The Promise (37 page)

She sucked in a breath as her eyes found what she was
seeking. There, jutting from the craggy stone, about a hundred feet
down from the upper rim, a dark blotch against sunlit rock.

The Promise.

In her time, it had been nothing more than a gaping
hole surrounded by fallen timbers, easily mistaken for shadow. But
now, in this time, it was whole, the shoring intact, marking the
entrance to what had recently been a working mine. It filled her
with a sense of awe. A sobering symbol of man's desire to conquer
nature.

Heavy cables bowed away from rocky walls, extending
through the bright spring air, dropping gracefully down to the
narrow canyon floor. At the bottom of the gorge, straddling the
rushing waters of Shallow Creek was another building, its rough log
walls extending into the opposite slope of mountain. It was built
on wooden scaffolding with two chutes jutting out of one side. A
rutted path ran underneath the structure, paralleling the
stream.

The cables disappeared inside an opening in one side
of the building. She frowned, then suddenly smiled as she realized
what she was seeing. What appeared to be four cables was actually
two. One set going in and the other going out. She was looking at
some kind of tram station.

"Amazing isn't it?" Michael was staring up at the
mine, his hands resting on his saddle horn. "I never get tired of
seeing it."

"It's awe-inspiring." She followed his gaze up to the
entrance high above them. "How in the world did they get up
there?"

Michael smiled. "You mean we."

The enormity of it all hit her like a sledge hammer.
This mine was Michael's. He'd helped his father find it, build it.
"Of course, I meant you—and your father," she added.

He pointed to the top of the cliff. "There's another
entrance up there. That's what you painted. It's where Father first
found the vein."

"So you reach it from the backside of the mountain.
But, if that's an easier way in, then why…"

"I didn't say it was easier." He shifted in his
saddle. "The main shaft sinks about 100 feet straight down into the
mountain. From there we dug the main tunnel. In addition, there are
probably another dozen or so smaller tunnels and drifts."

"Drifts?" She frowned.

"Tunnels without a second opening."

"Dead-ends?" Her knowledge of mining was minimal.

"Right. There are three levels in the mine, each
connected with a shaft. But the main work was done on the first
level."

"And that's the level your dad indicated in his
note?"

"I think so."

She shaded her eyes with a hand and looked again at
the timbers jutting out from the side of the mountain. "So how do
we get up there?"

Again Michael smiled, his eyes crinkling at the
corners in a way that made her stomach tighten. "We fly."

Cara eyed him dubiously. "Beg your pardon?"

"I said, we fly. Come on, I'll show you."

They dismounted, and he led them up the incline and
through a small door in the building. It took her a minute to
adjust to the gloom. The floor was dusty, probably the winter home
for a menagerie of animals. One side of the cable hung suspended
over their heads, above the plank platform. On the other side, the
cable ran across the openings for the two chutes.

"It's a turning station."

Cara looked at Michael. "A what?"

"A turning station. The ore comes down the mountain
in one of these cars." He tapped the side of a shallow, rectangular
bucket, its handles attached to the cable with what looked like a
pulley, the pulley in turn attached to the cable. Several of the
cars stood in a row just to the left of the platform. Ready for
takeoff no doubt. "Once it gets here, it follows the cable there,"
he pointed at the wires above the openings in the floor, "And the
ore is dumped down the chutes into a waiting wagon."

"I thought the cables meant a tram of some kind, but
I don't see how—"

He cut her off with the wave of a hand. "It's also
used to get supplies," he paused for effect, "and men," he grinned
like a mischievous little boy, "up to the mine."

Understanding washed through her with the force of a
tidal wave. "Oh no, I'm not going up there." She pointed through
the opening in the opposite wall at the distant mine, then eyed the
narrow metal box with something bordering on panic. "In that."

"It's fun. I've done it a million times and besides
it's faster than climbing over the backside of the mountain to the
mineshaft."

She looked up at the cable, trying to judge its
strength. When the hell did they invent reinforced steel, anyway?
The wire above her head looked strong enough, but when she looked
at it climbing up across the gulch, she wasn't as certain. "How
exactly do you propose we do that? There isn't an engine."

