The Promise (13 page)

With an almost super human effort, she pushed away,
her head winning over her mutinous body by a nose. She shuddered as
they separated, the ache inside shifting from her gut to her
heart.

She pasted on what she hoped was a carefree smile and
tried to ignore the flash of hurt in his eyes. "Come on, I'll show
you how to work the shower."

She turned away, trying to keep her emotions in
check.

Michael Macpherson wasn't forever—couldn't be
forever.

"He would have liked it up here." Owen's
voice was hushed, almost reverent, as he looked out across the
valley.

Patrick followed his gaze. The grave was situated in
a tiny meadow at the top of what Michael had always called the hump
back, a high bumpy cliff hanging out over the river. From here the
ranch was visible, spreading out across the valley floor, and more
important really, the mountains swooped down to the ridge, inviting
a person to climb higher, deeper, into their waiting purple
majesty. His father had always been drawn to the mountains.

"He spent a good part of his life in these mountains,
made and lost a fortune here. I thought it only right he be buried
here." Patrick looked at the grave marker, his voice filled with
sorrow and a trace of bitterness.

"He was a good man, and he wouldn't want you to waste
time grieving."

Patrick shrugged. "It's hard, especially when Amos
Striker seems to believe that my brother murdered my father for the
plunder from some non-existent silver strike."

"Now, Patrick, you have to admit that from Amos'
point of view the facts fit. He's just doing his job." Owen's words
were meant to be comforting, but Patrick didn't feel a bit
better.

"The only way I'll ever believe Michael murdered
anyone is if he tells me so himself." Patrick held the older man's
gaze, surprised when he turned away.

"I expect all the talk will come to nothing. With any
luck, Michael will come riding in here with some wild story, and
the whole thing will be over."

His eyes searched the valley floor, almost as if
Owen's words could somehow conjure up his brother. "I hope so. But
that won't change the fact that my father's dead."

"No. It won't." Owen straightened the brim of his
hat, and sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't get out here sooner. I meant
to, but things just got away from me. Seems there was a little
excitement in town yesterday. Some whore decided life wasn't all it
was cracked up to be."

"I know, I was there."

Owen frowned. "At the cribs? Jesus, Patrick, how many
times have I told you about those places?"

Patrick let out a harsh laugh. "God, Owen, what do
you take me for? I lose my father and brother in one fell swoop and
then head off to the cribs for a little carnal merry-making? Sounds
more like something Amos Striker would do."

"Why would you say that?" Owen queried, brows drawn
together in confusion.

"I don't know. No solid reason, really. He just seems
the type. Speaking of which, any idea where our fair-haired boy was
yesterday? I tried to report the death, but he was nowhere to be
found."

Owen shook his head. "I've absolutely no idea. The
last time I saw him was with you."

Patrick shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. Doc
handled things. I just thought he ought to be informed about the
death."

"Of a whore? Patrick, who cares if some two bit
floozy uses laudanum to buy herself a ticket straight to hell? I
say we're better off without her."

"That's a little harsh, Owen, even for you. I know
you don't think much of the profession as a whole, but surely that
doesn't mean you wish them all dead?"

"No, of course not. If I sounded harsh, I didn't mean
to." He tilted his head to one side, curiosity lighting his face.
"You never said what you were doing out by the cribs?"

"I was…ah…just walking, trying to digest the crap
Striker was throwing out," he paused, meeting Owen's gaze, "you,
too, for that matter."

"I wasn't agreeing or disagreeing with him. I was
just trying to listen to the facts and draw conclusions
accordingly."

"Well, you're certainly free to believe what you
want."

Owen reached over to place a hand on Patrick's
shoulder. "I don't believe Michael killed your father, Patrick, and
I didn't come out here to fight with you."

Patrick drew in a deep breath and stared at his boot
tips. "I know."

"I'm here for you, son. Don't forget that."

Patrick nodded and looked up, his sense of
hopelessness overwhelming.

"It's going to be all right. I swear it. You've just
got to be patient."

