The Promise (38 page)

"Cara, sweetheart, you're going to have to inch your
way around to this side of the bucket. Do you think you can do
that?"

She gritted her teeth, and with a nod, forced the
fingers of her left hand to move. For an agonizing second her
entire weight was supported by her right arm, and then she felt her
left hand close again around the lip of the ore car. Inch by
agonizing inch, she moved along the bucket, stopping only when the
swinging got too wild. Her eyes remained locked on Michael's as she
tried to ignore the searing pain in her arms.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she reached
Michael's side of the ore car. He was close enough to touch—not
that she dared give in to the desire.

"Good girl."

She felt absurdly pleased with the compliment. No one
could say she wasn't a trooper. Feeling light-headed and a little
giddy, she wondered briefly if she was going to lose consciousness.
She felt her eyes closing, darkness creeping around the edge of her
vision.

"Cara, don't give up. We're almost there."

She forced her eyes back open, her gaze again locking
with his. "What do I do now?" Her voice came out a cracked whisper
and she wasn't sure he could hear her over the roar of the water
below.

"I want you to swing up and grab me around the neck.
Do you think you can do that?"

She looked down at the rushing water below and
thought briefly about an act she'd seen once in a circus. They'd
had a net.

"I'll catch you, don't worry."

Taking a deep breath, she rocked the car, swinging
back and forth, getting used to the motion, then when the bucket
arched upward and she was more or less level with Michael, she let
go with her left hand, reaching for him as she let go with her
right.

Alley oop…

She was flying. For one glorious second she was free,
the horrible pressure on her arms relieved. Then, with a satisfying
thunk, she collided with Michael, his arm circling her waist. They
hung for a moment like that, suspended over the canyon. Then she
twisted, locking first one arm and then the other around his neck,
gripping her left wrist with her right hand.

"You all right?" he grunted, both hands back on the
cable.

Again, she felt the urge to laugh. What a ridiculous
question. But she didn't have any further time to worry about it.
Michael started to move back across the wire, muscles straining
with their combined weight.

Again their progress seemed agonizingly slow. She saw
the worried face of shadow man. He was standing at the opening,
hands out ready to help. About damn time somebody came to help
them.

They reached the platform and shadow man reached up
to grab her legs. She slid into his arms, her whole body suddenly
feeling like rubber. The stranger's arms were replaced by Michael's
as he dropped down onto the platform. She nestled against him,
drawing comfort from his nearness. She felt his lips moving against
her temple and pressed closer, not sure whether she had the
strength to stand on her own.

"That was a near miss." The voice was cultured, with
the trace of an English accent. It seemed somehow out of place in
the Wild West—and she had personal experience with the Wild part of
the moniker.

Michael was answering. She could feel the vibrations
of his words through his shirt. It was strangely comforting. "It
would have been a hell of a lot closer if you hadn't come
along."

"Well." Cara could hear the smile in shadow man's
voice. "My timing has always been impeccable. I should like to hear
what exactly the two of you were doing up here with," he paused and
Cara imagined he was looking down at Amos' body, "riff-raff like
that."

She smiled into Michael's shirt. He sounded so
pompously English. "But," he went on, "I should think the first
thing to do is get this young lady a cup of coffee. Hardly
civilized to go on with explanations and leave the poor thing
hanging onto you for dear life."

Cara was beginning to like this shadowy character.
She pulled away from Michael, relieved to find that her feet were
capable of supporting her. She winced as she straightened her arm.
"Take me to the coffee." Her voice had even returned to some
semblance of normal. She took a shaky step forward, linking arms
with both men.

"My kind of girl," the man said, patting her hand
paternally.

"Mine, too, Owen, mine too." Michael added, his hand
covering hers with a gentle squeeze as he led them across the
platform toward the beckoning doorway.

Owen. She turned the name over in her mind, matching
it to the man. So this was Owen Prescott. They moved toward the
door, Michael laughing at something Owen said. It was good to hear
the sound.

