The Promise (8 page)

The woman hopped off the porch, her gait belying her
wrinkled appearance. "He'll be safe with me."

Loralee handed her the reins. "Thank you, Ginny.
Jack's a good horse. Just a little long in the tooth."

Ginny smiled, her slow grin contagious. "We'll have a
lot in common then, he and I."

Loralee bit her lip, trying to decide how much to
say.

Ginny laid a time-weathered hand on Loralee's arm. "I
don't need to know."

Again, Loralee felt the tears rising. She fumbled in
her pocket, reaching for the coins she'd brought. She offered them
to Ginny.

The woman folded Loralee's open hand over the coins.
"I've no need for your money, girl. Now go quickly, before someone
sees you."

She hugged the old woman, who gruffly pushed her
away.

"Go on with you."

Loralee turned and hurried down the road. At least
Jack was safe. No one ever went to Ginny's. She was Ute, and even a
town like Silverthread had its untouchables.

She frowned, making her way across the bridge. She
really didn't have much to go on. All she really knew for certain
was that Duncan was dead. That and the fact that he'd left Jack
behind. Not exactly evidence of anything, but she couldn't shake
the feeling that something was very wrong. She rounded another bend
and caught sight of the line of cribs.

She needed Corabeth. Her friend would know what to
do.

*****

"I don't know what happened. I only know that
my father is dead and Michael is missing." Patrick ran a hand
through his hair and paced restlessly around the sheriff's office,
his mind still reeling from the shock. "There's got to be some kind
of connection."

Amos leaned back in his chair, his booted feet
propped up on his desk. "Best I can tell your father was
robbed."

"His pocket watch was gone." Patrick frowned at the
sheriff. "But I doubt he had anything else of value on him."

"I've seen men killed for a whole lot less than a
watch, Patrick. And everyone knew he carried it. Hell, wouldn't let
the damn thing out of his sight."

"My mother gave it to him. It was all he had left."
Patrick tried but couldn't keep the bitterness out of his
voice.

"Ain't no way round it, Patrick. Robbery's the most
logical explanation."

"Maybe, but that still doesn't explain Michael's
absence. And then there's the horses."

Amos leaned forward, dropping his feet to the floor,
his brows drawn together in consternation. "What are you talking
about?"

Patrick sat on the spindle back chair in front of the
desk. "Well, doesn't it seem a little odd to you that my father was
found on the road without his horse, and that Roscoe came home, as
pretty as you please, only without Michael?"

Amos waved a hand in dismissal. "Jack probably
wandered off somewhere."

Patrick frowned. "Not a chance. That horse can smell
fresh hay five miles away. And the ranch was in view. If Jack was
there, he'd be at home in his stall right now filling his
belly."

"Maybe the fellow who robbed Duncan stole him."

Patrick smiled, despite himself. "Only if the thief
was addle-brained. Jack isn't exactly prize horseflesh. In fact,
sometimes I wonder how he manages to make it from one day to the
next." He sobered, his mind returning to grim reality. "Something
here doesn't add up, Amos. I can feel it in my bones."

"Look, I know it ain't what you want to hear, but as
I see it, the facts simply don't support a connection. It's just a
lousy coincidence."

Patrick glared at the sheriff. The two events simply
had to be connected somehow. In one fell swoop he'd lost an entire
family, and he had trouble swallowing the idea that it was only a
lousy coincidence. But Amos wasn't listening. He'd already made up
his mind. So there was no use in ranting on about it.

"Fine, I'll let it go for now." He stood up and the
sheriff followed suit. "But my brother is still missing, and until
he's found, I've no intention of letting the matter rest
completely."

"Let what rest?"

Patrick turned as Owen Prescott strode into the
spartan office, his face worn and haggard. Patrick breathed a sigh
of relief. Owen was his father's best friend—a second father. He'd
sort through all of this.

"I came as soon as I heard." He clasped Patrick's
hand and pulled him into a quick embrace. "I'm so sorry, son."

Patrick nodded, trying desperately to hold onto his
emotions. He suddenly felt like a kid again. Seeing Owen, hearing
the sympathy in his voice, somehow lent a cruel reality to the
tragic events of the morning. He sucked in a breath and quelled the
urge to give in to tears. He was a man after all, and men didn't
cry.

