The Promise (31 page)

He looked up at the shadowy opening. He had to admit
it was an ideal set-up. A man could pretty much hit anything that
moved in the ranch yard from that vantage point. Anyone pinned in
the house wouldn't have a prayer of escaping as long as the
assailant didn't run out of ammunition. All he had to do was wait.
Sooner or later, they'd have to make a break for it. And when they
did…

"I'm going to try and get to the back of the
barn."

Cara looked up at him, her eyes wide. "You're going
in there?"

"I don't see any other way. Besides, the odds are in
my favor. He won't be expecting me. So, with a little luck, I'll
manage to sneak up on him, and goodbye Amos Striker." He smiled at
her, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

"But, what if he sees you and picks you off before
you get the chance to surprise him?"

"Well, my sweet little crack shot, that's where you
come in."

Her eyebrows arched upward. "And…"

"You need to create a diversion. Keep his attention
focused on the ranch yard."

She nodded, her hand tightening around her rifle. "I
think I can manage that."

"Listen to me, Cara, draw his fire if necessary, but
don't take any chances."

"I'll handle it." She tipped back her head, her eyes
lit with determination.

He leaned forward and gave her a hard kiss, the
contact making him long to pull her closer, lose himself in her
sweetness. He ruthlessly pushed the thoughts aside.

It was time for Amos Striker to pay for his sins.

*****

Cara watched and waited. Surely he'd had
enough time to get into place, but there was no signal. She
strained her ears, listening for his whistle.

Nothing.

She fingered the trigger of the rifle. It had sounded
easy in principle, but now she wondered if she was truly up to the
task. The little door was only a couple hundred feet away. She'd
certainly hit a lot smaller targets, from a lot farther distances,
but there'd never been as much at stake.

She shook her head and worked to bolster her
confidence. This was a piece of cake, a walk in the park. Oh God,
who was she kidding, it was a life and death situation. She
steadied her arm and gave one last cursory survey of the area.
Everything was so quiet. So peaceful. A stand of pines, just behind
the corral, danced in the wind. The breeze was picking up and she
could feel its cool touch against her face and hands. It would
change the trajectory slightly.

Her mind had automatically started to make the
adjustments when her eyes froze, sending a frantic signal to her
brain. A sparkle in the trees grabbed her attention. More than a
sparkle really, a bright flash.

Light against metal. Sunlight bouncing off a gun
barrel.

Her blood ran cold.

There was someone out there. Someone else.

There were two of them.

She frantically tried to assimilate the information,
to decide what to do. If she shot at the barn, she'd alert the
other man to her presence, most likely drawing his fire. But if she
stayed quiet, the other man was far more likely to notice Michael.
And even if Michael successfully got Amos, he'd have no way of
knowing about the second man.

Her stomach churned. Of course, there were the people
in the house, but she had no idea what condition they were in.
Besides, they'd be sitting ducks if they so much as opened the
door.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to make a
decision—the right decision.

Grabbing the rifle, she sprang to her feet using the
tall pines for cover. She had to get to Michael. If she hurried,
maybe she could stop him in time. Warn him. Then they could rethink
their position.

She sprinted to the edge of the trees, her heart
beating a staccato rhythm high in her throat as she kept her eyes
on the stand of pines. From this angle, she ought to be protected
from view.
Ought to be
. That was the operative phrase.

She sucked in a breath and then blew it out
forcefully. It was now or never. Tightening her hold on the
Winchester, she began to run.

The contrast between the light of day and the
shadows of the barn was dramatic. Cara stopped, waiting for her
eyes to adjust, the pungent smell of hay and animals filling her
nose. It seemed that barns smelled like barns in any century. The
thought was somehow reassuring. She combed the shadows looking for
some sign of Michael, but in the gloom it was hard to see anything
clearly.

Something hard rammed into her back. She spun around,
heart pounding, rifle at the ready. A pair of baleful brown eyes
met hers, and she relaxed, biting back a nervous laugh. A
dilapidated looking old horse hung his head over the wooden
crossbar of his stall, butting against her for attention.

