The Promise (16 page)

"Oh, hell." Cara was looking in the direction of her
gallery. "I forgot to sign the manifest. If I do it now, it'll save
me a trip into town tomorrow. It'll just take a minute. You don't
mind, do you?"

"I'll go with you."

As they walked toward the gallery, Michael pulled out
the pack of cigarettes he'd bought at the restaurant. He'd always
rolled his own, but Cara had explained that now days people bought
them pre-rolled. He tapped the end against the packet and lit the
cigarette, inhaling deeply. Not bad.

They reached the gallery and Cara unlocked the door.
"You'll have to stay outside with that."

He looked down at the cigarette in confusion.

"My rule. No smoking in the building. There are
propane heaters in there."

"Propane?" He fumbled with the word. Everything was
so different here.

"It's a fuel. Like kerosene. It's used for cooking
and heating. Unfortunately it's also a major fire hazard.
Especially space heaters. One stray spark and kablooey."

The danger of fire was something he understood. Fire
had devastated Silverthread on more than one occasion in his day.
He drew on his cigarette, oddly comforted. Maybe things weren't
that different after all.

"I really ought to have central heat installed," Cara
continued, "but it's expensive. So until I can afford it, I just
have to be really careful. No cigarettes." She smiled up at him.
"I'll be right back."

The door shut and Michael took another pull on the
cigarette. Across the street was a theatre of some kind, housed in
what had been Timberman's Hotel. He walked across the road for a
closer look, thinking about Nick Vargas. Something about their last
encounter bothered him.

He replayed the conversation, but nothing seemed out
of the ordinary. Still he couldn't shake the idea that there was
something he should have picked up on. Something familiar. But
whatever it was, it remained stubbornly out of reach. Maybe it was
just that he didn't like the man, and judging from their
conversation the feeling was mutual.

He stubbed the cigarette out against the wall of the
theatre and was turning to look for Cara when the roar of an
explosion split the night. Bright tongues of orange and red shot
into the starry sky, eerily illuminating the gallery across the
street.

Michael opened his mouth to yell for help, but
nothing came out. Flames danced from the windows, licking at the
cold mountain air, feeding greedily on the wooden store front.

Heart in his throat, Michael began to run toward the
building.

Cara was still inside.

"I beg your pardon?" Patrick leaned forward
in his chair, trying to follow the course of the conversation.

Ginny sat, unruffled, looking more like she was
discussing a list of the day's chores than the death of her child.
"I said that Amos Striker killed my girl."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking first at one
woman and then the other. Loralee sat calmly sipping her tea.
Obviously Ginny's revelation was not news to her.

"Ginny's daughter lived in Tintown."

Tintown was another mining camp. It had peaked a year
or so back, but it was still a lively place, producing a fair
amount of silver.

"She was a…in my line of work," Loralee continued.
The tell tale blush was back.

Patrick found it entrancing. Hell, he found her
entrancing. Not that he'd ever really considered the notion of
hooking up with a prostitute. No siree. Owen would have a
conniption fit. Still, the idea was suddenly mighty appealing. He
felt his face grow hot, and pushed his thoughts aside. He had no
business thinking like that. With a sigh of regret, he turned his
attention back to Ginny.

"Della was a pretty girl. Smart, too. But people
don't have much use for girls with half Indian blood." Ginny's
voice held no bitterness, no apology. "She was determined to make
it on her own. So she took the only job she could find. At first I
thought she was doing the wrong thing. To give yourself without
love…"

She paused, her gaze locking with Loralee's. The
younger woman touched her hand. With one gesture she conveyed her
understanding. Ginny turned back to Patrick. "I came to accept it,
though. She was happy. Or she seemed to be. Then she met
him
."

"Striker?"

Ginny nodded. "He was always coming 'round. Even here
once. I could see he wasn't no good, but all Della could see were
those blue eyes. Figured herself in love with him."

"Why didn't you do something about it?"

"You haven't got kids." It was a statement not a
question.

