The Promise (3 page)

The thought of her gave him a sudden surge of
strength, and he barreled across the stream and up the rocky
embankment to the tree. Leaning against its trunk for a moment, he
fought against his pain. Just a few more steps. Rocks below him
skittered down the creek bank.

Hell.

He froze in the shadow of the spruce, afraid even to
breath. Any movement now would mean certain death. The night grew
quiet. Whoever was down there was waiting, too. Listening. He
strained through the dark to try and see his assailant's face, to
know who it was hunting him. But the dark and the trees provided
the killer with the same protection they afforded Michael.

In the distance a horse nickered. Roscoe. Michael
smiled in the dark. Somewhere below him, the killer cursed softly,
and then Michael heard the welcome sound of horseshoes against
rock. The man was leaving, following Roscoe.

Michael waited, letting the tree hold him upright,
and then finally took a cautious step away from the spruce. The
mine was waiting—its black opening yawning darkly against the sharp
rocks. His head was starting to spin, and he felt weak all over. He
knew that time was running out. He needed shelter, and he needed it
now.

With a last burst of energy, he pulled himself up the
incline and into the mouth of the cave. The dark overpowered him,
and he forced himself to crawl further into its waiting arms,
knowing that it was a friend. A sanctuary.

Finally, deep in the tunnel, he allowed himself to
slump against a wall, closing his eyes, and focusing on his
memories. Memories of a night nine years ago—a magical night and a
beautiful girl. Cara.

In his mind, he felt her there with him. Felt her
body pressed against his. Felt her healing warmth. And with a sigh,
he allowed himself to slide into his dreams.

*****

Loralee stood in the soft glow of the
candlelight and looked in the mirror. Straight lank hair hung in
two thin plaits on either side of her head, accentuating the thin
angles of her tired face. She scrubbed at the rouge on her cheeks
with the back of her hand. Every day she was more a whore and less
the girl she'd once been.

Loralee wasn't her real name. Not that anyone out
here knew that. She'd picked it because she'd seen it on a sign
pasted on the saloon wall when she'd started working in Del Norte.
She'd even made one of the gambling men read the whole poster to
her.

It seemed this other Loralee was a traveling singer.
She'd come from some far off place. Nacado…something. Anyway, the
name sounded musical and it was a far sight better than Alice.
Besides, nobody used their real names in this business. It just
wasn't done. With a sigh, she turned from the mirror.

At least there didn't appear to be any more customers
tonight. And Duncan, God bless him, had paid her enough to warrant
turning out the red lantern in her front window. She wrapped a
shawl around her shoulders, crossed to the door and slid the heavy
bar into place. The irony of the situation didn't escape her. She
was probably safer alone in her bed than she was with someone in
it. Besides, the bolt was strong, but the door wasn't. A good swift
kick would probably send the whole wall tumbling down.

She peered out the window at the eerie red glow
coming from a dozen or so windows identical to hers. Lifting the
globe with the edge of her shawl, she blew out the lantern. A soft
whinny drew her attention.

A sorrel horse tied to a post out front tossed his
head indignantly. Jack. What the heck was Jack doing here? Duncan
had left hours ago. She arched her back, rubbing the hollow at her
waist. At least it seemed like hours.

Most likely he was off to the saloons again. He'd
been fairly well lit when he left her place, but it never ceased to
amaze her how much a man could drink if he put his mind to it. And
if ever a man was in a frame of mind to drink, it was Duncan
Macpherson.

The shadows lengthened and she untied the thin cord
that pulled back the tent canvas that passed for drapery. Turning
her back to the window, she headed for the iron bedstead in the
corner. The linen sheets were yellowed with age, the quilt patched
and threadbare, but they were clean. She prided herself on that.
Her momma had taught her that much.

Cleanliness was next to Godliness and, Lord help her,
she could use all the help she could get in that direction.
Smiling, she threw her wrapper on the spindly stool that served as
a chair and jumped into the bed. The tin stove in the corner didn't
put out enough heat to warm water, let alone an entire room.