She pushed him away, turning back to the stable,
searching the darkness for a sign of Michael or the gunman. Nothing
moved. Everything was quiet except for the soft sound of horses
shifting in their stalls.

She took a hesitant step forward, followed by
another, careful to stay low and silent, certain her tympanic
heartbeat could be heard from every corner of the barn. A soft
noise filtered though the silence, so faint she almost thought
she'd imagined it. She froze, her back pressed against the hard
post of a stall, her eyes straining into the gloom. There, in the
darkness, a shadow moved, stepping forward into a weak shaft of
sunlight coming from the loft.

Michael.

She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been
holding, and started for the front of the barn, her heart resuming
a more modulated rhythm. Michael had stepped into the shadows
again, but she could see him now that she knew where to look. He
was examining a ladder that led to the loft. She picked up her
pace, not daring to call out to him.

The old horse evidently had other plans. With a loud
neigh, he announced her presence. Michael turned to look toward his
stall just as another shape detached itself from the shadows in the
loft above. Cara's heart caught in her throat. The shadow took on
human form. A man with a gun—a gun pointed at Michael's back.

Reacting on instinct, she pulled her rifle into
position and fired. The sound was deafening. Out of the corner of
her eye, she saw Michael drop to the ground and she realized a
second shot had been fired. Rage and adrenaline pumped through her.
She lifted the rifle again, intent on killing the son of a bitch
who'd started all this.

The man spun around, looking for the source of the
gunfire. She inched forward. He crouched, peering into the
dark—still looking for her. Michael moved and the gunman pivoted,
bringing his rifle to bear.

Cara stepped out into the open, eyes narrowed, her
weapon already sighted. "Wrong way, you bastard."

He turned and she fired.

This time the impact knocked him off his feet,
throwing him backward out of the loft. His body landed with an
audible thud, in the center of the barn. Still enraged, she pumped
another bullet into him, watching dispassionately as he jerked once
and was still.

"That one was for Michael." Her whispered words
swirled through the air and faded into silence. Her rage vanished
as quickly as it had come, instantly replaced by fear.
Michael
. She had to get to Michael. She stepped forward, but
her legs had turned to butter and with a squeak of protest, she
slid to the ground still clutching the rifle.

"Cara?" Michael's voice was like an infusion of
energy. She struggled to her feet just as he rounded the corner,
apparently unharmed. The relief almost made her collapse again and
she leaned against the Winchester for support.

His arms closed around her as he reached her side and
she buried her face in the familiar warmth of his chest, trying to
get control of her rollercoastering emotions. They stood like that
for a moment, locked together in silent communion. Then Michael
pushed her back, holding her at arm's length, his eyes smoldering.
"What in hell were you doing in here?"

Cara felt a flash of resentment. "Saving your ass. If
I'm not mistaken, that
gentleman
," she gestured towards the
body in the doorway, "was about to blow you away."

The anger faded from his eyes and with a groan he
pulled her to him, his mouth closing over hers, his hands holding
her tightly against him. The kiss was quick and hard and thorough.
She stared over Michael's shoulder at the fallen man, clarity
returning. "There's someone else out there."

"Where?" Michael was instantly alert.

"In the stand of pines by the corral. I saw his gun
barrel. I came to warn you."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"All right. I'll check it out. You," he tipped her
head back so that he could see her eyes, "stay here."

*****

"Can you see what's happening?" Loralee
peered out the window, trying to see what had caused all the
commotion.

"It's hard to tell," Patrick said, his eyes narrowed
against the setting sun. "I think there's something on the ground
by the barn door, but I can't say for certain."

"I can't see anything either, but I definitely heard
gunshots." She chewed on her lower lip, nervously.

Patrick tightened his grip on the rifle. "Me, too.
From the direction of the barn."