"I know." He strove for an attained a calm he didn't
feel. No sense in worrying Owen.

The older man studied him for a bit, and then smiled.
"I best get back to town. You never know when Sam's going to take
it in his head to provide drinks for the house."

Patrick smiled wryly. "You know as well as I do that
Sam's even tighter than you. If that's possible."

Owen wrapped an arm around Patrick's shoulders. "Walk
with me back to the ranch."

"No. I need to think a bit and this is as good a
place as any."

"All right, but I'll come back out in a couple of
days to check on you."

"You don't need to do that, Owen. I'll be fine. I'm
not a kid anymore."

"I know that. I just worry about you. You're the only
family I have left." He pulled Patrick into a brief hug and then
let him go. "You know where to find me."

"I do." Patrick watched Owen make his way down the
hump back. Everything was so mixed up, he didn't know which way to
turn. Every time he thought he was getting a handle on life, it
dealt him another blow. And this time he didn't have anyone to
shelter him from it.

Except Owen
. Patrick shook his head at the
train of his thoughts. He didn't want to need anyone. It hurt too
damn much. But, at the same time, he wasn't sure what the hell he
was going to do on his own.

If Michael was dead—and somehow, he'd actually come
to the point where he believed that—then the ranch was his. But
what the hell did he want with a ranch? Maybe he'd just give the
damn thing to Owen. Or better yet to Pete.

But, at the same time, he couldn't. It was Michael's
legacy. Surely he owed it to his brother to make his dream a
reality? There were so many questions. What he needed was answers.
Patrick ran his hands through his hair, his eye catching on his
father's grave.

He walked over to it, looking down at the simple
wooden cross. "I don't know what to do." His jaw tightened as he
tried to stave off the despair threatening to swallow him whole. "I
never figured on standing here, and I sure as hell didn't figure on
doing it alone."

He knelt by the grave, running a hand through the
loose rocks and dirt that covered his father's body. "Tell me what
to do. They're saying Michael killed you. They're saying you struck
it rich. I don't know what to believe. I don't know who to
believe."

The wind whispered across the silent meadow, swirling
bits of dust as it passed across the grave. Patrick blew out a
breath and opened his eyes, drinking in the cool colors of the
mountains, inhaling the pungent scent of freshly turned earth.

There were no answers here.

*****

Patrick felt like a buffalo in a china shop.
He sat at the table across from Loralee, and cattycorner to her
friend Ginny, balancing a porcelain cup on his knee. Who'd have
thought he'd be having tea with a lady of the line and an Indian
squaw, in a rundown old shack, just outside the red light district
of a mining camp.

But then who'd have thought his life would have taken
any of the turns it had recently.

He lifted the cup to his lips and tried not to slurp
the hot liquid.

"Have some cake, Mr. Macpherson."

Jumping at the excuse to put the teacup down, he
almost slammed it on the table, putting on the brakes at the last
minute and managing to land it with little more than a clatter,
only a small amount of tea sloshing into the saucer. His mother
would be laughing out loud.

"Thank you. Miz…" He stopped, uncertain how to
continue. Folks in these parts, and especially these circumstances,
usually didn't have last names, but the moment seemed to call for
formality.

"Ginny'll do." The Ute woman smiled at him and he was
surprised at the way it lit up her face. Why, she was almost
beautiful. Time, and no doubt life, had etched fine lines around
her mouth and eyes, but the details only seemed to enhance her
appeal. He imagined that she had once been a pretty woman.

He bit into the cake, allowing the buttery flavor to
slide into his mouth and down his throat. Heaven, pure heaven. He
swallowed and blushed under the amused gaze of his two companions.
"I, uh, don't get much cake at Clune," he managed by way of
explanation.

"Don't imagine you do." Loralee's smile was warm. It
had sort of the same effect as the cake, filling him with warmth
and goodness, making him want more. An angel in a hell hole. The
words jumped out at him and he was surprised at the poetic turn of
his thoughts.

