The Promise (33 page)

Loralee was wearing her great-grandmother's
locket.

"I don't believe any of this. People simply
do not go traveling through time. It's impossible." Patrick paced
in front of the porch steps, his frown underscoring his
disbelief.

Cara leaned back against the wall of the house,
trying to think of something that would persuade them of the truth.
Something that didn't sound like a Jules Verne story. She sighed,
realizing that Jules Verne was probably alive and writing somewhere
at this very moment.

"I know it's hard to believe, Patrick. I probably
wouldn't have believed it myself if it hadn't happened to me, but
it's the truth." Michael was leaning against a porch pillar, his
relaxed position belying the tense line of his shoulders.

"What I don't understand is the part about you and me
being related." Loralee looked over at Cara her eyes filled with a
mixture of wonder, disbelief and most amazingly, hope.

"It's the truth. The locket proves it. My mother gave
it to me on my sixteenth birthday. She inherited it from her
mother—your Mary."

Loralee's eyes widened and she wrapped her arms
around herself. "But, my Mary doesn't have it.
I do
. And
she's just a little girl."

"I know. But someday you'll give it to her."
Although, who was to say how things would play out now? In coming
here, Cara had changed everything. Who knew what would happen when
she went back. Hopefully, there was a happy ending for Loralee. She
smiled at the younger woman, pushing away her negative thoughts.
"And then she'll pass it on to my mother and then to me."

"And then you'll come here and … " Loralee's eyebrows
drew together in confusion. "It just don't make sense."

"None of it does." Michael's words were firm, his
expression grim. "But the fact is it's all true. Nine years ago, I
found Cara in the snow."

"And if he hadn't been there, I would have died,"
Cara said picking up the story. "But once the crisis passed, and my
grandfather came for me, we got separated again."

"Until I got shot." Michael moved to stand by
Cara.

"And then she rescued you," Loralee finished with a
faint smile. Patrick shot her a look. "Well, I like that part." She
stuck her chin out. "A woman saving a man. Seems to me there's
something kinda nice about a time where women and men are treated
as equals."

"Maybe so." Patrick shrugged. "But that only makes
the story more nonsensical."

"Patrick. We've been over this and over this."
Michael ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "And nothing I
can say is going to make it easier to accept. You'll just have to
take my word about what happened. The important thing now is to
deal with Amos Striker."

A loud groan issued from somewhere inside the house,
followed by a string of extremely colorful oaths, some of which
Cara had never heard before. Loralee stood up, wiping her hands on
her skirt. "Before we take on Amos Striker, sounds to me like we'd
better see to Pete."

*****

"I don't want any more." Pete closed his
mouth with a click, his teeth locking firmly together. "Tastes like
horse piss."

"It's willow bark tea." Loralee said. "Ginny says it
helps with fever."

"The Ute woman? I ain't drinking no Indian tree
potion."

"Come on, Pete, you don't mean to tell me that after
all you've been through you're going to balk at a little tea?"
Patrick lifted the old man's shoulders and Loralee held the cup up
to his lips. He grumbled, but opened his mouth and obediently
drained the cup.

"So what the hell happened out there?" He looked
first at Michael and then at Patrick.

"We're not really sure. Cara killed the man in the
barn. She thought it was Amos Striker." Michael blew out a breath
and shrugged.

"And it wasn't?" Pete's brows pulled together in
consternation.

Patrick shook his head, remembering the dead man's
face. "Nope. It was some guy I've never seen before."

"I recognized him," Loralee added. "His name's Joe
Ingersoll."

Pete stroked his moustache. "Bad hombre. Do anything
for money." He looked over at Cara. "You telling me that little
thing brought down Ingersoll?"

Cara's head shot up, her eyes flashing. "Why is it no
one can believe I shot the man?"

Michael held up a hand. "Easy, honey, I saw you." He
turned back to the old man. "Trust me, Pete, she's a whole lot
tougher than she looks."

Pete grinned. "Just what you need, boy." He sobered.
"Any sign of Striker at all?"

