The Promise (19 page)

It was her favorite time of day. A time of new
beginnings. Not that someone like her deserved second chances. She
had learned that lesson well. A body had to accept her lot in life.
She reached for the silver oval between her breasts, lovingly
rubbing her thumb across the carved design. But it was all right to
remember. Sometimes the memories were all she had.

Loralee shook her head, attempting to clear away the
past. No sense in moping. Life was too short. She wrapped her arms
around herself, trying to focus on positive things, but all she
could see were Corabeth's sightless eyes.

Not for the first time, she wished she'd never left
Leadville, but then dreams were powerful things and she'd been
intent on following hers. And of course there'd been Mary. Loralee
smiled and rocked, thinking about the tiny angel who had erupted
into her life with a swirl of yellow curls and a voice that rivaled
a tent town preacher at a revival. At least Mary was safe.

She shivered, and pulled her shawl closer around her
shoulders. The mountain mist swirled across rocky chasms, taking on
an almost ominous cast. For the first time it occurred to her that
she was alone. And with Amos Striker out there somewhere, alone
wasn't good.

Ginny had been up and out before dawn, heading into
town for supplies. Women of ill-repute had to shop early or not at
all. It wasn't seemly to mix with proper society. And the Ute were
at the bottom of the ladder. Not that she was much better off.

As far as she was concerned, folks didn't come any
better than Ginny. Without so much as a whisper of concern, Ginny'd
insisted she stay with her until things got sorted out. Yes
indeedy, Ginny was a stand-up gal, and the color of her skin didn't
matter one bit. Why, she wasn't sure she'd ever met anyone as kind
as Ginny.

A picture of Patrick Macpherson flashed in her mind,
his languid green eyes smiling at her. She felt a stirring deep
inside, something she hadn't felt since before… She pushed her hair
out of her face, dispelling the image. No sense letting her
imagination run away with her.

The clatter of falling rocks interrupted the still
peace of the morning. Loralee jerked in the direction of the sound,
heart pounding, her eyes searching the mountainside.

A mule deer stepped out of the shadows, its head
lifted, sniffing for signs of danger. Finally, satisfied that all
was as it should be, the lithe creature walked to the edge of the
stream and bent its graceful neck to drink.

Loralee blew out a breath, holding a hand to her
chest in relief. She was mighty jumpy this morning. She assured
herself once again that there was no reason for anybody to be after
her. She didn't know a thing. Not a dad-gummed thing.

But Amos Striker doesn't know that.

Loralee glanced down the road. Empty. Ginny probably
wouldn't be back for another hour or so. No sense in getting
herself worked into a lather waiting. What she needed was company.
As she stood up, the old rocker creaked in protest, the sharp sound
sending the deer darting back into the shadows of the mountain.

Might not be any people around, but old Jack was here
and there were certainly lots of men who figured a horse was better
company than a woman. What was good for the gander…

She grabbed a pail from the corner of the porch and
headed out for water. No point in arriving empty handed. Ginny's
spring was off to the side of her house, hidden by a little stand
of pines nestled against a rocky buttress of the mountain. Loralee
felt her spirits lift as she stepped through the fragrant pines
into the quiet clearing.

Kneeling beside the small pool, she stared at her
reflection. Distorted by the water, she almost looked pretty, her
hair catching the first rays of sunlight, drab brown streaked with
gold. She dipped a hand in the water, erasing her image. No sense
in being vain. She filled her hands with water and drank, relishing
the feel of the cool liquid sliding down her throat.

Thirst quenched, she dipped the bucket into the
water, filling it to the brim. A branch snapped behind her, the
crack echoing through the still glade. She froze, the bucket still
in the water. Holding her breath, she waited for a second sound,
afraid to turn around.

Everything was quiet. Slowly, she turned, dragging
the dripping bucket with her. Her gaze darted wildly around the
clearing, searching for signs of an intruder.

Nothing.

Gradually, her heart returned to its normal rhythm.
She was way too edgy.

