The Promise (11 page)

Pete held up a hand, cutting him off before he could
wander off the subject. "Corabeth, Arless."

"Oh yes, fine girl. Knows how to make a man feel like
a man." He grinned and downed the whiskey.

"What does Corabeth have to do with my father?"
Patrick inserted.

"Right, well ya see when I got there, Corabeth was
full o' the news that Duncan had struck it rich."

"You just said the news was all over town." Patrick
shot a disgusted look at the old sot.

"Ah, but Corabeth was certain there was truth to the
talk."

"Had she been with my father?" Duncan had taken to
spending time at the cribs after his mother disappeared, but
Patrick had no idea if he favored a particular girl.

"No, but she had her information straight from
Loralee."

"Loralee?"

"Aye, she and your father were friends, don't ya
know." Arless winked and poked Patrick in the ribs. "Seems Duncan
was with her the night he died. God rest his soul." He crossed
himself, but in his inebriated state, he only managed three of the
four stations.

"And this Loralee, she works out of a crib?" Patrick
felt his spirits rise. If the woman had been with his father, then
maybe she'd be able to shed some light on what really happened.

"Aye, that she does, boy. And I'll be bettin' she
knows more than a bit about this claim o' Duncan's."

Pete stroked his moustache, thoughtfully. "You been
flappin' your gums to anyone else about this, Arless?"

He screwed up his face, concentrating on Pete's
question. "Can't say that I did or didn't. I'm afraid my mind ain't
what it used to be. The liquor helps me forget about Lena, but
unfortunately it ain't particular. So I'm afraid I don't remember
much o' anything at all."

He looked so remorseful that Patrick patted him on
the shoulder. "Never mind, Arless. Have the rest of the bottle on
us."

"Much obliged, boys." He tipped his hat and turned to
the bottle, a look of befuddled joy coloring his expression.

Patrick drained the rest of his whiskey, slamming the
empty glass down on the bar. "I need to find this girl, Pete."

"I'd say you do. Want me to come along?"

"No, this is something I'd like to handle on my own.
I'll meet you back at Clune."

Pete nodded and Patrick turned to go. "Patrick?"

He looked back over his shoulder. Pete was standing
where he left him, his eyes narrowed with concern.

"Be careful, son. I don't like the feel of this whole
thing. There's more here than we're understanding." He paused and
studied the toes of his boots, then looked up again to meet
Patrick's gaze. "I don't want to lose you, too."

It was probably the longest speech Pete had ever
made. Patrick swallowed over the lump in his throat. "I'll be
careful. I promise."

*****

Loralee leaned back against the closed door
of her room, grateful to finally be alone. She'd had a busy
morning. Not that she wasn't grateful for the money. She needed all
she could get to send to Mary.

Of course, her sister, Faye, could more than afford
to take care of the child, but Loralee wanted her daughter to know
that her mother loved her. It had taken every ounce of self control
she'd had to send her away like that, but the cribs were no place
for a child, especially one as lovely as Mary. She patted the
locket between her breasts. Her baby was safe.

Her sister had done well for herself. A fine, fancy
parsonage in Richmond and a handsome young husband to boot. At
least when Corabeth had read her the letters it had sounded that
way.

Corabeth.

Loralee frowned. She'd not seen hide nor hair of her
friend all day. Of course it had been a rather hectic morning.
First the wild dash to get Jack safely to Ginny's and then three
rambunctious cowboys in town for a good time. She ran a tired hand
through her hair. It was a wonder she could function at all.

The door rattled as someone pounded on it. Loralee
sighed, wishing she'd barred it closed.

She drew in a sharp breath and dropped down onto the
end of the bed, her heart fluttering in her throat, a sudden
thought pushing itself front and center in her brain, making her
forget all about the customer at the door. She stared in
fascination at the bar hanging beside the door.

When it was in place, the door was locked.
From
the inside.
Otherwise the door was open. There was no other way
to lock it. None at all.

All the cribs had bars like hers.
Including
Corabeth's
. And Corabeth's door was locked. Which meant that
she couldn't be away. Loralee shivered and rubbed her arms,
suddenly certain that something was wrong with her friend.