"No, I don't." He picked at the remainder of his
cake, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

"Well, let me tell you right now, once they're grown
you can't tell them anything."

"So what happened."

"One week she didn't come home. I got worried. So I
hitched up my mule and headed over to Tintown." She paused and took
a sip from her cup, composing herself, the memory obviously still
painful. "They told me she'd killed herself. Drank a load of
whiskey on top of some fancy patent medicine."

"Laudanum." Loralee added.

Patrick felt a tingle of concern. This was starting
to sound familiar. "But you said Amos killed her."

"He did. I just couldn't prove it."

"But I don't see —"

Loralee cut him off with a wave of her hand. "One of
the other girls swore she saw him climbing out the window." She met
his gaze, waiting for something.

With a startling clarity, it all fell into place. He
let out a low whistle. "Her door was locked from the inside wasn't
it?"

The women nodded.

"But I still don't understand. If someone saw him
there, why didn't they arrest him?"

Loralee choked back a bitter laugh. "And just tell me
what makes you think anyone would believe a whore over a
lawman?"

"I see." He paused, trying to assimilate it all. He
looked over at Loralee. "You knew about this?"

She shook her head. "Only since this morning. I had
no idea when we found…" her eyes filled with tears, making them
look even larger.

Patrick hadn't meant to upset her. He was just trying
to understand the significance of Ginny's story. "So you're
thinking that he's done it again?"

"I'm not thinking it. I'm sure of it." Ginny reached
over and patted Loralee's hand.

The girl wiped the tears from her eyes and squared
her shoulders. Patrick had to admit she had courage. "Corabeth
hated laudanum. She said it made her lose control."

"Well, maybe she changed her mind."

"You don't understand. One of the miners got rough
with her once, broke her arm in two places. It was twisted funny
and must of hurt something fearsome, but she refused to take
anything for it. Not even whiskey. She felt real strong about it.
If she was going to kill herself — and I'm not saying she was —
she'd a used a shotgun before drinking that stuff."

"So you think Amos Striker killed her." He was
repeating himself, but after everything he'd just heard he was
probably entitled to a little repeating.

Both women nodded. Patrick sighed. They'd obviously
made up their minds. But even if he accepted their version of the
truth, there was still a gaping hole in the story. "Loralee, when
we were with Doc, you told him you were with Corabeth early that
morning."

"Right, she kept me company while I did my laundry."
She frowned, a puzzled expression pulling her brows together.

"That's means she died sometime after that. Now, I
saw Amos early that morning up in the mountains above Clune."

She looked deflated, turning to Ginny for
support.

The Indian woman leaned back in her chair, crossing
her arms over her ample bosom. "Was he with you all the time?"

"No, but it's a good ride back to town and there's
the small fact that I spent the better part of the afternoon with
him, arguing about who killed my father."

"Seems to me that still leaves plenty of time for him
to slip back into town and find Corabeth."

"Maybe, but even if you accept that. There's still no
reason why he'd do such a thing."

Loralee nodded in agreement. "I know. That has us
stumped, too."

"Who says he has to have a reason?" Ginny
grumbled.

"There is one more thing." Loralee chewed on her
lower lip, her eyes narrowed in thought.

"Oh?" Patrick sat back, waiting.

"Everybody knows Amos Striker thinks of himself as a
lady's man. He's picky about his women. He's not the type that
comes to the cribs. He prefers the women over at Belle's. Higher
class whores, so to speak. Frankly, I've always been grateful for
that." She ducked her head. "He's not known for being gentle."

Patrick looked over at Ginny. "And Della?"

"She worked in one of them fancy parlor houses.
Started out doing their laundry, but she was young and pretty and
ambitious." Ginny sighed, lost for a moment in the memory of her
daughter.

"If he does have preferences, then that explains his
interest in Della, but not his interest in Corabeth. Maybe they
were seeing each other someplace away from the cribs?"

