The Promise (14 page)

Patrick smiled at the trace of sweet southern drawl
in her voice. It was almost as lyrical as his mother's Irish lilt
had been. "Was he on his way home to do that, then?"

Her face clouded. "No. At least I don't think
so."

Patrick leaned forward, his heart beating a staccato
rhythm in his chest. "What do you mean?"

"Well, maybe it's nothing. But your father loves Jack
as much as he loves…" She dipped her head in embarrassment.

"As much as he loves us." He finished the sentence
for her. "It's all right. I think it might be true. Jack and my
father were inseparable."

"Well that's it exactly. If your father had truly
been heading back to Clune, then he wouldn't have left Jack in
front of my cr…house," she amended, color washing across her cheeks
again.

"He left Jack with you?" Patrick frowned, trying to
find reason where there probably was none.

"Not with me exactly. I think he was planning to come
back. He knew Jack would be safe there."

"Well, that certainly supports what I've said all
along. Where is he now?"

"I brought him here." She shot a pleading look at
Ginny who immediately intervened.

"Now don't go thinking Loralee was trying to make off
with that horse. She brought him here because she figured he' be
safe from prying eyes."

Patrick ran a hand through his already frazzled hair.
"I don't think anyone in their right mind would steal Jack, but you
did the right thing. In fact, I think he should probably stay here,
for now. At least until I can get hold of Amos Striker."

Loralee and Ginny exchanged a look. "What's he got to
do with this?"

Patrick considered Ginny's question. "Well to start
with, he's the sheriff."

The woman shrugged slightly as if to say, so what? "I
wouldn't go runnin' my mouth off to the sheriff just yet."

"Well, I can't say that I disagree with your opinion
of our erstwhile lawman, but I'd like to point out to him that it's
highly unlikely that my father left town alive. Jack's presence
proves that."

"Ah, but does it really prove anything? Where your
father was killed is far less important than why the man died. And
until you know the answer to that question, I'd be careful who I
trust."

"I don't trust Striker farther than I can throw him.
But he's the law around here. That has to mean something."

"Or nothing." The older woman's face closed, as if
she had turned her spirit inward.

Patrick looked in askance at Loralee. "Does she know
something I don't?"

Ginny opened her eyes, her attention once more
focused on Patrick. "Amos Striker is a killer, a cold blooded
killer."

Patrick shrugged. "Most lawmen are."

"But this one murdered my daughter."

Michael let the steamy, hot spray beat down
on his back. He hadn't experienced much of this new century, but if
showers were any indication, he thought he just might like it. Not
that he could stay. No one was going to accuse him of being like
his mother, he thought bitterly. He wasn't about to desert his
family. They depended on him.

He turned, closing his eyes and letting the water
slide down his face. A vision of creamy skin and alabaster breasts
filled his mind, its alluring presence sending distinct messages to
a much lower portion of his anatomy.
Cara
. He groaned. She
was everything she'd been nine years ago and more. She was
entrancing, and he wanted her. Wanted all of her, body and
soul.

He leaned back, letting the water pound into him,
washing away his need. He couldn't have her. He belonged in another
time. He had responsibilities. And unlike his mother, he wasn't
going to allow unbridled emotion let him forget about them.

"Are you going to stay in there all night? I'm
starving."

He smiled at the sound of her voice. Just listening
to her talk made him hard. So much for resolve. He closed his eyes,
pretending that they were just an ordinary couple on an ordinary
night. God, how he loved ordinary. He sighed and turned off the
spigots and reached for the towel she'd left him. Just two ordinary
people—from two different centuries. He ran a hand through his wet
hair, trying to gain control of his tangled thoughts.

Maybe ordinary was over-rated.

The door squeaked as it swung open. A slender hand
snuck through the opening with a stack of clothing. "I think these
will fit."

He grabbed the clothes, tempted to drag the woman
attached to the arm along with them. "I'll be out in a minute."