"More?" Ginny held out the plate again, meeting his
gaze. From the look reflected there, he was certain that she was
well aware of the direction his mind had been going. She smiled
tolerantly as he took another slice of cake. "Loralee told me about
your father and brother. I'm mighty sorry for your loss."

"Did you know my father?"

"Only in passing. But he was a good man."

Patrick nodded, his mouth full of cake.

"Is there any word on your brother?" Loralee leaned
toward him, her warm brown eyes full of concern.

"Nothing." The word sounded so hopeless, so final. "I
think I'd have heard from him by now—if he was still alive."

"I'm so sorry."

He wanted to reach out and touch her, to let her know
how much her words brought comfort.

Ginny sighed. "Remember, Mr. Macpherson, things are
rarely as they seem. One merely has to scratch the surface to see
the true reflection."

Patrick frowned. The woman made damn good cake, but
she made absolutely no sense. Must be the Ute in her. Seems they
were always speaking in riddles. Pete believed they had a direct
line to the Almighty that white men couldn't even fathom. "Call me
Patrick."

The older woman nodded, managing to look wise and
serene all at the same time. Patrick had a sudden longing to tell
her all his fears, to unburden himself as if she could wave her
hand, and somehow, make this whole nightmare go away.

But he hadn't come here for absolution and he
certainly hadn't come for tea and cake, no matter how good it was.
He'd come here for answers. "I'm hoping Loralee here can help me
get a better understanding of what happened to my father. According
to Arless Hurley, you may have been the last person to see him
alive." Loralee flinched as if he'd hit her. "Beg pardon, ma'am. I
should've qualified that. I didn't mean to imply that you…well that
you could have…" He hesitated, embarrassed by his blunder.

Ginny reached over and patted Loralee's hand. "Come
now, girl, he's not saying you killed the man. Tell him what you
know."

Loralee's face brightened. "There's not too much to
tell. Duncan had become something of a regular." She ducked her
head, her pale cheeks stained with a blush. It was another
contradiction in Loralee. At times she seemed so young and
innocent, hardly traits one expected in a soiled dove.

Not that he really knew a whole lot about the subject
first hand. Yet another area of his life he was living vicariously
through others. He pulled away from his thoughts, forcing himself
to concentrate on the subject at hand. "I need you to try and
remember what my father said that last evening." He spoke gently
and was rewarded with a nod of approval from Ginny. She leaned back
in her chair, subtly withdrawing from the conversation.

"We talked a lot. In fact, you should know that's all
we did. Your father just needed a friend, I think. He was so
devastated when your mama run out." She paused for a minute,
looking at Patrick.

He smiled with what he hoped was encouragement. "Go
on."

"Well, that particular night he was in high spirits
—"

"You mean he was drunk," Patrick inserted.

"No." She screwed up her eyes in thought. "It was
more than that. I mean he was always a little tippled, but this
time there was genuine excitement, too. He wasn't making complete
sense." She shrugged. "The whiskey, I guess. He kept talking about
finding something big."

Patrick watched as she struggled to remember, her
tiny little teeth worrying the bottom of her lip. "He spoke about
finally finding the silver and how surprised you boys would
be."

"He talked about Michael and me?"

She smiled. "All the time. He was so proud of the
both of you."

"Michael." Patrick mumbled his brother's name under
his breath. "My father was proud of Michael."

"He always said that Michael was the glue of the
family. That he was determined to keep you together no matter
what."

It was true. Michael had spent practically his whole
life creating a home for them all. A place they could call their
own. In fact, now that he thought on it, Michael had never really
shown any interest in things outside the family. Except for the
winter he went a little crazy trying to find some girl named
Cara.

Loralee leaned forward, her eyes full of concern.
"Your father was proud of you, too, Patrick. He always said you
were the heart of the family."

For something so simple, Patrick felt absurdly happy.
He forced himself to concentrate on the topic at hand. "Did he say
anything about where he found this silver?"

Loralee shook her head. "No. I've tried to remember,
but it was really just rambling. I do know he wanted to tell
y'all."