The Promise (24 page)

He forced himself to concentrate on her question. She
was only trying to help. "I told you before—1888."

"No, I don't mean the year; I mean the date." She was
still staring at the article in her hand.

"May twenty-first."

"This was written on May twenty-seventh." She pointed
to the heading at the top of the page.

"So?" He struggled to pull himself out of his
lethargy, to think clearly. But it was hard—damn hard.

"So today's the twenty-fifth." She stared at him,
waiting for the impact of her words to reach him.

His stomach roiled and in an instant he sprang back
to life, hope blossoming. "You're saying that if time passes the
same here and there, then Patrick isn't dead, yet."

"Exactly."

He pondered the enormity of the thought. "So if I can
get back, I can save him."

Cara's gaze met his. "It's worth a try."

Hope collided with despair. He had to go. There
wasn't a choice. Patrick's life hung in the balance. But he
couldn't imagine what it would be like to never hold her again.
"You realize what you're saying." There was so much between them
but no time for words.

She nodded, tears filling her eyes. "You have to
save, Patrick. Nothing else is as important as that."

He pulled her to him with a groan, burying his face
in her hair, glorying in the softness of her skin, the smell of her
perfume—trying to memorize the way she felt in his arms—knowing
that, without her, he would never be the same.

*****

"You realize that we have no idea if this is
even possible." Michael's voice was tight, the line of his
shoulders mirroring his tone.

"I know, but we'll never know for certain unless we
try." She wanted to scream or explode or do something to stop him.
But she couldn't. His pain was her pain and she had to send him
back. It was the only way. And no matter what she lost in the
process, she was determined to help him.

They walked on in silence, and Cara forced her
thoughts to the practical, running through everything they'd
discovered in the last few hours, trying to make the pieces fit.
There were just so many unanswered questions. Halfway to the mine
tunnel, her overloaded brain suddenly pushed a thought front and
center. She stopped dead in her tracks. "It's the pendant."

Michael stopped, too. "What are you talking
about?"

"The pendant is the key."

He frowned down at her. "You think this whole thing
was caused by a necklace?"

"No, but, I think it's part of the equation."

"Why?" He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Because I had it on when you found me. And again
when I found you."

"So this is a special pendant?"

"Yeah, it belonged to my great-grandmother. My mother
gave to me on my sixteenth birthday."

Understanding flashed in his eyes. "The night your
parents' died."

She nodded miserably.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry." He pulled her into
his arms. "No wonder it means so much to you."

She nestled there for a moment, then, swallowing her
pain, she pushed back so that she could see his eyes. "It's the
only thing I have of my mother's—of her family. When my
great-grandmother Faye died, my mother went to Virginia to sell her
house. In the attic she found a trunk. It had belonged to a woman
named Alice Camden. Inside she found the pendant, and a packet of
letters from Silverthread."

She leaned into him, her voice muffled against his
chest. "The letters were all addressed to my grandmother Mary. They
were short letters, without much news really. References here and
there to life in Silverthread, but mainly they were filled with
words of love. Words from a mother to a daughter."

"So Alice was really your great-grandmother?"

"Yeah. Faye was her sister. Anyway, mom tried to find
out more about Alice, but there was nothing. It was almost like
she'd never existed at all. Except that we had her pendant. So you
see, it was a big deal when she gave it to me. It represented all
we had of our true heritage." She bit her lip, trying not to cry.
This wasn't the time.

"It's a lovely story, Cara, but it could just be
coincidence."

Her gaze met his. "There's more. When they couldn't
find you, when they told me I'd imagined you, I couldn't stand it.
I'd lost everything. My parents, my life, and then you." She
exhaled on a sigh, feeling his arms tighten around her. "I thought
I was going to die, too, for a while. And then slowly, surely, I
healed. But I couldn't bring myself to wear the necklace. It
symbolized all I had lost. I gave it to my grandfather and told him
to sell it."

"But he didn't."