Most times it wasn't a problem. Men seemed to
generate their own heat. And it was her lot in life to get those
fires a going. Well, most of them. Some, like Duncan, didn't want
that kind of fire lit. They mostly came to talk. A bit of female
companionship was all they were looking for. Not that she minded.
No indeedy. They paid, same as everyone else. And all she had to do
was listen, or pretend to listen.

But Duncan was different. He treated her real nice.
Not like some of the boys. There were some who liked it rough. Real
rough. But they weren't welcome here. She might be at the bottom of
the barrel socially speaking, but she had rules all the same, and
she expected her boys to abide by them. Not that she always had a
choice. She shivered and settled back into the soft fluff of her
pillow, tucking the quilt under her chin.

Yup. She'd take Duncan any day. He might be a bit
long in the tooth, but he treated her like a lady. Or what she
imagined a lady was treated like. And he talked to her about
important things. Why, just tonight, he told her he'd found silver.
Not that that was news exactly. Everybody around here was always
boasting about finding silver, but Duncan had said it different.
There'd been a light in his eyes. She had a feeling he'd found a
strike, sure enough. A big one, too.

The only thing that puzzled her some was him talking
about the Promise. How could he have found silver there? Everybody
knew the Promise had played out years ago. Why, Duncan Macpherson
ought to know it better than most. It was his mine after all. His
and that 'don't get mud on my boots' Owen Prescott.

She placed a hand on the cool silver of the locket
between her breasts. Whatever it was he was rambling on about,
she'd keep his secret safe. He'd kept hers after all. She'd ask him
about it tomorrow when he came back for Jack. One thing was sure as
sunrise with Duncan Macpherson. He would never willingly leave that
sorrel behind. He loved that old horse, maybe more than his
boys.

Heck, maybe more than his wife. Loralee sighed and
snuggled deeper into the covers, sleep starting to overtake her.
There was something sad about a man whose best friend was a horse.
Yes, indeedy, it was a true tragedy.

*****

Patrick Macpherson woke with a start. The
stillness of the night surrounded him, and after a few moments, he
relaxed slightly. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting
long shadows across the rough log walls. Everything seemed
peaceful, but something had awakened him.

With a groan, he swung out of bed, cringing when his
bare feet hit the cold plank floor. Muttering an oath, he reached
for his socks and pulled them on before padding across the room to
the doorway. The fire in the main room had burned low, but its
embers still cast a faint light across the room.

That, combined with the moonlight, made the room seem
abnormally bright after the dim shadows of his bedroom. From his
position in the doorway, he could see practically the whole cabin.
The big iron stove cast a long black shadow across the floor. The
clutter of dirty dinner dishes littered the plank table in the
center of the room, testament to the lack of feminine influence at
Clune.

His father's cot in the corner was empty, not that
that was surprising. Duncan was usually somewhere up in the
mountains looking for another strike, or down in town drinking
himself into a stupor. Between the two, it seemed there wasn't much
time for his sons.

Things had been different when his mother was around.
But as Michael always said, there wasn't much sense in crying over
spilt milk. Not that that made a lick of sense. He hated milk. Now
if it had been a pint of whiskey—well, there was a good reason to
cry.

The door to Michael's room stood ajar. Patrick
couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Unlike his
father, Michael was as predictable as a dog in heat. And he always,
always, slept with his door shut.

Walking cautiously now, he crossed to his brother's
room. A quick look inside confirmed what he already suspected.
Michael wasn't there. Which meant something was indeed very wrong.
A fellow could count on Michael to do pretty much exactly what he
said he was going to do. Patrick glanced out the window at the
moon, trying to remember what Michael had told him. He'd being
heading for the high country to check on the herd, but he'd
specifically said he'd be back by nightfall.

If Patrick hadn't spent the wee hours of the previous
night playing cards in Owen's saloon, he might have known his
brother hadn't come home as expected. Instead, he'd stumbled home
mid-morning, listened to his brother's endless speech on
responsibility, and then collapsed in his bed. Looks like he'd
managed to sleep the day away, and a good portion of the night.

