The Promise (27 page)

"Said he was going to feed the stock." Arless' eyes
never left the stove.

Patrick was enjoying the view himself, although he
was far more interested in the cook than the fare. Loralee expertly
flipped the griddle cakes. "If one of you boys will go get him, I
think breakfast is about ready."

Arless stood up. "I'll go. Might as well do something
to earn my keep."

He ambled toward the door, shooting a last loving
look in the direction of the food. "Don't you go eatin' it all
while I'm gone, Patrick."

"Don't worry, Arless, I'll leave some for you."

Satisfied, the man opened the door and stepped onto
the porch.

A shot rang out, its report echoing through the
house.

Patrick jumped out of his chair, already reaching for
his rifle. "Get down."

Loralee dropped to the floor, her face ashen. "What
is it?"

"Probably nothing. Stay here. I'll go see." Crouching
below window height, he ran across the room, slowing as he reached
the open door. Carefully he edged into the doorway, his gaze
darting around the barnyard, trying to locate the source of the
noise.

"Arless? You out there?" He waited, holding his
breath, silence permeating the air. When nothing moved, he took a
cautious step out onto the porch, the floor creaking beneath
him.

A low moan broke the stillness. "Stay back, Loralee."
He tossed the words over his shoulder, his gaze moving along the
ground in front of him, trying to locate the source of the cry. A
crimson stained mound about halfway between the porch and the
corral shifted. Arless. The old miner lay in the grass, clutching
his middle, his shirt red with blood.

Patrick had just started to step off the porch when
Pete burst from the confines of the stable, his Colt drawn,
motioning Patrick to stay put. Reaching Arless, he knelt beside
him, one hand assessing the damage while the other held the gun
ready.

It was quiet again. Almost too quiet. A shiver of
dread ran up Patrick's spine. Pete slowly stood up, pulling Arless
with him. The other man was dead weight and it took him a minute to
find his balance.

Patrick scanned the trees that surrounded the place,
but if anyone was out there, he was well hidden. Pete took a step
forward, Arless draped against him. Another shot rang out. Pete's
eyes widened and he dropped Arless as he fell backward. Patrick had
never felt so helpless.

"Loralee, get out here." She was beside him in an
instant. "Can you shoot this thing?" He held out the rifle.

"I can manage." She took the gun.

He nodded, relieved she wasn't the swoon-in-a-crisis
type. "All right. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going out
there—"

"No." Her hand shot out and she clamped her fingers
around his arm.

He ignored her panic, keeping his voice low and
soothing. "I want you to cover me. I've got to try and get them
back to the house."

She released his arm. "All right. But how will I know
where to shoot?"

"You won't. Just keep moving the barrel each time you
fire. Hopefully, that'll keep whoever's out there busy enough to
buy me some time." She squared her shoulders, lifting the rifle.
"Don't fire unless he does. There's a small chance he's gone. And
we don't want to waste bullets." If he was right, they were going
to need all the bullets they could get.

"Patrick?" He met her frightened gaze. "Be
careful."

He grinned with a bravado he didn't feel. "All right.
I'm going." He crouched as low as he could and scrambled across the
yard, running in zigzags toward Pete and Arless. Bullets shattered
the dust at his feet. Answering shots rang out from the porch.

Reaching the fallen men, he dropped to his knees.
Arless was on his back, sightless eyes staring at the clouds above
him, his gut torn open from the impact of the shot. Pete was face
down in the dirt.

Patrick shifted over, flinching as another shot rang
out. He couldn't tell if it came from their assailant or Loralee. A
deep red stain had blossomed across the back of Pete's thigh.
Gingerly, Patrick rolled him over, relieved to see the even rise
and fall of the man's chest.

"Pete, can you hear me?" Pete wasn't a small man.
Without his help, Patrick wasn't sure he could manage.

The older man groaned and opened his eyes. "What the
hell happened?"

"Don't know for sure. Someone's shooting at us."

Pete nodded. "Arless?"

"Dead."

Pete closed his eyes, regret tightening his face.
"Damn it to hell."

