The Promise (7 page)

He grabbed the Scotch and after unscrewing the cap,
drank deeply.

"The pills." She hated to sound like a taskmaster,
but he needed the antibiotics.

With a grimace, he swallowed the tablets and took
another swig from the bottle, pausing to run a thumb over the
ridged glass at the mouth of the container. His brows drew
together, then, with a sigh, he lay back against the sheets.

She sat beside him on the bed and carefully began to
peel the bandages off. They were stuck in places and she could feel
him tense every time she had to pull at one. Finally, there was
only the wound. Using the washcloth and the water, she carefully
washed away the blood.

She could see the bullet hole now, a perfect little
circle, almost as if he'd been hole punched. The edges were black
and the center oozed blood mixed with a greenish liquid.
Infection
. She could smell it. Swallowing to keep her
stomach in line, she leaned back.

"Okay, what now?" Her voice was tight and came out
sounding pinched. Her heart was pounding.

"Wash the area out and then make a cross cut to open
it up."

She opened the alcohol and poured some onto the wash
cloth. With a hesitant swipe, she brushed across the open
wound.

"No. Not like that." He took the bottle from her and
tipped it over. The liquid ran down his shoulder. His face
tightened and she could see the whites of his knuckles as he
gripped the bottle. Finally satisfied, he handed it back to her.
"Now, cut."

Dreading what came next, she picked up the little
knife, swabbing it with alcohol. Grimly she bent over his shoulder,
concentrating on what she was about to do. Placing one hand so that
her fingers splayed out around the wound, she inched the knife
downward.

"Do it." His voice rumbled deep in his chest and she
could feel the vibrations with her fingers.

Sucking in a deep breath, she tightened her grip on
the knife and cut swiftly across the wound. Placing the alcohol
soaked washcloth across it, she reached for the tweezers. After
blotting away the worst of the blood and sterilizing the tweezers,
she began to search for the bullet.

Sweat ran down her face and she used her free hand to
wipe it away.

Michael groaned once, but other than that, remained
stoically silent, his eyes shut his mouth drawn tight.

She twisted the tweezers first to the left and then
to the right, probing as gently as she could. Finally, just as she
was beginning to think there was no bullet, she felt the tweezers
hit something solid.

"I think I feel something. Wait." She withdrew the
tweezers triumphantly. "I have it." The ball of lead looked more
like a metal lump than a bullet. She felt like she should be
dropping it into a bowl for posterity or something. "Should I keep
it?"

He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "No."

With a shrug, she dropped it in a nearby trashcan
then quickly cleaned the wound. Using the gauze and Neosporin, she
formed a pad of sorts which she bound in place with tape and strips
torn from the pillow case. Not the best bandage ever made, but
certainly one that would do for now.

Michael appeared to have passed out, or at least was
sleeping. She cleaned up some of the mess, leaving most of the
medicine on the bedside table, then carefully removed his boots,
and covered him with a blanket.

Exhausted, Cara crawled up onto the bed, ignoring the
fact that she was essentially sleeping with a stranger. Well, maybe
not a stranger. She'd certainly slept with him before. It was too
much for her tired mind to try and work out, and besides, there was
only one bed, and her bedmate was in no condition to take advantage
of the situation.

She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift,
comforted by the fact that she could feel him breathing. It was
probably her imagination, but he already seemed cooler. Just as
sleep threatened to overtake her, she felt him move. She turned to
look at him, meeting his steady cobalt gaze, shivering at the
intensity of his stare.

"Thank you…Cara." He briefly caressed her cheek, his
touch soft like the gentle kiss of a butterfly. Then his hand
dropped and his eyes closed as he slipped back into the healing
arms of Morpheus.

"You're welcome." The whispered words were wasted,
but her heart sang at the sound of her name. He knew her. He
was
real. The explanations could come later.

She dropped her hand into his, reveling in the feel
of his warmth, knowing that life coursed through his veins. By
reflex, or intention, his fingers tightened around hers. With a
smile, she let herself slide into sleep.