Damn.

Truth be told, he hadn't meant to waste a night in
Silverthread. He really wasn't a gambler, and he sure as hell
couldn't hold his liquor. But yesterday had been the anniversary of
his mother's disappearance and, well, he'd just needed something to
take the edge off the memory.

Michael wouldn't talk about it. He never talked about
it. Truth was, he never talked about anything. Anyway, Patrick had
let one moment of self pity turn into a night of whiskey and
gaming, when he should have been here helping his brother. Which
meant he was no better than his father. And, somehow, that made him
feel worse than he already did.

A soft nickering sound filtered in through the
window, snapping him out of his reverie. Patrick slid into the
shadows, automatically reaching for his Winchester. With an audible
click, he cocked the rifle and stepped over to the cabin door. The
nicker sounded again, this time followed by the thud of a hoof.
Taking a deep breath, Patrick sprang into action, throwing open the
door and stepping into the night air, the gun barrel leading the
way.

Cool moonlight washed the dusty ground a pale silver.
Patrick froze, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for the
source of the noise. A soft snort was accompanied by the whinny of
a horse. A hungry horse. Patrick relaxed as the roan gelding
stomped impatiently.

He'd left his warm bed for a damn horse. Laying the
Winchester across the porch railing, he stepped gingerly off the
wood platform onto the rocky ground, wishing belatedly that he
would have had the good sense to put his boots on.

"What the hell you doing out of the barn, Roscoe?"
Stupid name for a horse. Michael had read it in a book somewhere
and thought it a fine name, but Patrick thought it was ridiculous.
Although stupid horse names seemed to run in the family. His
father's horse was named Jack.

He hobbled across the ground, the rocks biting into
his feet. Reaching the gelding, he grabbed the reins and started to
pull the horse toward the stable. "Michael better have a good
reason for not keeping an eye on you." He looked back at the horse
and stopped dead in his tracks. Roscoe was still fully outfitted.
With a curse, he reached up behind the saddle. Michael's gear was
still there, and more sobering, his rifle was still sheathed in its
leather holster.

Patrick absently wiped at a wet splotch on the
stirrup and was in the process of cleaning his hand on his leg when
he realized what he was doing. Slowly he raised the hand. Moisture
glistened black on his fingers in the starlight. The sharp metallic
smell of blood filled his nostrils.

"Patrick? That you?"

Patrick looked up as a weathered old cowboy stepped
out onto the porch of an equally weathered shanty.

"Whatcha got there?" Pete Reeder slapped a
dilapidated Stetson on his head and strode across the yard. Like
Patrick, he was clad in long johns. Unlike Patrick, he'd had the
sense to put his boots on.

"It's Roscoe." Patrick met the watery blue-eyed gaze
of his foreman. "Seems he came back without Michael." He held out
his bloody hand and nodded toward the stirrup.

Pete examined the stained leather. Looking back at
Patrick, he frowned and spit, the resulting spittle landing
somewhere out in the darkness. "Ain't no way that horse would leave
Michael unless…"

Patrick felt a swell of panic rise inside him. "He's
not dead, Pete. He's just had an accident. Maybe he sent Roscoe to
us. To let us know he was hurt." He couldn't imagine what he'd do
if something happened to his brother. Michael was the stable one.
Without him, and his desire for a place they could call home, there
wouldn't be a Clune. Hell, there probably wouldn't be a
Patrick.

He shivered. "Michael's probably lying out there
somewhere right now, hurt and bleeding. Or worse." He grabbed the
reins and started to swing up into the saddle.

"Whoa there boy, where do ya think you're going?"

"I'm going to find my brother."

Pete clamped one big hand around Patrick' s arm,
effectively stopping further motion. "In your drawers?"

Patrick glanced down and flushed. "No. I'll get my
pants."

"And your boots."

Patrick shot a look of exasperation at the old man.
"And my boots."

Pete stroked the long handles of his mustache, his
leathery forehead wrinkled in thought. "Ain't no use going out
there now. The moon's a settin' and you'll be blind as a
posthole."