She mumbled something and closed the door. He stood
for a moment dripping on the floor, staring at the space where her
hand had been. Lord, how he wanted her.

*****

Cara leaned back against the door, trying to
catch her breath. She hadn't even seen him and she felt as though
she were going to explode. Desire ripped through her like a level
five tornado. He was the most amazing man she'd ever known—or not
known as the case might be.

Desire battled with common sense. He wouldn't stay,
couldn't stay. She had to hold onto her emotions. If she lost her
heart to him and he went back, she'd never survive losing him
again. Unfortunately, her body had its own ideas. She ran her hands
over her breasts, remembering his touch, his searing kisses. She
was separated from him by two inches of wood.

Wood with
hinges
.

With a will of its own her hand reached behind her
for the knob. Before she could shift her weight away from the door,
it began to swing open. Thrown off balance, she careened backward,
colliding with damp, sinewy muscle. Michael. She sucked in a breath
and attempted to right herself, but he was quicker, encircling her
with hard, sun-bronzed arms.

"I've got you." His whispered words tickled her ear,
gently lifting the hair framing her face. Desire, hot and
insistent, spread through her belly, reaching lower, quivering,
waiting.

He bent his head, nuzzling the soft skin of her neck.
She shivered in anticipation. With soft dry kisses, he traced the
line of her neck and shoulder, stopping along the way to explore
with his tongue. She closed her eyes, allowing sensation to wash
over her. His hands massaged her stomach, making slow, languorous
circles, inching upward with each pass.

She arched into him, willing his hands to move
faster, higher. His lips were at her ear now, causing shivers of
pure ecstasy to run up and down her spine as he tugged and licked,
exploring every tender crevice. Something deep inside of her began
to pulse in response to his tender ministrations.

His hands found her breasts, his strong fingers
curving around them, cupping them almost reverently. She arched
against him, wanting more than tender touches. His thumbs began to
rub and circle relentlessly, until she was rubbing against him like
a crazed cat, her body begging for more.

"Tell, me what you want, Cara."

She tipped her head back, leaning it against his
shoulder.
You. I want you
. She tried to form the words, but
his hands were robbing her of speech.

With an ear splitting trill, the phone shattered the
silence. Michael jumped back. His face tightening.

"It's all right. It's just the phone." She placed a
hand on his arm reassuringly. He relaxed, but still looked puzzled.
She grabbed the shrieking instrument, unsure whether its shrill
interference was a welcome relief or an abhorrent interruption.

"Hello." She put a hand to her breast, trying to
still her heart manually. Michael, leaned against the door jamb,
looking nothing short of magnificent in her grandfather's faded
jeans. They hugged his hips, sliding against…she sucked in a sharp
breath, trying to concentrate on the telephone conversation.

"Cara, darling, are you listening?" There was a pause
and Cara's lust-filled brain finally registered that it was Nick on
the other end. A bucket of cold water couldn't have worked
better.

"Fine, Nick, I'm fine." At the sound of the name,
Michael's lazy grin disappeared. His eyes narrowed as he listened
to her end of the conversation.

"Cara, what are you doing? You're not listening to a
word I'm saying."

"Yes, I am, Nick, it's just that I was busy."
Michael's smile reappeared and she felt her body tighten in
response.

"All right, then, I'll get to the point." Nick's
voice bordered on a petulant whine. "I wanted to give you a last
chance to sell me the paintings."

"Nick, I told you when you were here. I've already
sold the paintings and I have absolutely no interest in reneging on
the bargain I made."

"Very well, but don't say I didn't give you every
chance. I have a feeling you're going to regret your decision."

"I doubt it. Good night."

"Good night, darling. And Cara?"

"Yes, Nick?"

"Enjoy your boy toy." There was a click and the line
went dead.

Michael had crossed to her side. "What did he
want?"

Cara smiled, not willing to ruin their evening by
repeating Nick's snide remarks. "Nothing really. Just trying to get
me to change my mind about the paintings."