"What aren't you going to let rest, Patrick?"

He struggled to follow the gist of Owen's question,
focusing on the concern in the older man's face. "I was just
telling Amos that it's reasonable to think that there's some sort
of connection between Michael's disappearance and my father's
death."

"Amen to that." Pete ambled into the office, perching
himself on the windowsill, his shrewd glance sizing up the others
in the room.

Owen looked over at Amos, who was seated again,
concentrating on lighting a cigarillo. "Amos, what do you think?"
He pulled up a second chair and sat, facing the desk.

The sheriff looked up, the thin cigar, dangling from
the corner of his mouth, a thin wisp of bluish smoke curling toward
the ceiling. Patrick couldn't help but think how discordant the
picture was, an angel indulging in a devilish habit.

Amos blew a ring of smoke. "I'm guessing that
Duncan's death was part of a highway robbery, nothing more."

Owen frowned and looked at Patrick. "But you have
more questions?"

"Damn right I do. I have a little trouble accepting
the fact that my father was murdered on the very same night my
brother up and disappears."

Amos narrowed his gaze. "Now there's a thought.
Michael getting along with Duncan all right these days?"

Pete let out a string of expletives that would curl
the toes of a three penny whore.

Patrick felt his hackles rise. He opened his mouth to
respond, but Owen beat him to the punch. "Now, Amos, if you think
about it, you'll realize there's no way Michael could have killed
Duncan." Everyone turned to look at Owen. He smiled reassuringly at
Patrick and then leaned back in his chair. "What time was it when
you found Roscoe?"

"I don't know exactly, a couple hours before sun-up."
Patrick glanced over at Pete, who nodded in confirmation.

"Right, so that would indicate that Michael was
injured well before dawn."

"You're just speculating that he was hurt. Maybe the
blood on the saddle was Duncan's, not Michael's." Amos paused
dramatically.

For a moment Patrick felt sick at his stomach. Then
almost as quickly the feeling was gone. Michael would never kill
his father. Never. He looked over at Pete. The old hand was staring
intently at Owen, waiting for his reaction.

Owen scratched the side of his jaw absently. "Well, I
suppose your theory is possible, but hardly likely. Besides, how
would you explain the fact that Duncan's body appeared by the road
after Pete and Patrick left to try and find Michael?"

"It was barely daylight when they left. They could've
easily missed the body."

"Now, look here," Patrick felt his voice rising, "my
brother isn't a killer. He isn't. Besides, there's still the
horses. Even if what you're saying is true, and I don't believe it,
you can hardly expect Michael to make a getaway on Jack." He
glanced frantically over at Pete.

The old man spit out the open window, his grizzled
old face shuttered. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn't going to
share it now.

Amos, stubbed out the cigarillo. "Maybe he dumped
Roscoe for a horse nobody would recognize. You boys check your
other stock?"

Patrick couldn't believe the turn of the
conversation. "No. It never occurred to me to check."

"Well, what do you want to bet you find another horse
is missing? I'll bet Michael switched Roscoe for another one. Makes
a helluva lot more sense than that animal finding its way home
through the dark mountains."

Patrick bit back a profane retort. "If you're so sure
Michael is a murderer, maybe you could give me a reason why?" He
glared at the sheriff, his anger threatening to overcome him.

"Sit down, Patrick," Owen said. "There's no harm in
listening to what the man has to say."

"Why?" Patrick swung around to glare at Owen.

"Because even in the wildest conjecture there is
often an element of truth."

Patrick sat down, his mind spinning. "There isn't any
truth to Striker's conjectures. They're lies.
Lies
."

"Patrick." There was a note of steel in Owen's voice,
and Patrick swallowed back further retort. He respected Owen—loved
him even. In a lot of ways, he been more of a father than Duncan
had ever been.

They waited while Amos lit another cheroot, a wisp of
smoke making his face momentarily hazy. Amos tilted back his chair,
resting it against the wall, booted feet propped up on the desk.
"Word around town is that you all are having money problems."