The pounding on the door grew more insistent.
Frustration welled inside her. She didn't have time for a randy
miner right now. "Go away, I'm not open for business."

Her thoughts returned to Corabeth, her heart pounding
against her ribs as fear began to blossom. She struggled to get
control of herself. Corabeth was probably just taking a day off.
Getting some much needed sleep. Her mind accepted the information,
but her heart refused to go back to its mundane beating.

The pounding on the door stopped, and she looked up
in time to see the doorknob turn. She didn't have time for this,
but obviously, the man on the other side wasn't going to take no
for an answer. She sighed and stood up, ready to do what it took to
get rid of him. Corabeth needed her. She could feel it.

The door swung open revealing the man on the
boardwalk. He was a stranger, which in and of itself wasn't all
that unusual, but he didn't have the look of the men who frequented
the cribs. In fact, he really didn't look like the type who needed
to hire a woman at all, but it wasn't her place to judge.

He stepped into the room, hat in hand. Well that was
a first. Her empty excuses died on her lips. "Are you Loralee?"

Something in the timbre of his voice tugged at her
subconscious. She knew that voice. Or at least she thought she
did.

"Yeah, but I'm not open for business right now. I've
got things need tendin' to."

The man actually blushed, and she bit back a desire
to reassure him.

"I didn't come here for…" His face turned even more
crimson.

She frowned. Now that he was standing in the light
from the window, she recognized him. Or at least she recognized his
features. There was no mistaking that inky hair. "You're one of
Duncan's boys."

The man nodded. "Patrick."

She moved past him, the smell of leather and lye soap
filling her nose. Closing the door, she turned around to face him.
"I'm so sorry about your father. He was a good man."

His cool green gaze searched her face, looking for
answers she couldn't give him. "You were with him last night." It
was a statement not a question.

"I was. And I want to talk to you about it."

He raised his eyebrows. "But?"

He must have seen it in her face. "But, I need to
check on a friend. I think she might be in trouble."

His look changed to concern. "Can I help?"

She nodded gratefully. Duncan's son was a lot like
his father. A good man at heart. She led him out the door onto the
misshapen boardwalk. "It's just down here." She pounded on the
rickety door. "Corabeth? Are you in there?" Silence. "It's me,
Loralee." Still no one answered.

"Maybe she's out."

Loralee looked up at the tall man beside her. "That's
what I thought, too. But the door's locked." She met his puzzled
gaze. "
From the inside
."

In an instant his expression changed. The confusion
was gone. In its place, Loralee saw a competence that she knew she
could rely on. "How long as it been locked?"

"Most the day." She looked down at her feet. "I only
just realized—about the bar, I mean." She felt guilt welling up
inside her.

He touched her arm, the simple gesture absolving her
of any wrongdoing. "Is there a back door?"

"No. Corabeth has one of the smaller rooms. There's
only the one door."

"All right then, stand back."

She stood aside, watching as he leaned slightly
forward, leading with a shoulder and ran toward the door, ramming
into the thin planks of wood. There was a sickly thud as muscle met
board. The door cracked off the hinges and fell forward into the
room.

The room was ominously quiet.

"Let me go first." He stepped gingerly over the
splintered door, reaching back to help her step around it. The room
was heavily shadowed, the curtain tightly drawn, the oil lamp
unlit.

Loralee pushed past Patrick, her heart thudding in
her chest. "Corabeth? Honey, are you in here?"

The bedstead was in the far corner, turned so that
the foot faced the window. Corabeth always said she liked to see
the sun first thing when she woke. A wash of sunlight from the now
permanently open door illuminated the girl on the bed.

"Corabeth." The name came out more a shriek than a
word. Loralee swallowed back the bile rising in her throat. She
rushed to the side of the bed, almost tripping over an empty
bottle, and knelt beside her friend. Corabeth's soft brown eyes
were fixed on the ceiling. Her half-clothed body lay askew on the
bed, like a rag doll abandoned and forgotten.

