The Promise (36 page)

"Are you going to stay here? When this is over, I
mean?"

Cara bit her lip, considering the question. "I don't
think so."

Loralee opened her eyes and smiled gently. "There's a
connection between you and Michael, Cara. Anyone can see it."

"I care about Michael, but I'm not sure that's
enough. I've had firsthand experience at losing people I love, and
I'm not willing to risk that kind of hurt again. We're playing with
time, for God's sake. Who's to say that the decision to stay or go
is even mine to make?"

"I think you have make up your mind what it is you
really want." Loralee closed her hand meaningfully over the silver
locket hanging between her breasts. "And when you do, I suspect the
decision will be yours. No matter where you come from, the future
has yet to be decided."

Cara sighed. "It's all so complicated."

"I reckon everything in life is complicated."

"True enough." Cara decided turnabout was fair play.
"How about you? Will you stay?"

"Now there's a mighty powerful question. There's
reasons I might want to stay here."

She didn't say it, but Cara thought maybe she was
talking about Patrick. She'd seen the way the two of them looked at
each other. "But there are complications," Cara added dryly.

Loralee nodded. "Not the least of them being my
daughter."

"But surely after everything you've been through, you
deserve a happy ending."

Loralee looped her arms around her legs, resting her
chin on her knees. "I honestly don't know if I believe in happy
endings anymore." For the first time, Cara thought she heard a
trace of bitterness in her great-grandmother's voice.

"Sometimes happiness is only a heartbeat away. You
just have to look inside yourself to find it." Cara smiled. "My
mother used to say that."

"Your mother was a wise woman." Loralee stood up, all
traces of bitterness gone. "I suppose things will work out one way
or another—for both of us."

"I hope so, Loralee. I truly hope so."

*****

Michael swung up into the saddle, his hand
automatically closing around the butt of the Winchester tucked
safely into the leather holster on his saddle. It felt right.

He looked over at Cara, who was leaning forward
checking her horse's bridle. She sat her mount with the ease of
someone comfortable with horses. In fact, if he ignored her strange
leather shoes, she almost looked like she belonged here. Truth was,
he wanted her to belong here, wanted it more than he had ever
wanted anything, but the fact was, she didn't. And she'd made it
perfectly clear last night that she wasn't going to stay.

"Maybe he won't even be up there."

Michael pulled his attention from Cara and focused on
his brother. "It's possible, but I've got a feeling he's there. If
we're right about the silver, he's not likely to go far without
it."

"I suppose you're right." Patrick brushed absently at
a stray piece of Roscoe's mane. "I wish you'd let me come with you.
I don't like the idea of you going up there alone."

"I can handle it." Michael smiled and looked over at
Cara. "Besides, I've got a sharpshooter with me, remember?" Cara
met his gaze and smiled in return. His heart did a little
somersault and suddenly, the day seemed to grow brighter.

"I still want to go with you."

Michael recognized Patrick's mutinous look. "I know,
but we've been over this. Someone's got to tell Owen. He deserves
to know. It's half his silver."

"A third." Patrick's words were soft, but certain,
the lines of his face hard. "A third belonged to Zach and no matter
what really happened, his share should go to Loralee."

"I've got no problem with that."

Patrick relaxed. "Best you get on then. I'll follow
you as soon as I find Owen."

Michael looked over at Cara. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

He turned Roscoe with a slight movement of the reins.
"All right then—"

"Wait." Loralee came running out of the house, a
leather satchel in her hands. "I've packed some food." She held up
the bag,. "Can't let you all go off without something."

Michael took the satchel and secured it on the back
of his saddle. "We'll be glad to have this, Loralee. Thank
you."

She tipped her head up and smiled at him, then turned
to Cara, holding out something in her hand. "Take this. It's as
much yours as mine, and it seems to have brought us both luck. I
like the idea that it'll be there if you need it."

The locket
. Michael felt a shiver of dread.
The locket had the power to send Cara back. He tried to push the
thought away as Cara took it and fastened it around her neck. As if
somehow in doing so he could postpone the inevitable.

