The Promise (21 page)

"Someone set the fire deliberately."

"But why?"

"I haven't worked that out yet." He frowned. "But I
will."

She leaned forward, her mind spinning. "You think
Nick did it, don't you?"

"I don't know anything for sure, but I think it's a
little too coincidental that we saw him five minutes before the
explosion and then again right afterward."

Cara shook her head. "That can't be right. Nick can
be pushy and even obnoxious, but he'd never hurt me. I mean he…"
She cut herself off, wrinkling her nose, smiling in
embarrassment.

"Wants you?" Michael raised his eyebrows, his mouth
curling into a grin. "Can't say that I blame him."

Cara's body clenched deep inside, responding
primordially to some signal she hadn't even realized he'd sent.
She'd never known a man who was so…well, manly. His expression
sobered and she came back to reality with a crash.

"Did he know about the space heaters?" he asked.

"Yes, he did. He was always ragging on me about it.
Said I was just asking for trouble. But that still doesn't give him
a reason to burn down the gallery."

"No, but I'd be willing to bet a bundle it had
something to do with your paintings."

"
The Promise
?"

"Yeah." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I heard
him, Cara, he
wanted
those paintings badly enough to
threaten you."

"I told you, I don't think he would have hurt me.
Besides he wanted the paintings. That's hardly motivation to
destroy them." She winced, the pain of losing her artwork almost
physical. "Why would he do something like that?"

"Maybe because you wouldn't sell them to him. I don't
know." Michael shoved his chair back and stood, leaning forward,
hands braced on the table, his face hardened with anger. "Truth is,
there's only one person who can give us the answer."

"Nick."

"Right. So, I'd say it's time we pay him a little
visit." He narrowed his eyes, the anger solidifying into granite
composure. "Do you have any guns?"

*****

She tried to tell herself there was something
good in all this.

Michael was still here, his thoughts of returning put
on a back burner. He'd made it perfectly clear that he wasn't going
anywhere until he was certain she was safe.

But that was merely postponing the inevitable.

She sighed, sneaking a quick look at the tense man
sitting beside her. His crash course in driving after the fire may
have made
him
confident in his skills, but considering the
grinding noises under the hood,
she
was somewhat less
enthusiastic. The engine was not responding well to his less than
gentle manipulation of the gear stick. What in the world had she
been thinking when she'd allowed him to drive?

The steel butt of a revolver jutted out of his jeans.
Her grandfather's. She glanced behind her at the rifle carefully
bracketed to her Jeep. It was like riding in a damned arsenal. And
she was riding shotgun, literally.

"Turn here." She pointed to an intersection and
Michael swung the Jeep sharply to the left without benefit of
braking first. The Jeep squealed in protest, but made the turn with
all four wheels on the ground.

She sucked in a breath, relieved that they were still
upright. "This is it."

He braked, the resulting impact enough to have thrown
her through the windshield if she hadn't been wearing a seatbelt.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. And hers
was instantaneous.
She
was driving them home. No amount of
testosterone driven enthusiasm was worth risking her life for.

Michael reached for the rifle. "You stay here."

"I most certainly will not. It's my gallery that got
incinerated and I want to be there when you find out what
happened."

His eyes narrowed, his face turning stubborn. "I
don't want you anywhere near him."

She frowned, feeling mutinous. "Look, I'll be
perfectly safe. I'll have you and your guns with me." She gave him
her most beguiling look, stopping just short of batting her
eyes.

His lips quirked upwards, not a full-fledged smile,
but she knew she'd won. "Come on." He swung down from the Jeep, not
waiting to see if she followed.

Nick's house was one of those pretentiously
pseudo-Victorian structures, built to look old with all the modern
conveniences. The porch creaked as she stepped on it, a
counterpoint to Michael's staccato hammering on the door.

"Vargas, open the damn door."

