She cut off the sentence. This wasn't a cocktail
party.