"I'll take good care of it, Loralee." Cara's voice
was low, choked with emotion.

"You just take good care of yourself." The two women
clasped hands, their eyes locked on one another.

"I will."

Michael pulled his attention away from Cara and
Loralee, glancing up at the sun. It was already beginning to climb
in the sky. It was time to go. He looked down at his brother,
meeting his solemn gaze. "Watch out for yourself."

"It's not me riding into danger," Patrick said. "You
keep your eyes open. I'd just as soon not have to bury you
twice."

Michael rubbed his injured shoulder. "My sentiments
exactly. So you get your ass to Silverthread and then up to the
Promise. I'm counting on you to watch my back."

Patrick nodded, the trace of a grin relieving the
tension etched on his face. He raised a hand in farewell. "Good
hunting."

*****

Patrick kept a tight rein on the horses,
trying to keep the wagon from bouncing too much on the rutted
street. Loralee was in back, Pete's head on her lap. His face was
still pale, but his fever seemed to have broken. Arless' body was
back there, too, underneath a blanket, silent testimony to
everything that had happened.

The noise of the town was almost deafening. Men lined
the streets, about half of them staggering their way home for a few
winks before their next shifts started, the other half heading for
the saloons, ready for some action now that their shifts were
over.

None of the more respectable people of Silverthread
were to be seen on Gin Avenue, as it had most suitably been named.
All told there were about thirty-five drinking establishments open
along the street and that wasn't even counting the tents that
consisted of nothing more than a whiskey barrel with a plank that
served as a bar.

But that's where Doc kept his office—closer to the
action no doubt. Although lots of injuries occurred up at the
mines, a more impressive number happened right here in the middle
of all the taverns, drink tending to make a man a little less
cautious and often times a hell of a lot more foolish.

The occasional cat-call or whistle marked their
passing, but for the most part they might as well have been
invisible. People in Silverthread tended to mind their own
business. He pulled the wagon to a halt in front of Doc's office
and jumped down. "How's he doing?" He shot a worried look at the
old ranch hand.

"Better I think. Although the bouncing broke open the
wound. He'd bleeding again." Loralee kept her eyes on Pete. They'd
hardly spoken since Michael and Cara left. Each lost in their own
thoughts.

"Quit talkin' about me as if I was dead already. I
ain't." Pete's opened his eyes, and struggled to a sitting
position. "'Course if you take me in there," he jerked his head at
the office behind him, "my chances of kicking the bucket before my
time go up considerably."

"You hush, now, Pete." Loralee ran a soothing hand
across the old man's cheek. "Doc needs to see to that leg of yours,
and no backtalk is going to change my mind."

Pete frowned, and Patrick bit back a smile. "Come on
old man, let's get this over with."

"I ain't old. And I don't need no help." Pete scooted
off the wagon, but almost toppled over when he tried to stand on
his injured leg.

Patrick quickly flanked him on one side, an arm going
around his waist for support.

Pete grinned weakly. "Well, maybe a little help
wouldn't be out of line."

Doc Whatley appeared on his other side, lending more
support. "Looks like you ran into a little trouble, Pete." They
started to walk slowly toward the office door.

"Nothing I couldn't handle. Just didn't want to worry
these young folks none." Despite his brave words, Pete's breath was
coming in little gasps. "Arless is back there."

"He need help?" Doc shot a concerned look back at the
wagon.

Patrick shook his head, his eyes meeting the
doctor's.

"Well, why don't you let me have a look at you first,
Pete, then we'll see to Arless." They managed to get him into the
office and up onto an examining table, Pete grumbling the whole
time. "You all wait out there, and I'll see what I can do for
Pete." Doc motioned to the waiting area they'd just come
through.

"You go on and find Owen, Patrick. I'll be fine. If
Doc gives me any trouble, I'll just wallop him." Pete grinned and
then lay back, closing his eyes.

"He'll be fine." Doc nodded at them, and then turned
to his patient.