As if in echo of his sentiment, another shot stirred
the dust of the yard, this one only a few feet away. Answering
gunfire echoed from the porch.
God bless her
. "Come on, old
man. It's now or never. You got to help me get you to the
house."

Patrick struggled to his feet, Pete pushing up beside
him. Wrapping his arm around the ranch hand's waist, Patrick braced
himself and the two of them began to stagger back toward the porch.
Pete groaned as another bullet struck him in the arm, blood
burgeoning across his sleeve. He sank, dead weight against
Patrick.

"Come on, just three more steps. You can do it."

Gritting his teeth, Pete rallied and together they
made it across the last few feet of ground and up the steps,
bullets raining all around them. Loralee lowered the rifle, her
face pinched with fear. Grabbing Pete from the other side, she
helped Patrick get him in the house. Behind them, a bullet
ricocheted onto the porch, imbedding itself in the floor where
they'd been standing.

*****

"How many do you think there are?" Pete was
propped up against the back wall, arm extended while Loralee
cleaned it. She tried to hang onto her control, concentrating on
the injury and not the situation.

"I don't know. Maybe only one." Patrick was crouched
under the window, his back to them, watching the barnyard.

She dipped a rag in a basin, then carefully sponged
away more of Pete's blood. "Do you think it's Amos?"

"Maybe. Hell, probably." Patrick answered without
looking back at them.

"Well, whoever the son of a bitch is, he has us
pinned." Pete grimaced as she probed the wound.

"I'm sorry." She glanced up at his face and saw that
his eyes were closed. Wringing the rag out, she dipped it in the
now red water.

"How's Pete?" Patrick asked.

"I ain't dead, ya know. I can speak for myself."

"I know. I meant your injuries."

Pete shifted, trying to find a comfortable place to
sit. "The arm's not bad. The bullet passed clean through."

"And the leg?"

"Not so good. I think the bullet's lodged next to the
bone."

Loralee bit back an exclamation. What they didn't
need right now was an hysterical female. She placed a compress
against both sides of Pete's wound and bound his arm with a strip
of linen torn from a sheet. "There, that ought to help with the
bleeding."

"Much obliged, ma'am." Pete tried for a smile, but
missed by a long shot. "See anything out there?"

Loralee looked over at Patrick. Tension tightened the
lines of his shoulders. "Not a damn thing."

"Can't we just crawl out the windows or something?"
She hated the tremor in her voice.

Patrick crossed the room in a crouch, settling in
beside them. "Wouldn't do us any good. There's just these two." He
indicated the windows fronting the porch. "And the ones in the
bedrooms. They all face the same way. Michael's idea. He thought it
would help keep the house warm."

"But surely there's some way out of this?" She saw
the two men exchange a look and her fear increased, threatening to
explode into full blown panic.

"'Fraid not, Miss Loralee," Pete said. "Unless he
gets tired and heads for home."

"Or help arrives." She knew she was clutching at
straws. "What about your friend, Owen?" She might not like the man,
but she'd happily cook him meals for a week if he'd get them out of
this.

"Not a chance. He doesn't know anything about this. I
didn't have time to tell him. I was so intent on getting you out
here." Patrick met her gaze, his face clouded with guilt. "Loralee,
I'm so sorry."

"Oh fiddle sticks, there's no way you could have
known Amos would do this. You did what you thought was right." She
reached over and squeezed his arm. "Right now, you have to help me
do something about Pete's leg. I don't know much about this sort of
thing, but I do know the bullet ought to come out."

Pete groaned. "I think I'd rather we just leave it
be."

She rolled up her sleeves. "Well, Mr. Reeder, I don't
think I'm giving you a choice."

*****

"See anything?"

Patrick felt her come up behind him, her soft scent
filling his nose. What had he done? He had promised she'd be safe
and now look at the mess they were in. "Nothing. How's Pete?"

"He's asleep. He drained what was left of Arless'
whiskey."

"You get the bullet?"

"Yes, but I don't know what kind of damage I did to
his leg. It was real deep."

He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "I'm sure
you did just fine."