With a shaky laugh, she brushed the dirt off her
skirts and headed for Jack's lean-to. The horse was standing in the
shelter of the rickety building, watching her with baleful eyes, as
if to ask where she'd been.

"Morning fella. Feeling a bit lonely?" She dumped the
water in the battered tin pan that served as a trough. The horse
bent his head to drink greedily. She stroked his side, not certain
who was benefiting most from the contact, her or Jack.

"I was kinda lonely, too. Thought maybe we could keep
each other company for a bit." Jack raised his head, tossing it as
if in agreement. Loralee laughed, the sound doing much to dispel
her unease. Spying a dusty brush on what passed for a shelf, she
took it and began to stroke the old horse. "I've no idea how to do
this proper, Jack, but I don't imagine you care much as long as it
feels good."

He nickered softly, his lips splitting into an equine
grin.

"I thought so." His coat was dappled with patches of
winter hair, making him look even more scraggly than usual. "We've
got to stick together you and I. There's no one else to look after
us, now."

She started on the convex curve of his sway-back, the
brush moving with a slow, steady motion. Jack closed his eyes and
blew softly through his nose, the equivalent of horse ecstasy, she
supposed. Seemed men were men no matter the species. Just stroke
them a little and they go all soft and gooey.

"There now," she crooned, "does that feel better?"
She rested her head against his flank, letting the rhythm of the
brush lull her, the motion soothing her as much as the horse. The
sun was filtering through the loose boards of the lean-to and the
warmth seeped into her, adding to the lethargy of the moment.

Suddenly, Jack reared his head, ears laid flat
against his skull.

Loralee stepped back, searching the lean-to for a
sign of danger, her pleasant mood vanishing as quickly as the mist
on the mountains in the hot morning sun. Jack bared his teeth. And
Loralee tightened her grip on the brush. It wasn't much of a
weapon, but it would have to do.

A jay shot from under the rafters, its shrill call
filling the lean-to. Loralee gasped in relief as Jack immediately
calmed. "Aren't we a fine pair? Scared to death by a little old
jay." She patted the sorrel on the nose. "Well, now that the big,
bad bird is gone, what do you say I get you something to eat?"

Jack snorted in agreement, his tail flicking back and
forth. He didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed about the bird.
Maybe it had been a killer jay. She laughed at her own musings.

"This is what I get for chattin' with a horse." She
looped an arm around Jack's neck. "Before long people will start
talkin' about crazy Loralee and pulling their children out of my
way." Not that they didn't do that already.

"All right then, you stay right here. I'll be right
back."

She crossed the dusty swatch of ground that passed as
Ginny's yard and pulled open the door to the storage shack. It had
been an outhouse once. Ginny'd built a new one out over the creek.
This one's window had been boarded up, along with the hole which
now served as a kind of shelf. Loralee sucked in a breath and
stepped inside. She knew it was probably her imagination, but she
would swear the room still stank.

The barrel of oats was in the far corner and she had
to step over a couple of boxes to get to it. The top was fastened
down with a bent nail. She twisted it and lifted the lid. There was
a rusty looking ladle in the bottom and she used that to fill the
bucket with grain.

Satisfied that she had enough, she dropped the ladle
into the barrel just as the outside door slammed shut, smothering
the little room in darkness.

Loralee dropped the bucket and the lid, the resulting
clatter adding to her terror. She dropped to the floor, crouching
in the corner, hoping that the barrel would hide her. The dark
surrounded her, feeding her fear. Panic knifed through her.

She tried to breath slowly, to assure herself that it
was just the wind closing the door, but try as she might she
couldn't move an inch. Over the stench of the closed room, she
thought she caught a whiff of something else, something familiar,
but for the life of her, she couldn't identify it.

She waited, her breath stuck in her throat. The smell
got stronger, overpowering the scent of the old outhouse. Kerosene.
Oh Lord, it was kerosene. With blind panic, she jumped up, intent
on reaching the door, but tripped over something, sprawling across
the dirty floor. Without even waiting to catch her breath, she
scrambled to her knees and began crawling, hands extended, guiding
her through the darkened room.