"Patrick, Corabeth was my friend. If she'd been
seeing Amos, I'd have known it. Corabeth didn't have any kind of
relationship with the sheriff. None at all. I'm certain of it."

"So, that would mean either Amos picked her by
chance, or there's something here we're missing. And I don't think
Amos Striker does anything without a reason." Both women shot him
triumphant looks as if they'd just given him the missing piece of a
complicated puzzle. "Look, ladies, even if everything you're saying
is true, I don't see what any of it has to do with telling Striker
about finding Jack."

The triumph faded some.

"We don't know either." Loralee leaned forward, both
hands resting on the table. "But there's got to be a connection
somewhere."

"All we're trying to say, Patrick, is that maybe you
should think twice about telling the sheriff anything. At least
until you've had time to sort this all out and make sure there
isn't some kind of link between your pa's death and
Corabeth's."

Patrick let out a long breath and held up his hands.
"All right. You win. I'll wait."

Ginny beamed at him like a proud parent and held the
platter under his nose. "Have some more cake."

*****

Patrick pulled his jacket closer, urging his
horse forward. It was colder than a witch's teat out here. He
laughed to himself. One of Pete's favorite expressions. He wondered
why anyone would actually want to feel a witch's teat, and once
they did, whether they'd live to tell about it.

Smiling to himself, he tipped back his head and
looked at the stars. They were beautiful, spilling through the
night sky with careless abandon. Looking up there, a body would
never suspect so much could be wrong with the world. Specifically,
his world.

"Patrick? That you, boy?" Pete's worried voice came
out of the shadows off to the left of the road.

"Yeah, Pete, I'm here."

The wrangler materialized out of the dark, guiding
his horse alongside Patrick's. "I was getting worried."

"I'm fine. Just wound up staying in town a little
longer than I'd planned."

His foreman nodded and they rode for awhile in
companionable silence, Patrick replaying the conversation at the
tea party in his head.

"Pete, you know a Ute woman by the name of
Ginny?"

"Don't know her. Heard of her though." Pete pulled
the collar of his frayed coat closer around him.

"Well, I met her today. Turns out she's a friend of
Loralee's."

Pete nodded, but made no comment.

"Anyway, she had an interesting story to tell me, one
that may relate to the dead woman I found yesterday."

"Corabeth?"

"Mmm hmm. Seems this Ginny had a daughter. You know
about that?"

Pete nodded, his face grim.

Patrick shot him a look.

"It's a small town. Guess everyone knows everyone's
business."

"Did you know she was murdered?"

"Heard tell of that too." This was going to be like
pulling teeth.

"So you know she thinks Amos Striker did it?"

"A man would have to be deaf to have missed the fact.
It was talk around town for quite awhile."

"I didn't know about it." Pete shrugged, and Patrick
bristled. "I want to know if you agree with her."

"Ain't got nothing to go on. But I wouldn't put
anything past him."

Patrick nodded, glad to know Pete shared his
assessment of the man. "Seems, Loralee thinks that Striker might
have had something to do with Corabeth's death, too."

"Wouldn't surprise me none." He turned his head,
spitting out into the dark. Patrick wondered if the man slept with
tobacco in his mouth. "There are certainly similarities."

"There seems to be one major difference, though."

They rode along in silence and it took a moment for
Patrick to realize that Pete was waiting for him to elaborate.
"According to Ginny, Striker had been hanging around her daughter
for quite awhile. She says the girl fancied herself in love with
him. Loralee says that Corabeth and Striker hadn't… I mean they
didn't know each other…"

"In the biblical sense?" Pete's voice held a hint of
laughter.

"Right." Patrick had to get over his inability to
talk about sex. But truth was, he didn't have a whole lot of
experience, and well, it was just hard to talk about. "The point is
that if Corabeth didn't even know Striker, what the hell was he
doing with her in the first place? According to Loralee, he's
usually not interested in the girls on the line."

"Crib whores ain't his style, true enough." They took
the path that snaked off the main road, heading for Clune. "You
sure it was Striker and not just suicide?"