Michael laughed. "We don't need one. The thing works
with gravity. As a loaded tram car comes down, it pulls the one
here back to the top."

"Well, we've got a problem, then. There's no one up
there to fill a car and send it down," she pronounced
triumphantly.

"My father rigged it so that we always leave a full
one at the top."

"Great." She blew out a breath and tried to look
enthusiastic. "Of course," she added, "it has been a while since
you were up here, and between your dad and Amos Striker there's
every chance the loaded car has been used and not replaced." She
tried to keep the pleading note out of her voice, but she had
absolutely no desire to emulate Peter Pan.

Michael turned his back, examining a gizmo that ran
out of a window on one side of the door. "Of course we do have a
back-up system."

"Oh?" A sense of inevitability hit her.

"Yeah, there's a horse winch, too."

"A horse winch?" She knew she sounded like a
parrot.

"Yeah." He gestured out the window. "It's out there.
Sort of a horse drawn pulley."

She schooled her features into what she hoped was her
calm, sensible look. "But the horses are tired."

Michael actually laughed. "Don't worry, sweetheart,
I'm fairly certain we won't need the horses."

She frowned at him and turned away, walking to the
far edge of the platform. The opening here was large, almost the
entire side of the building. And what little wallboard there was
looked like it would disintegrate with a small tap. The first ore
bucket in line sat only a few feet from the edge, ready to leap out
into the air.

Her stomach dropped. The whole thing reminded her of
a rinky-dink version of the aerial tram at Disney World, and she'd
refused to ride it, too.

She looked down at the rushing water. The noise from
the stream below was deafening. Perfect white noise. She grinned,
thinking of how much people paid to emulate a sound like that.
"I…go…ng…ut...ide." She swung around to look at Michael. His mouth
was moving, but she couldn't understand the words. She pointed at
her ear.

He, in turn, pointed at the door. "I'm going outside
for a minute," he yelled.

She signaled 'okay' and then wondered if he even knew
what it meant. Shrugging, she turned back to the view from the open
wall. It was magnificent. She looked down again. Compared to the
top of the run, they were fairly close to the ground here. Probably
only a couple hundred feet or so, but the rocks below looked deadly
and the rushing stream did nothing to alleviate her fears.

She'd just have to tell him she couldn't do it.
Simple as that. Behind her the door banged. "Michael." She turned
around ready to confess. The words died on her lips.

The man in the doorway wasn't Michael. But she knew
who he was—his resemblance to Nick was uncanny. Fear danced its way
along her spine.

Amos Striker.

A slow delighted smile spread across his face. "Well,
well, what do we have here." He took a step toward her and she took
a step back. He took another step and she immediately moved back
again, as if they were locked into some kind of macabre dance. He
moved forward again, this time into a pool of light coming from the
opening behind her. Her eyes still locked on him, she realized it
was her move. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

"Cat got your tongue?"

She licked her lips and stepped back, only to realize
she'd run out of floor.

Amos's mustache thinned as his smile grew broader.
"And just where do you think you're going, darlin'?" he
drawled.

She felt the skin on the back of her neck crawl. She
slid sideways behind the last tram car. She could feel the wind
through the opening at her back, but even so, she felt more secure
with the hunk of metal between her and the sheriff.

"Come here, angel." He gestured with a finger. "I
won't hurt you."

Like hell. How stupid did he think she was? Stupid
enough to wind up alone in the middle of another century with a
murderer, her mind suggested. She watched as he took another step
toward her. Help. She needed help. She opened her mouth, praying
for a voice. "Michael?" Her call came out a muted squeak.

Amos was at the edge of the ore bucket now. She
inched back until her heels rocked out over the edge of the
platform. Startled, she reached for the ore car, gripping the edge
with both hands.

"I wouldn't bother calling him, darlin'. I think he's
past hearing you." He patted a Colt stuck in the waist of his
pants.

Michael's gun.