Patrick shrugged. "We get by."

"Yeah, well, according to Bergstrom over at the bank,
you're getting by on very little. And there is the matter of some
outstanding loans." Amos smiled, a tight lipped version that hinted
of malice.

Patrick tried to hold onto reason, things were
rapidly spiraling out of control. "What the hell does our financial
business have to do with Michael's disappearance?" He refused to
give voice to Amos' accusation.

"Maybe Michael was tired of living hand to mouth.
Maybe he saw an easy way out."

"By murdering my father?" Patrick stood up, leaning
over the desk, anger consuming him. "That doesn't make sense,
Striker."

"Doesn't it?" Amos leaned forward, steepling his
fingers, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair.

Owen placed a soothing hand on Patrick's shoulder. He
shook it off, dropping back into his chair. Maybe this was a
nightmare. Any minute he'd wake up at home, safe in his bed. Pete
still sat in silence, but Patrick could tell by the taut line of
his shoulders, that he, too, was incensed at the accusations. "All
right, Amos, if you're so certain Michael did this, you tell me
what he had to gain by killing my father."

Amos waited a beat before answering, obviously
enjoying the moment. "Silver."

"What?" Patrick sat forward, his attention focused on
the man in front of him.

"I said silver. Your father was in town last night.
Drunk, as usual. He was rambling on about finding silver, the
mother lode to hear him talk."

"That's ridiculous. Hell, my father was always
blethering on about finding silver. Except for the Promise, it
never amounted to anything."

"Well maybe this time it was different. Or maybe
Michael just believed it was."

Patrick shot a look at Owen, waiting for him to tell
the sheriff how crazy this all was. But Owen was silent, a frown
creasing his forehead.

"This is insane. Michael was up in the high country
all day yesterday."

Amos blew out a smoke ring. "You're certain of that?
You actually saw him?"

"Well, no. But he told me he was going up there."

"I see." The sheriff smiled, the look bordering on
smug.

"Pete, you know he was up there." Patrick met Pete's
gaze, begging him to intervene, to say something.

"You saw him, Pete?" Owen turned to look at the ranch
hand, his gaze narrowed.

"No. Cain't say that I did. But young Michael's as
honest as they come. If he told Patrick he was going into the
mountains, then that's where he was."

Amos shrugged. "All right, even if you allow for time
in the mountains, he still could have been in Silverthread by
nightfall."

"Someone would have seen him." This from Owen, who at
last seemed to be getting with the program. Patrick sucked in a
breath of relief.

"Not necessarily, and besides, Duncan could have run
into him on the mountain. Maybe Michael already knew. Maybe he was
waiting for him to come home."

"Ambushed his own father? Michael would sooner poke
out his eye." Patrick stood up, his hands clenched in rage. "This
is outrageous. And even if were true. Even if my father had found
the mother lode and told Michael about it. Why would Michael kill
him?"

"Well now, that's the big question isn't it?" Amos'
mouth curved at the corners, the beginning of a grin. The bastard
was enjoying this. "Way I heard it, betrayal isn't exactly an
unusual occurrence in your family, is it?"

Patrick sprang over the desk in one smooth leap, his
hand closing around the sheriff's collar. "You take that back, you
son of a bitch." He arched his right arm backwards, tensing, his
fist tight for the punch.

"Whoa, there, boy. No need to be smacking the
sheriff. Ain't his fault any of this happened." Pete planted a
beefy hand around Patrick's neck, the gentle pressure enough to
force Patrick to release Amos.

"But he….I mean, he…" Patrick sputtered.

"Easy, Patrick, the sheriff didn't mean any offense.
Did you, Striker?" The steel was back in Owen's voice.

"No." Amos rubbed his neck and glared at Patrick, his
look belying his words.

"Seems to me, we'd all be better off sticking with
the facts and not going off making wild accusations." Pete eyed the
sheriff.

"It wasn't an accusation. Everyone knows that
Patrick's mother ran off and left them for a pile of silver."

Patrick made another move for Amos. Pete tightened
his grip. "Fact is, we don't know for sure what happened to Rose.
Guess we never will."

Amos smiled faintly, as if the knowledge amused
him.