"Any possibility help has arrived?" She turned to
look at him, hope surfacing, swelling through her.

"Maybe. But I'd feel a hell of a lot better if we
knew exactly who was in there doing the shooting." He scooted
towards the door.

"All right. Give me the rifle. I'll cover you."

He paused, and their eyes locked, something hanging
between them that she wasn't ready to recognize, let alone accept.
With a faint smile, he tossed her the rifle, and drew his Colt.

He inched the door open. Loralee held her breath,
waiting for the resulting gunfire.

Nothing happened.

He opened the door wider, this time sticking his hat
out. Again nothing.

He swung the door all the way open and stepped out
onto the porch. Loralee bit her lip, keeping the rifle trained on
the barn.

Silence. The porch creaked under his weight. She
tightened her grip on the rifle.

"It seems to be clear." He moved toward the window,
stepping into her line of vision. "I'm going to try the barn. Wish
me luck."

"You won't need it."

Brave words. Now if only they proved true.

*****

Cara leaned back against a stall, eyes
closed, drained of all emotion and energy. The strain of the last
few days was taking its toll. She had no idea when she'd last
slept. In fact, she had no idea what day it was. She let out a
strangled little laugh. In truth, she wasn't even certain what
year
it was.

Somewhere deep inside, she was worried for Michael,
but her body had had enough, checking out of active duty. She
couldn't even find the energy to lift a hand and scratch the old
horse. He'd obviously accepted the fact, but bless him, he still
stood guard, his head hanging out over the stall, just above hers,
protecting her in his own equine way. She felt absurdly
grateful.

"Move an inch and you're a dead." The voice came from
the shadows of the stall to her right.

Cara felt a bubble of hysteria rising in her throat.
She couldn't move an inch even if he had ordered it.

"Drop the rifle and raise your hands."

She tried to force herself to let go of the rifle
clutched in her right hand. No go. The hand had taken personal
leave along with the rest of her body. She struggled for her voice,
surprised when it came out sounding fairly normal. "I can't move."
The horse nickered in agreement, bending his neck to nuzzle her
head.

The voice disentangled itself from the shadows,
taking the form of a fierce green-eyed devil. Cara winced as the
horse nipped at her ear. "Cut it out." She slapped at the sorrel,
delighted to see that her mobility had returned.

The man was eyeing her as though she had flown in on
a space ship. Which actually wasn't too far off from reality now
that she thought about it. She realized she ought to be afraid, but
found that she simply didn't have the energy.

Dropping the rifle, she looked up into the man's
face, surprised to see that she recognized it. Or at least parts of
it. The dark hair fell forward in a familiar way, and the jut of
the chin reminded her of another that was just as stubborn. This
man was a stranger, and yet she knew him. "Patrick." The word came
out on a sigh. She recognized the relief in her voice, and was
pleased to note that she still had some emotion left.

"Who the hell are you?" The green eyes flashed with
anger and she recognized the turn of his mouth.

Now there was a good question. Let's see, she was
Michael's lover who just happened to be from the future. That ought
to be a winner. And, in a brilliant imitation of television's
The Rifleman
, she'd had the very great pleasure of pumping a
nineteenth century sheriff full of lead, not to mention the fact
that she'd done a fair imitation of indestructible, surviving a
fire, an assault and a cave-in.

She leaned back against the stall again, ignoring the
sorrel's love nudges. Oh yes, she'd almost forgotten, she was also
the newest paramour of an over-the-hill equine. She decided on
simplicity. "Cara. I'm Cara."

The rifle lowered and Patrick's look of anger changed
to one of disbelief. "Michael's Cara?"

She'd have bowed if she'd been standing, instead she
tipped her head, a weak imitation of royalty. Or at least what she
assumed would be considered the regal nod. "One and the same."

"But…" Now Patrick looked totally confused.

She took pity on him. It wasn't his fault she'd just
been through more crises than a
Die Hard
movie. It wasn't
fair to take it out on him. "I came with your brother."