"No, he didn't. He kept it in a drawer by his bed.
One more thing he was right about." She fought to keep the pain
from her voice. "It was silly to blame an inanimate object for all
my troubles."

"But easier." As always Michael understood. Without
the words even being spoken.

She drew in a deep breath. "Anyway, I found it when I
was going through his things. I still couldn't bear to look at it,
but I took it with me to the cabin. Then a few days ago, I saw it
in my jewelry box and put it on. I can't explain why I did, it just
felt right."

She reached up and laid a hand on his cheek. "It was
the day I found you. I just didn't make the connection until now.
It's the pendant, Michael. Alice's pendant."

"You think it's what pulled me through time?"

"I do. That and the connection between us. First, I
needed you and then you needed me. Or maybe it was me who needed
you. I don't know. It's confusing."

He brushed his lips against hers, even the slight
contact making her ache for him. "I would have died if you hadn't
found me in the tunnel."

"I know," she whispered. "But I would have died in
the fire if you hadn't pulled me out." She shook her head. "Anyway,
it's not important who saved whom. What's important is that we need
the pendant to get back, and I don't have it." She tried to keep a
brave face, but the hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed her
and she felt tears threatening. "I must have lost it."

"Shh." He placed a finger over her lips. "It's okay.
The necklace is safe. It's in the bathroom by the sink. I took it
from you the night of the fire."

She nodded, pushing aside memories of that night. She
could remember later. When she was alone. "We need the pendant,
Michael."

"So let's go get it." He was already turning
back.

"No." The word came out harsher than she'd intended.
He swung around to look at her, and she forced a smile. "It'll be
faster if I go back for it on my own."

He pulled her to him and kissed her hard, his cobalt
gaze meeting hers. "I'll wait for you at the tunnel."

*****

Cara reached the porch that wrapped around
her house in record time. Taking the three steps in one stride, she
inserted her key and swung open the door, bursting through the
little mud room almost before the door had closed behind her.

"Cara, darling, I was wondering when you'd show
up."

She froze, her eyes riveted on the gun in Nick
Vargas' lean hand.

Moonlight sifted through the gauzy curtain,
spilling out across the bed. Patrick turned away from it, pounding
his pillow into submission and wondering if sleep was ever going to
come. His mind was a tangle of thoughts. Michael. His father. Amos.
Loralee.

He closed his eyes concentrating on the oblivion of
sleep. Nothing. With a sigh, he turned onto his back, linking his
hands behind his head. Shadows on the ceiling made shifting lacy
patterns of light and dark. He watched as they kaleidoscoped across
the wooden planks, intricate lines leading into and away from each
other.

He couldn't shake the feeling that somehow the events
of the last few days were like the shadows. Overlapping,
connecting. If only he could find the key. Michael had disappeared
first. He still couldn't bring himself to think of his brother as
dead. Was there something in his disappearance that had triggered
the entire chain of events?

It just didn't make any sense. Michael hadn't known
Loralee, and as far as Patrick knew, he'd never had a run-in with
Amos Striker. His father had babbled on about some silver, but
that, in and of itself, didn't really mean anything, despite what
Pete said. Duncan was always certain he'd just struck it rich. No
one really believed him. And even if they did, who the hell would
kill a man for a strike? A producing claim maybe, but a strike? It
just didn't make any sense.

And now to complicate things he'd gone and fallen for
a crib whore. One who was still grieving for her dead husband. Oh
yeah, things were just peachy.

In his mind's eye, he pictured Loralee's sweet face,
her small pink tongue darting out to moisten her ripe, red lips. He
smothered a groan and rolled over, pulling the pillow with him.
Now, to top it all off, he'd gone and made himself hard. Great.
Just what he needed to help him drift off to sleep.

*****

Loralee sat up in bed, tired of fighting off
dreams of Amos Striker's leering face. She pushed the hair out of
her eyes, and got out of bed, crossing to the window, pulling the
curtain back. Light flooded the room. Its presence calming. She was
safe. Outside, a slight breeze ruffled the silver-washed grass,
bending the blades in unison almost as if they were dancing a reel,
following the commands of an unseen caller.