Maybe the nightmare was finally over.

*****

Owen's office was empty. And from the looks
of it, it had been empty for a day or so. Patrick leaned back in
Owen's chair and ran a finger through the light coating of dust
that covered everything. Owen was nothing if not fastidious. There
could only be one reason everything was this dusty.

Owen was gone.

Patrick frowned, wondering why Owen would have left
with everything in such turmoil. Granted, he didn't know about
Striker, or about Michael's return. But still, he knew what Striker
had been saying, and he knew how much pain Patrick was in. It
wasn't like Owen to desert him. He'd always been there when Patrick
needed him—the one person in this world Patrick knew he could count
on.

It had been Owen who'd told him about his mother and
Zach. He'd been out to the ranch even before Michael and his father
had come down off the mountain. Why, it had been Owen who'd figured
out about the stage coach.

Patrick drew in a sharp breath.
Owen
. Oh God,
it couldn't be. Not Owen. But the very things that had comforted
him at the time, mocked him now. Owen had been there. Always there.
His heart rebelled at the direction his thoughts were taking, but
the evidence continued to mount. His father had found something in
the mountains. Something involving silver. And he'd come into town
to tell Owen. His friend. His confidant.

His murderer.

It all fit. And yet, he still couldn't make himself
believe it. Why would Owen have taken the silver? It had already
been partially his. Patrick frowned, pushing the horrible notion
away. There had to be another explanation, someone else that could
be behind everything. It couldn't be Owen. It just couldn't.

"Patrick?" Loralee's soft voice pulled him from the
horror of his thoughts.

"Is Pete all right?"

She nodded, her hands clenched at her side. "Doc says
he's gonna be fine. Ginny is with him."

"Is there something else?"

She nodded again, shifting her weight nervously from
one foot to the other, her eyes darting around the office. "Where's
Owen?"

"He's not here."

She relaxed a little. "There's something you've got
to know."

Patrick walked over to her, his hands reaching for
hers. "Whatever it is, just say it."

She drew in a deep breath. "Ginny overheard Owen
talking to the sheriff yesterday morning. She was working at the
hotel. She cooks there to bring in some extra money. Anyway, he,
Owen, I mean, was telling the sheriff that he believed you were
responsible for Corabeth's death."

"Me?" The word exploded from his mouth, his fears
resurfacing in full force.

"Yes. And there's more. He told Amos that he'd best
get on out to Clune and arrest you, before you hurt someone else.
He told him I was missing and that he thought maybe you'd taken it
in your head to kill me, too."

"My God. You don't believe…" He trailed off, his eyes
locking with hers.

"Of course not." Her hands tightened around his. "But
don't you see, if Owen is saying things like that then that
means—"

"He's behind all of this," he cut her off. His heart
plummeting. He'd placed his faith in the wrong person, and because
of it, he'd failed to see who the real enemy was.

"But I don't understand why, Patrick." Loralee looked
up at him, confusion playing across her pretty face.

"I don't either, but I intend to find out." He spun
around intent on finding something in the office that explained
what the hell was going on. Once again his whole world had turned
upside down, but this time Patrick wasn't going to just hide from
it. No sir. He was going to face it head on.

He yanked open a drawer on one side of Owen's desk.
It was full of ledgers, neatly organized by date. He pulled one out
and quickly discarded it, already reaching for another. Account
books for the Irish Rose. Frustrated, he slammed the drawer shut
and pulled open the bottom drawer.

This one was less tidy than the other. His eyes
locked on a black rectangular object, the gold embossing hauntingly
familiar. Reaching for it with a shaking hand, his fingers closed
around the cool ebony union case, confirming what his eyes already
knew.

"What is it?" He felt the soft whisper of Loralee's
hair against his shoulder as she bent over to see what he held in
his hand.

Slowly he opened the little case, his heart pounding
as horrifying thoughts poured through his head. His eyes focused on
the image in the frame. The woman in the picture smiled up at him,
and he felt tears pricking the back of his eyes.