Michael nodded, accepting her answer. He picked up
the phone's receiver and listened to the hum of the dial tone.
"This is a telephone isn't it?" He held it out to her.

Cara nodded, placing the receiver back in its
cradle.

"I read about it. A guy named Bell invented it a few
years back. I never dreamed it would really amount to
anything."

"Oh, it's amounted to something all right." At the
moment, she was wishing Alexander Graham Bell had never been born.
Out of self preservation, she scooped the madras shirt from the
floor by the bathroom, flipping it at him with an underhanded lob.
"If we're going out for dinner, I think you'll probably want to
wear this."

He caught it and slipped his arms into the sleeves.
It was a little tight across the shoulders, but otherwise fit fine.
She gulped as he started to button it. Even the simple action of
his fingers sliding the buttons through each hole excited her. Oh
Lord, she had it bad.

He sat on the couch and began pulling on his boots.
"How long will it take us to get into town?"

"Not long. Maybe fifteen minutes."

He frowned. "On horseback?"

"No, we'll go in my Jeep."

"Jeep?"

She grinned. " A kind of automobile. You're gonna
love it." There wasn't a guy alive who didn't love going fast. Not
even one from the 19th century.

*****

Jeeps were incredible. Not that he was really
sure what one was, exactly. He'd heard about combustion engines,
but this surpassed his wildest dreams. They'd careened down the
mountain in record time. And the road. Well, the road was amazing,
too. No ruts, no mud, just an endless lane of something called
asphalt. Not bad.

They slowed as they entered the main street of
Silverthread and Michael jerked his head around, staring at the
buildings on either side of him. The store fronts were different
and the names had all changed, but most of the buildings were the
same.

The shanties and clapboard were all gone. The bank
building was there, though, housing something called CompuStore.
And across the street, Bilker's meat market was still carved into
the stone edifice of its brick building, although a sign underneath
proudly proclaimed the best bagels in town. Whatever bagels
were.

The dark cliffs of the mountains loomed ominously on
either side, narrowing until they almost seemed to touch, framing
Silverthread with their rocky crevices. The mountains, at least,
had changed very little.

He could hear the soothing rush of Willow Creek,
behind the buildings on the right. Somehow the noise was
comforting. The boardwalks were gone, replaced by sidewalks made of
the some material similar to asphalt but smoother. The street was
dotted with automobiles and warm light spilled out from doorways
and windows.

They'd passed the new electric plant on the way into
town. Only now it was nothing more than a dilapidated old building.
The mill across the way, was almost totally gone. Nothing left
except a tailings pile and a section of sluice leaning drunkenly
over the stream. He felt a deep sense of loss, everything familiar
to him was long gone and forgotten.

The town itself was smaller, certainly, and of
course, modernized. But the myriad of twinkling lights above
indicated that the Flats were still the preferred place to live. At
least some things never changed.

Everything was different. Everything was the same.
Cara pulled the Jeep into a yellow striped space in front of what
had once been an assayer's office. The awning covered windows now
housed an artfully arrayed selection of paintings, each nestled on
white velvet and framed in carved gilt. He didn't have to look for
the sign. He recognized the work. "This is your gallery."

Cara nodded. "Want to come inside?"

*****

"I have to finish getting these paintings
ready for shipping. They're being picked up tomorrow."

He nodded absently, intent on studying a painting
hung in a small alcove on one wall. "Where was this painted?" He
kept his voice mild, even though the blood pounded in his ears.

She stopped and turned back, glancing at the painting
in front of him. "That's my grandfather's ranch. We passed it on
the way in, but it was too dark to see it."

She started to turn away and he reached out to stop
her. "That's Clune."

She froze, staring at the canvas. "Your ranch?"

"Yeah, only it doesn't look like this—yet." It was
like looking at his dreams coming alive under brush and paint. The
barn was there, finished and painted a dark green, just as he'd
envisioned it. And the new ranch house, barely more than a plan in
his head, sat exactly as he'd intended to build it, nestled in the
curve of the creek, shaded by willows and pines.