She wondered what it would feel like to dance with
Patrick, his strong hands guiding her through the intricate steps.
She pushed the thought away. It was highly unlikely that they'd
ever be attending a dance together. The Macpherson's were well
thought of in these parts. She rubbed her arms, a sudden chill
chasing down her spine. No, they'd never be able to dance
together.

Her thoughts turned to Mary. She wondered if her baby
even remembered her. She'd heard somewhere that babies had no
memory. The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she wondered
what her life might have been like if… She bit back the thought. No
sense in wasting time on 'what ifs.'

She turned from the window, no nearer to sleep than
she'd been ten minutes ago. Maybe some pie would help. She made her
way to the door of Michael's room, relieved that she hadn't made
any noise. The last thing she wanted to do was wake everyone
up.

She moved cautiously into the darkened room, jumping
when a wheezing snore erupted from a dark corner. The noise
repeated itself, and she relaxed, smiling. Arless.

A slice of moonlight cut across the floor, and she
realized the front door was open. Since the door locked from the
inside, that meant someone had gone out. And since Pete was
sleeping in his quarters and Arless was snoring in the corner, that
meant Patrick.

Her heart fluttered at the thought, but she clamped
down on the feelings. She'd had experience trying to cross over
from her appointed place in life. It didn't work. And she wasn't
about to go and set herself up for that kind of heartache
again.

Still, it couldn't hurt to talk to the man. After all
they were both awake. Without so much as a by your leave, her
traitorous feet took steps toward the open door.

He was sitting on the steps, his head buried in his
hands, the slump of his shoulders telling her his state of mind. So
much had happened to him in such a short time. It would be hard for
anyone to bear. But Duncan had always said Patrick was real
sensitive.

He was a tall man, just past the bloom of boyhood
really, and there was something compelling about him. Something
that reached out to her. She shook her head. There was no sense in
turning camaraderie into fantasy.

"Loralee? Is that you?"

Startled she stepped back a pace, stopping herself
when she realized he'd turned to look at her. "I…I didn't mean to
bother you. I was just…" She tried again. "I couldn't sleep." She
shrugged helplessly, hoping she didn't sound as foolish as she
felt.

"It's all right. I couldn't sleep either." He patted
the space on the step next to him.

She frowned, telling herself the thing to do was head
for high ground before she was in over her head. But the next thing
she knew, she was settling in beside him like she'd been doing it
all her life.

"You worried about Amos?" Patrick asked.

"Some. I can't help wondering if he's out there
somewhere, waiting for me."

Patrick nodded, his big hand reaching for hers,
enclosing it in his warmth. "You're safe here. I won't let that son
of a bitch get anywhere near you. I promise."

She placed a finger across his lips, absorbing the
jolt of electricity that sparked between them. "Don't make promises
you can't keep."

He ran the back of his hand along her cheek, his eyes
searching hers. "I can take care of you, Loralee. If you'll let
me."

Oh God, how she wanted to abandon herself to him. But
another part of her, the part that still was thinking with her
head, warned that nothing could come of it. Nothing at all.

She sat back and pasted on a cheerful smile. "Tell me
about your family."

*****

Patrick frowned, uncertain what had just
happened. One minute there were sparks flying and the next she was
asking him his life history without so much as a hint of what had
happened in between. He sighed and leaned back against the post,
realizing he really didn't know the slightest thing about
women.

"I guess you could say we were vagabonds. My father
was always certain there was a fortune to be had just over the next
hill. That's why he came to America in the first place."

"From Scotland?"

He glanced over at her to see if she was truly
interested. She was watching him with doe eyes and he fought the
desire to pull her across his lap and kiss her until neither of
them could breathe. "Yes. The Macpherson's have a place, sort of
like a ranch I guess, called Crannog Mhór."