Loralee's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Patrick,
what's wrong. Who is that?"

Wrenching his gaze away from the daguerreotype, he
looked up at her.

"It's my mother."

*****

"Rose?" Loralee looked up at Patrick and then
back at the smiling face in the union case. The woman was pretty,
in an elfin sort of way. Dark hair and flawless pale skin. The eyes
were Patrick's—emerald green. Irish eyes. It seemed Patrick
resembled his mother even more than his father.

"My mother," Patrick repeated in confirmation, his
face locked into a mask of disbelief.

"Patrick?" She reached out and laid a hand on his
shoulder. "I don't understand."

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, his voice
full of anxiety. "This belonged to my mother. There used to be a
picture of my father, here." He pointed to the inside of the lid of
the case. Sure enough, there were little yellowed bits in the
corners as if something had been torn out. "They had their pictures
made right after they were married. There was a photographer." He
paused, lost in his own thoughts.

"Where?" Loralee urged gently.

"Some fair out by the seashore. My mother said it was
a remembrance of a perfect day. She always carried it with her." He
turned the case over. "See? There's a pin here. She wore it
fastened to the inside of her shirtwaist. So that she wouldn't lose
it." He looked up at her, his eyes full of pain. "She'd never
willingly let anyone have this, Loralee, never."

"Of course not." She knew the words were inadequate,
but she wanted so much to comfort him.

Sparks shot from his eyes. "It was Owen, Loralee. It
was all Owen. He killed my mother. That's the only way he could
possibly have this."

She met his gaze, her anger echoing his. If what
Patrick was saying was true, then he'd killed Zach, too. "But
why?"

Patrick stood up, tucking the union case into his
shirt pocket. "I don't know for certain."

Loralee met his gaze, understanding dawning. "You
think he's gone for the silver."

"I'd bet my life on it."

A new thought occurred to her, terror rising in its
wake. "But Michael and Cara—"

He nodded grimly. "Are riding into a death trap."

"So, Amos Striker was behind the whole
thing." Owen sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

"It seems the most logical explanation." Michael
methodically broke off pieces of a stick, throwing them into the
fire.

Cara leaned back against a rock, allowing the
conversation to flow around her, watching Michael's surrogate
father. They'd filled Owen in on almost everything. At least
everything relevant to Amos and the silver. The rest, Loralee and
Zach, and the fact that half the story had taken place a little
over a hundred and ten years in the future, would only have
provided needless confusion.

"The question, my boy, is why did he do it?" Owen
tilted his head quizzically and Cara forced her wandering mind back
to the conversation.

"Greed, most likely. I guess we'll never know for
sure now."

Owen looked up at the mine. "And you think Duncan
rehid the silver?"

Michael followed his gaze. "It sure seems that
way."

"Crafty old bugger." Owen's eyes narrowed, and Cara
could have sworn she saw a flicker of something less than congenial
cross his face, but before she had time to examine the thought, it
was gone.

Michael dumped the dregs from his cup into the fire
and put his cup down on a rock. "You never said what brought you up
here, Owen."

"Oh, curiosity mainly." He stretched out his legs,
leaning back against a rock. "I had business in Tintown and
expected it to take somewhat longer than it did. When I finished
early, I felt the need of a little…" he paused, sipping the last of
his coffee, "holiday. And so, here I am."

"Well, I, for one, am delighted you showed up when
you did." Cara smiled at him and gathered the cups. She pulled
herself to her feet, surprised to find that she was feeling almost
normal. "I'll just wash these out." She walked to the stream and
bent to rinse the cups. The cold water felt good against her
bruised hands.

"Owen." Cara could hear Michael's voice clearly even
though he was behind her. "There's one thing I haven't told you.
There's a note—from my father. I think it's directions of some
kind."

"To the silver?" There was a new note of enthusiasm
in Owen's voice, not that she could blame him. It was his silver
after all, or at least a third of it was.