Loralee, frantically rubbed one cold hand between
both of hers, willing her own body's heat into Corabeth's, tears
streaming down her face. She anxiously watched Corabeth's face,
still holding fast to her hand, waiting for a smile, for some sign
that this was nothing more than a twisted prank. But Corabeth
didn't move, couldn't move.

Corabeth was dead.

"Okay, I'm confused." Cara blew out a breath.
"How can your father be the owner of an old mine in the middle of a
national forest?"

Michael leaned forward, his eyes narrowed in
concentration. Cara had the distinct feeling that whatever he was
going to say next, she didn't want to hear. "When did you paint
The Promise
, Cara?"

"A year ago or so." She tried to figure out what
exactly this had to do with his father owning the mine.

"I meant what was the date?"

"I'm not sure of the day."

"The year, Cara?" His intensity was beginning to make
her nervous.

"1998 or '99, I guess."

He released a deep breath, almost a sigh. "And when
did you paint
Lovers' Reunion
?"

This was getting surreal. "I told you."

"The year." He reached for her hand.

"1993. The year after you disappeared." She tried,
but couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice.

He stroked her hand lightly with his thumb. "When
were you born, Cara?"

"1976, but I don't see what any of this has to do
with —"

"I was born in 1860."

"Excuse me?" She tried to think, to make his words
make sense. Surely, she'd misunderstood.

"My father discovered the Promise in 1880, the year
after I found you in the snow."

"That's impossible." She stared at him, letting the
significance of his words wash over her, thinking that any minute
he'd suddenly laugh and say it a was all a joke. But he didn't. His
face was deadly serious, and the look in his eyes told her that he
was as overwhelmed as she.

"Two days ago I would have agreed with you, but now…"
He let go of her hand, leaning back in the chair, a parade of
emotions chasing across his face. "Hell, I don't know."

"But you're saying..." She broke off, unable to
continue the thought. Somehow they'd gone from a miraculous reunion
to an episode of the twilight zone.

"Cara, listen to me." He reached for her hand again,
his eyes intense. "The truth is here somewhere. We just have to
find it. Tell me what you remember about the morning after your
accident."

She nodded, her trust instinctive. "I woke up in the
tunnel and you were gone. I figured you'd left to find help."

"I was getting water."

She let her mind slip back to that morning in the
cave. "It was cold, and my head hurt, the world was still all
wobbly. But I wanted to get up. To…to find out what happened."

"Your parents."

She nodded. "They were dead. My grandfather
identified the bodies, but they couldn't find me."

"The explosion killed them?"

"That—or the car wreck."

"Train car?"

"Automobile." She answered without thinking, her
thoughts on her parents.

"Automobile?" If the situation hadn't been so dire,
his expression would have been comical. "I've read about them, but
never seen one. There aren't any in Silverthread..." He stopped,
the impact of his comment hitting home. "…in my time."

She knew she ought to be questioning his sanity. Or
at least his story. But all she could think about was the fact that
he hadn't deserted her. At least not by choice. Somehow, if he was
to be believed, she had crossed into his world or the other way
around. For one night they had occupied the same temporal plane.
And then somehow, they had been separated again.

By time.

Cara swallowed a sob. It was all so insane.

He must have heard her, or felt her pain, or just
wanted the connection, because he moved to the sofa and pulled her
into his arms. "It'll be all right. We'll figure this out. The most
important thing is that you found me again—whatever time we're in.
I'd have died without you, Cara. You saved my life."

She nodded against his chest, tears threatening.
"Just like you saved mine." She listened to the soft steady beat of
his heart, drawing strength from it.

"I looked everywhere for you." His words were quiet,
almost a whisper. "I couldn't understand where you'd gone—I worried
about you, I…I cared about you."

"I kept telling them you were real, that you'd saved
me, that I owed you my life." She rattled on, the tears falling in
earnest now. "They thought it was trauma, that the horror of
witnessing my parents' deaths caused me to hallucinate. Oh God,
Michael, they convinced me that I made you up." She stared up at
him, memorizing the curves of his face, trying to understand what
was happening to them.