Michael reached into his pocket and pulled out the
cigarillo butts. "Only these. Found them under one of the pine
trees where Cara said she saw a rifle barrel."

Pete lifted his head for a look. "So he
was
out there."

"Someone was. Probably him. And I figure he
high-tailed it once he saw that Ingersoll was dead." Michael
dropped the butts onto the table.

"Amos never was one to go against the odds," Pete
agreed.

"You mean he's a coward?" Cara eyed them all
quizzically.

"Yellow as they come," Pete grunted, then looked up
at Loralee, who was refilling his cup. "Any chance I could get some
whiskey?"

She shook her head. "More tea."

"Hell." He jerked upward as a spell of coughing shook
his entire body.

"I think it's time we get you to bed." She gave him a
fierce look.

"I ain't going." Pete crossed his bony arms across
his chest, wincing a little with the movement. "I want to talk to
Michael some more."

"Later. Right now you need some sleep." Loralee's
voice was gentle. Pete tried to look mutinous, but the effect was
ruined when he yawned. "Patrick, you and Michael help me get him to
his room."

Patrick reached down to help Michael lift the old
man.

"Watch it, boy, I ain't no bale of hay."

Patrick grinned, adjusting his grip. "Sorry, Pete."
Obviously the willow bark tea was working. He was as cantankerous
as an old mule, and their mother had always said that when a sick
person started to complain he was bound to be getting better.

"Come on, old man, let's get you out of here."
Michael winked at Patrick and they started to move toward the door,
careful not to jar him.

"Who you calling old? I reckon I can whup your skinny
behind anytime I've a mind to."

Patrick smiled as they passed through the door into
the cool night air. Yes sir, Pete was going to be just fine.

*****

"Do you think he's out there?"

Michael surveyed the dark perimeter of the ranch and
considered Patrick's question. "Striker? I'd be surprised if he
was. He's bound to know by now that you've had reinforcements."

"So you figure he's high-tailed it out of here?"
Patrick sounded hopeful.

"Not likely. Whatever's going on here. It's not
over."

"There's got to be something more we're missing."
Patrick frowned into the darkness. "Maybe something to do with this
Vargas fellow."

Michael had explained about Vargas and his
preoccupation with the Promise, but even going over it with his
brother had failed to clarify things. "It's all got to be tied
together somehow, but I'll be damned if I can see the key."

"Well whatever it is, Striker thought Loralee and
Corabeth knew about it. That's why he killed Corabeth and why he
tried to kill Loralee."

"Makes sense. And then when you rescued Loralee, you
became a threat, too."

Patrick nodded. "We'd have been dead if you hadn't
gotten here today."

Michael looked over at his brother, aware how much it
cost Patrick to admit he needed help. Patrick had been mollycoddled
all his life. First by their mother, and then by Owen. And Michael
supposed, in some ways, he'd spoiled his brother too.

And done him a disservice.

"I imagine you'd have found a way out if I hadn't
arrived in time."

"Maybe." Patrick grinned, and the look reminded
Michael of his mother. "But I'm glad you came all the same."

Michael reached down for a rock and lobbed it into
the dark. "Where'd you bury him?"

Patrick jerked his head toward the hump back. "Up
there. Seemed the right thing to do."

Michael swallowed back his pain. "What'd you do with
his things?"

"There wasn't anything left. That's what made us
think it was a robbery at first."

"What about his pocket watch?" It was the only thing
of real value Duncan had carried. A gift from their mother. Even
after she ran off, he refused to be parted from it.

"The watch, too."

Suddenly an image filled his head. Vargas on the
street corner, checking his watch. "Son of a bitch."

"What?" Patrick dropped his foot and turned to face
his brother.

"Vargas had Father's pocket watch. I saw him with it.
It just didn't register completely until now."

"But how…" Patrick's voice trailed off
uncertainly.

"His
grandfather
." Michael paused, the
knowledge hitting him even before he could complete his thought.
"He said his grandfather left him all his possessions. The watch
must have been part of it."