Cara reached his side and placed a restraining hand
on his elbow. The fury in his face almost made her step back a
pace. She'd been right in her previous estimations. This was not a
man to mess around with.

"I don't think anyone is home," she offered
quietly.

Her words sank in and he stopped pounding.

The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic. Not that
she was complaining. She hadn't really been looking forward to a
showdown with Nick.

Michael looked calmer and she dared a question. "He's
not here. Now what?"

He reached for the brass doorknob. "We go in."

*****

The house was immaculate. Not surprising
really. Vargas was the type to be finicky. The hallway ran the
length of the house with closed doors indicating various rooms
opening off the entry. A large staircase sprang from the back of
the hall.

Michael stepped into the house, careful to keep Cara
behind him. The lady had guts, but he was determined to keep her
safe even if it meant locking her in the closet. He smiled at the
picture the thought inspired. Hell, maybe he'd just lock himself in
there with her.

He opened a door, and peeked into a parlor. It reeked
of some sort of floral scent. He wrinkled his nose and quickly
closed the door.

"We shouldn't be doing this," she hissed from beside
him.

"Doing what?"

"Breaking and entering."

"We didn't break a thing. The door was open."

"Well, we're entering."

"So we are." He couldn't suppress the laughter in his
voice. "Any idea where Nick might keep his secrets?"

"There's a study back this way." She darted around
him to lead the way.

He placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Hang
on, sweetheart. I know you're anxious to find out what's going on,
but I think I'd better go first."

She shot a resentful look at him, but stopped,
allowing him to pass her. "It's the door on the right."

He opened the door and stepped inside, moving to the
center of the room, so that she could follow. The room was no
different than the rest of the house. It looked more like a museum
than a place somebody lived.

There was a large, ornate desk straddling the wall in
front of the room's only window. On one side there was a large
fireplace with two armchairs on either side. The opposite wall was
dominated by books. Rows and rows of books. They covered the wall
completely, except for an elaborately carved alcove in the center,
used effectively to showcase a large urn.

"It looks the same as it always does."

"And how is that?" he couldn't resist asking.

"Like an army of maids is standing in the corner
waiting to clean up each speck of dust before it even has time to
land."

He smiled, picturing white capped women armed with
brushes and brooms. "You take the bookcase and I'll take the
desk."

"What are we looking for?"

He blew out a breath. "I haven't the faintest idea.
Something odd or out of place. Something unusual. Something that
will tie Vargas to the fire."

She nodded and began to examine the books. He sat in
the chair behind the desk and pulled open a drawer. Pads of paper
and odd looking instruments he assumed were for writing, filled the
little compartments of a oblong box. Nothing out of the ordinary
here. At least not for someone who lived in the twenty-first
century.

He pulled open another drawer and found files, but
the contents had nothing to do with Cara or the paintings.
Damn.
He slammed the drawer shut and was reaching for
another when he heard an odd scraping noise.

He looked up in time to see Cara, urn lid in hand,
disappearing into a gaping hole where the alcove had been. He
jumped up, almost tripping over the leg of the desk in his hurry to
reach her.

The mechanism clicked shut and the wall was filled
with nothing but books. No alcove, no Cara. Heart pounding, he
skidded to a stop, his eyes searching the shelves for some sign of
the missing indentation. There was nothing to indicate the wall had
ever been any different. Just rows and rows of books.

Cara was gone.

Patrick watched as Loralee bent and pulled a
pan of biscuits out of the stove, the smell of warm bread filling
the air, making his mouth water. At least he thought it was the
biscuits. The sight of her soft, round bottom was definitely cause
for salivating, too.

"You didn't have to do this, you know." His voice
came out more like a croak. Hell, he was acting like a
fifteen-year-old boy.

She turned and smiled at him, causing a whole new set
of reactions. "I know. But you've helped me out so much. First with
Corabeth, then with the fire, and now offering me your home. There
aren't many decent men who'd do that for someone like me, Patrick.
Heavens, the least I can do is cook you and Pete a nice
supper."