The scent grew stronger and she thought she could
smell the first wisp of smoke. She had to find the door. A thin
crack of light outlined the opening and she breathed a sigh of
relief at the sight. With trembling hands, she felt for the handle,
twisting it to open the door.

Nothing happened.

She pushed against it. Again, nothing

Something blocked the door from the outside.

A sob welled in her throat and she whispered the
word, 'no.' She could smell the smoke more clearly now. She sucked
in a breath, determined to open the door. She wasn't going down
without a fight.

She slammed into the door with her whole body. The
building shook, but the door refused to budge. She stood back,
catching her breath, trying to think what to do.

Suddenly, the door flew open, the sunlight blinding
her even more than the dark had. Hard arms encircled her and she
tensed not sure what to expect, her mind too numb to react.

"Are you all right?"

The voice washed over her and her heart sang out with
relief.
Patrick.
Patrick was here.

"Yes, I was…trapped…fire…Amos…Oh, God." Her words
tumbled out without rhyme or reason. She buried her face against
his chest, unable to think coherently.

He stroked her hair and back awkwardly, waiting
patiently until she found the strength to pull herself together.
"I'm all right. Really."

Still clinging to his hand, she allowed him to pull
her outside. She gulped the fresh spring air, grateful for the cool
feel of it in her lungs.

"What happened?"

"I don't know for sure. I went to the shed to get
Jack some breakfast." As if to emphasize the point the horse
whinnied from the lean-to. "I was filling the bucket when the door
slammed." She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to quell the panic
threatening to surface again.

"It's all right, Loralee. You're safe now."

"What about the fire?" She whispered the question
into his chest, not really certain she wanted an answer.

"What fire?"

His response wasn't what she'd expected, his face a
contrast between concern and confusion. "I smelled kerosene and
then smoke."

"There wasn't any fire, Loralee."

Now she was confused. "Yes, there was. I'm certain of
it. And someone locked me in."

His brows drew together. "No, the door was stuck a
little, but it definitely wasn't locked."

She stamped her foot in frustration, her fear turning
to anger. "You listen to me, Patrick Macpherson, I know when a door
is locked and when it isn't. And I can smell as good as the next
person."

Patrick searched her face, and then, finding whatever
it was he was looking for, smiled crookedly. "I believe you."

Her heart did a little flip-flop and her anger
evaporated.

Patrick let her go and walked to the side of the
shed, his eyes scanning the knee high grass butting up to the
walls.

"What are you looking for?"

"Your fire. If you smelled it, there's got to be some
sign of it."

She nodded and followed him as he walked around the
little building, staring at the ground. Coming around the corner,
he stopped suddenly and she crashed into his back.

"Sorry." He shot her a sheepish grin, then sobered as
he knelt for a closer look at something.

"What is it?" She peered over his shoulder. He was
staring at the grass.

"The weeds are crushed here. See?" He gestured to a
wilted looking clump.

Bending closer, she could see that the stalks were
indeed broken. "But I don't' see—"

"Did you walk around here earlier?"

She shook her head, still confused.

"Well somebody did." He gestured along the wall and
sure enough she could make out several other places where the grass
had been pressed flat. Footsteps. A shiver traced its way up her
spine.

Patrick had moved ahead and was standing at the far
corner of the shed. She hurried to his side.

"Take a deep breath."

She wrinkled her nose and eyed the converted
outhouse. "I'd rather not. I've already had a nose full,
believe—"

"Breathe." He cut her off, leaving her nothing to do
but obey.

"Kerosene." She smiled triumphantly. "I told you so."
She paused, her momentary elation fading. "What happened to the
fire?"

"Someone put it out. Look." He pushed aside the tall
grass.

Loralee leaned over, her heart beating faster. There
was a two foot expanse of bare earth. Charred bits of kindling and
grass littered the ground. Several black stripes ran up the wall,
fading into the weather-washed boards. Loralee knelt and placed a
trembling hand on the ground, her gaze locking with Patrick's.