She sucked in a ragged breath, and shoved hard
against the bucket, but it didn't move.

Amos laughed. "Only goes one way, I'm afraid, and
it'd be a shame to see a gal as pretty as you go over the edge." He
nudged the bucket with his knee and it lurched forward, resting
against her legs. Then, with a booted foot, he rocked it slowly, so
that it rubbed provocatively against her. "Think of that as a
little warm up, darlin'." His mouth still curled into a smile, but
his eyes were like shards of ice. She felt their frigid touch as
his gaze moved down her body.

There was a flicker of movement behind Amos, and with
a war cry that made Braveheart seem tame, a bloodied Michael surged
through the door, leaping at the sheriff. He tackled him from
behind and the two men rolled to the floor, locked together, each
struggling for the gun.

Cara watched in fascinated horror as they fought, her
numb brain trying to get her to do something. She'd always hated
heroines who stood and watched as the hero battled the bad guys. In
theory, it had seemed easy to do something to help. In practice, it
turned out, she was totally incapable of movement.

The men flipped over, Amos on the top. With a
triumphant grin, he reached for the gun, but Michael was fast and
slammed into the man's jaw with one fist. Thrown off balance, the
two of them tumbled backward, ramming into the tram car. It swung
forward, moving along the cable. Cara's brain sent out a frantic
message to move, but it was too late.

She grabbed the rim of the bucket just as she felt
her feet slide off the end of the platform. The car slid
effortlessly into the air, taking her with it. She felt her arms
jerk like a ski rope after takeoff and wondered briefly if arms
could actually be pulled out of their sockets.

Holding on for dear life, she forced herself to look
down and immediately wished she hadn't. Her feet dangled high above
the narrow gorge. The rocks looked even more sinister from up here
than they had from the platform. She bit her lip, willing all her
strength into her arms. Surely all those pull-ups in sixth grade
were good for something.

The bucket's forward momentum died, and it swung back
and forth, almost as if it was trying to shake her off. She gritted
her teeth and tightened her grip. She'd be damned if she'd let an
overgrown tin pail be the death of her.

From her dangling vantage point, she could still see
the two men struggling. Amos had managed to draw the Colt and she
watched with mounting terror as he turned the gun toward Michael's
head.

She closed her eyes just as the sharp report came
from the gun.

"Michael." She screamed his name, fighting to hang
onto the undulating tram car.

Cara forced herself to open her eyes, her
fear for Michael momentarily distracting her from the searing pain
in her arms. Michael was down, unmoving, and Striker teetered on
the edge of the platform, arms windmilling wildly. Against the
cacophony of the rushing water below, he lost his battle, his body
tumbling down to smash against the river rocks.

Cara shuddered, reflexively tightening her grip, her
eyes locked now on Michael. Willing him to move. Willing him to
live. Slowly he struggled to his feet, and she exhaled slowly,
relief flooding through her.

But it was short lived. A movement to her left caught
her attention, a shadow cautiously detaching itself from the wall.
A man carrying a rifle stepped into the light. She opened her mouth
to call out a warning just as Michael spotted the man.

They stood for a second looking at each other, then
Michael embraced him. Cara blew out a breath. A friend. The man was
a friend. A minute later, shadow man was pointing at the oar car
with his rifle and Michael was rushing to the edge of the platform,
his face tight with worry. "Hang on, sweetheart," he yelled.

She bit back the desire to laugh. What exactly did he
think she was going to do, free fall into a swan dive?

The bucket rocked and bucked as Michael swung out
onto the cable. Hand over hand, he made his way toward her. The
little tram car was rocking furiously now and she closed her eyes,
swallowing back nausea. Her arms were beginning to weaken and she
realized she couldn't feel the fingers of her left hand.

"I'm almost there. Just a few more feet."

She opened her eyes and her gaze met Michael's. She
attempted a smile, but knew she'd failed miserably when the little
muscle in his jaw started to jump as he worked to try and keep his
face calm. He reached the edge of the bucket, but she was at the
far end. Almost three feet away. In this position it seemed more
like a million miles.