"Come on." Loralee pulled Patrick into the waiting
room. "I'll stay here and watch out for him. You need to tell Owen
what's going on. Michael and Cara are counting on you."

Patrick nodded, his gaze meeting hers. "Thank you,
Loralee—for everything." There really wasn't anything else to say,
or if there was, he hadn't earned the right to say it.

She smiled up at him, her eyes a little sad. "I think
you have it backwards, Patrick." She leaned up and kissed him on
the cheek. "It's me who should be thanking you."

He stood for a moment lost in the soft warmth of her
eyes. Then, with a deep breath, he turned to go. No sense thinking
of things that couldn't be. He'd covered that territory last night,
and nothing had changed. Besides he had a killer to find.

*****

Patrick walked along the boardwalk, thinking
about Amos Striker. It was still hard to believe that Striker had
killed his mother and Zach. There was just something about the
story that didn't ring true. Oh, Striker was capable of killing
people all right. The last few days had more than proven that.

But something just didn't feel right. For one thing
it was a hell of a coincidence that Striker would come across Zach
and his mother and the silver by chance. It wasn't impossible,
certainly, but it still seemed highly unlikely. The Promise was
isolated. High up in the mountains above Clune.

They'd been real careful not to ever let on where the
exact location was. His father hadn't wanted anyone to be able to
find it. They'd even filed their claim over in Del Norte, changing
details here and there, so that anyone who did manage to find the
papers, wouldn't actually be able to find the mine.

It had been Owen's idea, but Duncan had liked the
plan, too. Most likely his father thought the whole thing a grand
adventure. It hadn't been wealth that called to his father, it had
been excitement. Duncan Macpherson liked living on the edge.

Patrick frowned, turning his thoughts back to
Striker. The sheriff wasn't a bright man, just a devious one, and
the elaborate scenario they'd come up with last night, required
something more than devious. So either they were dead wrong about
Rose and Zach and the silver, or there was someone else involved.
Someone who was calling the shots, and using Amos Striker as
muscle.

Or a fall guy.

Patrick pushed through the swinging doors of the
Irish Rose, the cacophony of voices, laughter and tinny piano
assaulting his ears. Patrons in various stages of inebriation lined
the big mahogany bar and clustered at the tables scattered around
the room. Sam was behind the bar, busy with the raucous miners. He
raised an arm to Patrick in salute, but his attention was quickly
pulled back to patrons demanding more liquor.

Patrick headed for the back and Owen's office, his
mind still puzzling on the problem of Amos Striker. If someone else
was behind everything that happened, it had to be someone they
knew. Someone who had something to gain by stealing the silver.

But who the hell could it be?

*****

"Loralee." Ginny burst through the doctor's
door, her dark eyes filled with relief. "Oh, honey, I thought… well
there's been all kinds of talk. And when you just up and
disappeared…"

Loralee hugged the older woman, fighting to keep from
bursting into tears. "I've been at Clune with Patrick." She pulled
away. "Amos Striker tried to kill me."

"You all right?" The older woman eyed her
worriedly.

"I'm fine. It's Pete that's in trouble. Amos Striker
shot him. He followed us to Clune and pinned us in the house. If it
hadn't of been for Michael we'd be dead for sure."

"Michael's alive?"

"He is, and he brought…" she broke off, not knowing
exactly how to explain Cara.

"Don't matter, you can tell me later. Where's
Patrick?" Ginny asked, her dark eyes intense.

Loralee frowned. "He's gone to find Owen. To tell him
what's happened."

Ginny grabbed her by the shoulders. "You got to find
him now. Before he finds Owen."

"Why? I don't understand." She met the older woman's
gaze, and something in her eyes made Loralee shiver.

"Because Owen Prescott's telling folks that Patrick
is the one who killed Corabeth. He's the one that sent Amos Striker
out to Clune."

Cara pulled her horse to a stop, her eyes
glued to the steep rise of red-brown rock. It was almost as if a
giant hand had thrust it up, splintering the earth, shattering its
symmetry. The face of the cliff was sheer and inaccessible,
ascending a thousand feet straight into the air.