"Well, I just don't want you to go to too much
trouble."

"No trouble at all." She picked up a bowl and started
to stir the potatoes, the action making her breasts push against
the cotton of her dress.

He licked his lips and figured he'd best get the hell
out of there before his body started to give away his train of
thought. "Have I got enough time to feed the horses?"

"I reckon so." She wiped a strand of hair away from
her face with a flour covered hand, leaving a streak of white
across her cheek. He sucked in a breath, his traitorous mind
envisioning what it would taste like to lick away the flour. "Let
Pete know it's almost ready, will you?"

He nodded and headed for the door, not trusting his
voice to perform properly.

"Patrick?"

He steeled himself and turned. Her eyes were as big
as saucers and as soft as a deer's. Oh Lord, he had it bad.

"Thanks for everything."

"My pleasure."
My pleasure
. What in the world
was he thinking? She was a working girl. If nothing else that meant
she had experience out the wazoo. What could she possibly see in a
greenhorn like him? Hell, he'd offered her his protection, not a
tumble in the sheets.

He stomped out onto the porch and across the yard to
the stable. It was a far sight bigger than the one at Ginny's, but
still not quite big enough for their needs. He glanced over at the
wood frame standing stark against blue sky. Michael had said that
if they were going to make a go of it, they had to invest in their
dream. The barn was the first step.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure he wanted to continue
without his brother. The ranch had always been Michael's. He'd just
sort of come along for the ride. Without his brother's guiding
force, there just might not be a dream anymore.

"I see you been talking to Loralee." Pete ambled up,
his eyes on Patrick's pants.

Patrick felt himself go hot all over. "Sheesh, Pete,
do you have to point it out to the whole world?"

Pete's eyes crinkled at the corners as his mouth
curled into a grin. "Don't need me pointin' it out. You're doin' a
fine job all by your lonesome." They walked into the stable to a
chorus of whinnies and braying. "Hell, boy, even the horses can see
the stick in yer drawers."

"Cut it out, Pete. Even you have to admit Loralee is
a mighty pretty girl."

"Yes, she is. But she's also a—"

"Don't say it."

Pete opened the bin that held the oats and began
filling a bucket with grain. "Well, son, I don't mean no
disrespect, it's just that I figure you got to call a spade a
spade. And I thought you needed remindin'."

"Look, I'm not having feelings for Loralee if that's
what you mean. I just find her attractive. That's all."

"You tryin' to convince me or yourself?" Pete poured
some oats in Roscoe's trough. "Get some hay will you?"

Happy for an end to the present turn of conversation,
Patrick forked some hay from an open bale and threw it into a
burro's stall. The animal brayed with delight. He continued down
the line of stalls, working in tandem with Pete and his bucket of
oats.

"You tell anyone else about this morning?"

Patrick frowned, thinking Pete was referring to his
preoccupation with Loralee again. He started to retort, but then
saw the serious glint in the older man's eyes. "You mean about
Amos?"

Pete nodded, squirting a spray of tobacco neatly
between his teeth. "Amos, the fire, all of it."

"No. We just came straight here."

"You still thinkin' this has something to do with
Duncan?"

Patrick stopped, leaning against the pitchfork.
"Honest to God, I haven't got a clue. It seems like it has to be
related, but I can't prove anything. Hell, we don't even know for
certain it was Amos who set the fire."

Pete nodded, pouring the last of the oats into Jack's
trough. "Well, until we get this all figured out, I think your girl
is better off staying out here."

Patrick sighed. "Pete, I told you already, she is not
my girl."

Pete grinned. "You could've fooled me."

*****

Pete grabbed another biscuit, sopped it in
gravy and then popped the whole thing in his mouth. Patrick
swallowed a laugh and looked across the table, meeting Loralee's
equally mirth-filled gaze. "Pete, you'd think you'd never had a
biscuit."