She held out a plate. "I brought you something to
eat. It's cold, but I figured it was better than nothing."

He looked down at the griddle cakes, the food making
him think of Arless. His stomach turned. He took the plate, but set
it down beside him. "Thanks, I'll eat in a bit. You go on and tend
to Pete."

He stared out the window, trying to decide what to
do. He could probably make it to the stable. And then, with a
little luck, he could outride the gun fire and go for help. Problem
was he'd be leaving Loralee and Pete unprotected. Pete wasn't any
good to anybody right now, and Loralee had spirit, but she couldn't
hold off a gunman forever.

Fact was he couldn't leave them. They'd be sitting
ducks for Striker.

The yard looked painfully normal. From here he
couldn't even see Arless' body. He looked at the sun, trying to
figure out how long they'd been pinned in here. Maybe Amos had
given up. Suddenly, he couldn't stand it anymore. He had to
know.

"Throw me that blanket, Loralee."

She grabbed one of the blankets she'd wrapped around
Pete, lobbing it to him from across the room. The glass in the
window above him shattered, the sound of Amos' shot reverberating
through the room. The blanket hit the floor with a soft thud. It
could just as easily have been one of them.

"Well, that wasn't what I had in mind, but it
answered my question just the same."

"He's still out there." Her voice trembled.

"Yup. And he's closer."

It was dark. So dark Cara couldn't even see
her hand in front of her face. She sat up, disoriented, trying to
remember what had happened. Her head hurt. She probed her scalp
gingerly, relieved to find only a small lump. She rubbed her
throat, surprised at how tender it was.

Nick
.

Memory came crashing in, her mind replaying the
moment when he'd shoved her forward, the sound of his shots
reverberating off the walls. A cave-in. She drew in a breath,
choking on the dust that filled the tunnel. Nick had caused a
cave-in.

"Michael?"

The silence echoed back at her, mocking her with its
emptiness. She swallowed, wondering if the sudden dryness in her
throat was caused by the dust or her rising fear.

"Michael? Can you hear me?"

The tunnel remained silent. She closed her mouth,
forcing herself to breathe through her nose. The dark was
overwhelming, pressing in on her, threatening to consume what
little courage she had left. She had to find Michael. He was here
somewhere. All she had to do was to stay calm and search. She
stared into the darkness, trying to see something,
anything
.

There was no light at all, nothing to distinguish a
wall from a shadow, the front of the tunnel from the back. She
forced herself to picture the tunnel. In her mind's eye, she saw
the entrance, and using her memory, traced a path all the way to
the rear. She could do this. She just had to rely on her sense of
touch.

Rocking up onto her knees, she crawled forward, one
hand extended in front of her, sweeping through the endless
blackness, searching for him. After only a few feet, her hand met
rock, solid, impenetrable rock.

Standing, she stretched her arms out to both sides
and swung them slowly up and down. Nothing. Feeling again for the
wall in front of her, she moved along it until she felt the
junction of wall meeting wall.

A corner.

Progress.

There were only a couple of corners. She ought to be
able to orient herself. She ran a hand along the two adjacent
walls. One was smooth in comparison to the other. She sucked in a
breath, almost choking on the dust. She had found the slide.
Following the path of the cave-in, her trembling fingers searched
for a hole, some portal for escape. A stone wobbled under her
touch.

With pounding heart, she carefully tried to pry it
away from the blockage. It fell heavily into her hands, but the
resulting hail of loose stone filled its place almost immediately.
Reaching higher, she grabbed another protruding rock and yanked it
free. Again, stones and dirt rained down on her. A rumble filled
the tunnel, and she dropped to the floor, covering her head with
her hands as large chunks of the ceiling crashed to the floor
around her.

She scrambled away, tripping, falling to her knees,
gulping for breath, the dust again filling her lungs. Reaching out,
she tried to find the wall, afraid that somehow in her panic, she
had disoriented herself. Her hand groped through the dark, closing
around something cold and pliant. She retched and jerked back,
recoiling as her senses registered the feel of a human hand.