*****

Sunlight filtered through the closed
curtains, making a cheerful pattern on the quilt. Michael
stretched, trying to remember where he was. A dull pain radiated
from his shoulder. He frowned as memory flooded back. The gunshot,
the mine tunnel—Cara. He turned to look at the pillow next to him.
Empty.

She was gone.
Again
.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been here. He remembered
Cara removing the bullet and then things were a little hazy. Mainly
he'd slept, but he also had recollections of her lying beside him,
warm and alive. He felt his body respond to his thoughts, a sure
sign he was on the road to recovery. Something he obviously owed to
Cara and her medicine.

She'd woken him several times, insisting that he take
more of the little tablets. He glanced at the array of medicine on
the side table. The bottles were odd, made of a substance he didn't
recognize. He touched the big brown one. Hard, yet pliable.
Certainly strange, but no doubt there was an explanation. Besides,
who was he to argue with success? He wondered briefly what it was
she'd given him. Whatever it was, it seemed to be working.

He sat up and rotated his shoulder cautiously. The
wound was tender, but his head was clear and he was certain the
infection was gone. He looked around the room, trying to get his
bearings. The furnishings were simple with bright spots of color
here and there. Definitely a feminine touch.

There were vases of flowers everywhere. And stacks of
books. He picked one up from the bedside table.
This Rough
Magic
. The title seemed to mirror the situation. Magic was
about the only thing he could think of to explain the fact that
she'd appeared in the mine tunnel just when he'd needed her
most.

He put the book down, shaking his head at the wild
turn of his thoughts. There was certainly no such thing as magic.
Rough or otherwise. He turned his attention back to the room, more
than a little curious about the woman who owned it.

The focal point of the room was a magnificent
watercolor. He didn't know much about art, but the painting was
good, a landscape, painted somewhere in the mountains. The silvery
line of a stream marked the edge of a small clearing. He could
almost smell the tangy scent of pine and feel the warmth of the sun
on his face. The colors were muted, giving the entire scene a
dreamy feel. He smiled to himself. He'd actually almost used the
word romantic.

The center of the canvas was dominated by a huge blue
spruce, its massive branches bending low, almost touching the
ground. The scene was somehow familiar. He studied it through
narrowed eyes, and, when understanding came, felt a surprising
sense of elation.

It was the mine tunnel.

Just behind the great spruce, in the shadows of its
limbs, he could see the opening. And in the mottled browns and
blacks of the tunnel, he could just make out the image of two
figures intertwined. With energy he was surprised he possessed, he
got out of the bed and crossed the room to stand in front of the
painting. He stared at the couple. The brush strokes were strong,
emotions laid bare. In barely six inches of space the artist had
captured both longing and passion. It reached out from the canvas,
surrounding him.

In the corner, faint but discernible was the artist's
signature.
Cara Reynolds
. A shiver ran down his spine.

She hadn't forgotten.

A small, tarnished brass plaque at the bottom of the
frame caught his attention. He read the words and then, with his
heart pounding, read them again. Lovers' Reunion. He suddenly felt
absurdly happy. Bending closer, he tried to make out the date
underneath the title. As he read it, his joy changed to
confusion—confusion to shock. He sat down on the end of the bed
with a thud. According to the plaque, the painting had been
completed in January of 1993. He sucked in a ragged breath.
Nineteen ninety-three?

Cara's watercolor had been painted just over a
hundred and thirty years after he was born.

Duncan Macpherson was dead. Loralee bit her
lip, surprised at the swell of emotion. She'd certainly cared for
the old man, but in her business it didn't pay to make
attachments.

"Are you sure?" she asked, fastening the last of the
buttons on her bodice.

The burly miner pulled up his pants, popping one
suspender into place on his shoulder. "Heard it up at the mine.
They found him on the road to Clune. Figure word's spread all over
town by now." He pulled the other suspender into place and buttoned
his fly with a satisfied grin. "Mighty fine time, Loralee." He
reached into his pocket and threw a coin down on the bed. "I'll be
back next payday." With a jaunty salute, he strode out the door,
slamming it behind him.