"So where did the grandfather get it? Surely he
wouldn't have been old enough to know Father?" Patrick turned to
look at him.

"No, but Vargas said his great grandfather was a
cowboy named Amos."

Patrick's eyes widened. "Amos Striker."

"It fits. Striker worked the Wason ranch before he
came here. That makes him a cowboy. And now that I think about it,
there's a likeness between Vargas and Striker. That's why Vargas
seemed so familiar."

The two of them stood silently for a moment, each
lost in his own thoughts, silhouetted in the deepening gloom.
Patrick was the first to break the silence. "There's no way to
prove he has father's watch."

"
We
know. That's all that really matters. The
thing to figure out is why he killed him."

"So we're back where we started." Patrick sighed.

"The locket." Michael hit his head with the heel of
his hand. "Hell, I forgot about the locket. Father left a message.
In Cara's locket. Vargas took it before I could get a good look at
it. And then we lost it in the cave-in."

"But Loralee's locket," Patrick smiled triumphantly,
"is the same as Cara's."

"Exactly." He grabbed his brother's arm impatiently.
"What do you say we find out what's inside that locket?"

*****

"Michael says you're an artist." Loralee shot
a look at Cara from under her lashes as she measured coffee into
the coffee pot.

"A painter," Cara said, nodding shyly.

"I ain't never met an artist before. But I saw an
exhibit once when I was in St. Louis. They were French paintings.
The prettiest things I ever did see. You paint like that?"

"Well, I'm not sure what you saw. But I love to
paint. Maybe I can paint you someday."

Loralee felt herself blush. "Don't know why you'd
want to go and do that. Ain't nothing worth painting about me."

"Sure there is. You're beautiful, Loralee." Cara was
eyeing her through narrowed eyes, her head tilted. "Besides, you're
family."

"Your great-grandmother." Loralee tried to say it
calmly, but her voice trembled with what? Fear? Elation? Awe? There
really weren't words for a situation like this. "I reckon its going
to take a little getting used to."

Still, it explained a lot of things. Like why Cara
was the spitting image of Mary, and why she felt such a strong bond
for the girl.
Girl
. Heavens, she was already thinking like a
granny.
Great
-granny. And here she was younger than her own
grandchild. The thought was sobering.

Loralee thought about her own granny, the only bright
spot in an otherwise nightmarish childhood. Granny Shaw had been
from Ireland. An imp of a woman with dark hair and laughing eyes.
She'd always said there were things in this world a body simply
couldn't believe with the eyes alone. 'Listen with yer heart, girl,
that's where ye'll be finding the real answers.'

Loralee closed her eyes and concentrated on her
feelings, shutting out her doubts and confusion. As quickly as it
had come, her confusion vanished like so much smoke in the wind,
and she knew, in her heart, that the things Cara was saying were
true.

For the first time in long time, Loralee didn't feel
alone. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she opened them.
Cara was watching her, her sea-green eyes reflecting her own fears.
Without a word, Loralee raised her arms and the two women embraced.
This might not be a normal family reunion, but it felt mighty good
all the same.

*****

"I can't read the first letter. Something W,
then T3. " Patrick held the scrap of paper up to the
candlelight.

The locket lay open on the table, all concentration
centered on the note. Cara still couldn't believe she hadn't
thought about the note when she first saw Loralee's locket. Too
much to process no doubt. And it didn't really matter, Michael had
remembered.

Patrick blew out a frustrated breath. "I can't tell
for sure. See what you think." He passed the paper to Michael, who
also held it up to the light.

Cara leaned forward, staring at the paper, willing it
to yield answers. "Maybe it's directions of some kind."

Michael frowned. "Could be. That would mean the
missing letter is either an S or an N."

"Right." Patrick reached for the note. "But what in
hell is T3?"

"Tunnel number." Michael looked up, exchanging a look
with his brother.

"So this is directions to a mining tunnel?" Cara
asked, not certain exactly what the information meant.

"Not just any mining tunnel. One in the Promise. The
main shaft goes laterally into the mountain with other tunnels
branching off to either side—"