Loralee sank to the bed, reaching automatically for
the coin. Duncan was dead. She ran a hand through her hair, trying
to make sense of it, wondering what had possessed him to head for
home without Jack.

Jack
.

She rushed to the window, her heart pounding. The
sway-backed sorrel was still tied to the post outside. He lifted
baleful brown eyes and whinnied softly.

"Jack." She hustled through the door, skidding to a
stop beside the horse. There was no way Duncan would leave Jack
willingly. No amount of liquor could cause him to forget the beast.
So how could Duncan have been found on the road to Clune? Something
was dreadfully wrong here. Loralee patted the horse, trying to calm
her rising fear. "Wait here, sweetie, I'll be right back." What she
needed was help. Two heads were wiser than one and all that.

She ran up the row to Corabeth's door and pounded on
it. There was no answer. Puzzled, she tried to open the door. It
rattled but refused to budge. Locked. She pounded again, certain
the noise would wake the dead, but there still wasn't an answer.
Several tousled heads poked out of doorways along the row. Loralee
pasted on a smile, waving with a casualness she didn't feel.

The window to Corabeth's room was shut, the curtain
tightly drawn. Corabeth obviously wasn't answering. Which meant
Loralee was on her own.
Again
. The important thing right now
was to deal with Jack. She had to hide the horse. At least until
she had a chance to talk to one of Duncan's sons. Until then, the
fewer people who saw him outside her crib, the better.

Looking up at the sun, she was surprised to see that
the day was already well advanced. She stroked Jack's soft nose,
and after making certain no one was paying attention, looped his
reins over her arm. "Come on, sweetie, let's get you somewhere
safe."

She led the horse down the dusty road and around the
corner, away from town, up toward the mines. Jack followed placidly
enough, his gait slow and steady.

After a steep climb up the canyon, they stopped at
the edge of a rushing stream called Willow Creek. Although for the
life of her she wasn't certain why. She'd never seen any tree
looking remotely like a willow along its rocky banks.

The canyon narrowed here, only wide enough for the
rough hewn logs that, laid side by side, formed a bridge of sorts.
Jack took one look at the rickety wooden structure and refused to
budge. "It's just a little bit farther. And there's bound to be
oats to fill your belly. Come on, sweetie."

Jack curled back his upper lip and refused to move,
his stubborn stance worthy of any miner's burro. Loralee wearily
pushed a strand of sweat-soaked hair off her face, and stared at
the woeful looking horse. "Serve you right if I just left you
here." She had better things to do with her time than to try to
coerce a washed out old horse across a pile of shifting lumber.

A crack and roar echoed down the canyon. Jack lifted
his head and, with a snort of pure fear, raced across the makeshift
bridge. Loralee ran gratefully behind. The sorrel stopped just on
the other side, relaxing now that the noise had faded.

"It was only the men at the mine. You should be used
to blasting by now. Some miner's horse you are." Jack only shook
his head reproachfully. She laughed, letting the tension of the
past few hours ebb away.

Around the next bend, a makeshift cabin stood
smack-dab against the sheer cliff. Loralee knew from experience
that it actually extended cave-like into the rock, a dugout of
sorts. Next to the shack was a rickety lean-to, its flimsy boards,
whitewashed from exposure, fading into the side of the mountain.
The perfect hide-away.

"Come on, Jack. We're almost there." She pulled the
horse behind her, leading him by the reins. The door to the shanty
opened a crack and the muzzle of a rifle glistened in the
sunlight.

"Loralee, that you?"

"It's me, Ginny. I need some help."

The door inched farther open, and a short,
sun-weathered figure emerged onto the listing planks that served as
a porch.

"What can I do?" The woman pulled a colorful blanket
tighter around her shoulders, her question hesitant.

"I need to leave my horse here."

Ginny eyed the sorrel and snorted. "Not much of a
horse."

"He belonged to a friend." Loralee felt the tears
rising.