The Promise (41 page)

The smiling skulls seemed to mock her and she turned
away to avoid their knowing gazes. A glint of something caught her
eye as she turned and she bent with the candle to see what it was.
A band of gold circled the smaller skeleton's bony finger. Cara
fought with her stomach, heart, and brain before she found the
strength to reach for the ring. With a deeply drawn breath and a
mumbled apology, she snatched it away.

The gold was smooth from years of wear, the faint
pattern of etched flowers almost faded from the band. A wedding
ring. She held it up into the soft glow of the candle light. R.O.,
D.M., 1858. Initials. A date. Her sluggish mind processed the
information. A wedding ring. R.O. D. M.

D. M. — Duncan Macpherson. Her mind clicked into
gear. R.O.—Rose. Rose O'Malley. Oh God. Her stomach signed off
altogether. She was on her own.

She looked at the remains of Michael's mother and
what had to be Zach, and took a deep, but not particularly
cleansing, breath. What did one say to the dead? She sank to the
ground, leaning back against a wall, her right hand still clenched
around the wedding ring, her head inches from Zach's. She ran her
left hand over the cool silver of Loralee's locket, tears filling
her eyes. So many dreams…

*****

Michael grabbed Patrick's elbow, recognizing
his brother's need to fight. But that would only get them both
killed. "We need to find Cara," he whispered, and Patrick nodded in
mute acceptance as they moved to the wall of the tunnel.

"I see you both remember how to follow orders." Owen
sounded smug, almost relieved.

Michael had to bite his tongue to keep from
responding. Patrick, obviously, had no such self-restraint. "You
killed our mother." The words were harsh and they hung in the
cavern as if carved from stone.

Owen narrowed his eyes, watching them. "No." His
response was angry. Abrupt. Secure, in only the way the deranged
can be. "She killed herself."

"Why?" Patrick asked. "Because she loved Father more
than you?"

"She loved me." The words were clipped,
explosive.

Michael was beginning to follow the train of
Patrick's conversation. "She never loved anyone but our father. You
know that, Owen." He threw the words out, trying for
distraction.

What he got was rage. A rage so fierce and out of
control, he felt his brother flinch. "
She loved me
."

"No." The word was like an epitaph in its finality.
Patrick spewed it almost as if it were an obscenity.

"She always loved me. That's why I did it," Owen
retaliated.

"Did what?" Keep him talking, Michael's brain
demanded. Patrick was face forward against the tunnel. Michael had
opted for a less conciliatory stance, his back to the rock
wall.

"Killed her."

Michael felt sick inside. "You killed her?"

"I had to."

The man in front of him shrank a little and Michael
swallowed his bile. "Why?"

"She wouldn't come with me." Owen sounded like a
three year old who hadn't gotten his way.

"When you offered her the silver?" Patrick asked, his
back still turned.

Owen leveled the gun, his chest heaving in and out in
agitation. "I offered her more than the damn silver. I offered her
my life." He waited for some reaction, and when he got none, he
continued. "Duncan led her on. Year after year, he promised her the
moon, but never,
never
did he deliver."

Michael couldn't argue his father's faults. The fact
was that his mother loved his father despite those flaws. It hadn't
mattered. Suddenly his worries about Cara took on new relevance.
If she was still alive
. His mind fastened on the idea,
holding it close to his heart. She had to be alive.

"She turned you down. All of it. She turned you
down," Patrick hissed.

Owen's face twisted with anger. "I did it all for
her, and she had the audacity to say no. No one says no to Owen
Prescott, no one."

"But what about Zach?"

Owen waved the gun. "Oh, that was simple enough. I
used my rifle. The man was dead before he knew what had
happened."

Michael took a step forward. Owen pointed the
gun.

"Move back."

Michael obliged him. "But surely you didn't expect my
mother to fall into your arms after you murdered her friend?"

Owen looked surprised. "He wasn't her friend. He was
a no account muleskinner. Beneath her notice. It never occurred to
me that he might
matter
to her."

Michael was struck at the way Owen dismissed the
man.

"But he was a husband and a father," Patrick put
in.

Owen shrugged, obviously not understanding the
relevance of Patrick's statement. "He was nobody. And if he did
have a wife, she was nobody as well."

"So you proposed to do what?" Michael asked. "Take my
mother away from all the murder and mayhem?"

His sarcasm was wasted on Owen. "Of course. She
deserved better."

"And you were the one to give it to her?" Patrick's
jaw tightened, his hand moving between his body and the wall.

"I was the only one who could give it to her, " Owen
said.

Michael grimaced. "But she didn't want you."

Owen's face flushed with fury. "No. She only wanted
your father. The stupid woman couldn't see what was right in front
of her eyes. She called me a murderer and a traitor. Me. Who'd
loved her since New York…" He broke off.

"So you killed her." Patrick's voice was calm, but
firm.

Owen cocked his head, looking at them both. "I killed
her." The pronouncement was absolute.

Michael needed to know. It was probably perverse, but
he needed to know. "So then you stole the silver?"

"Only after I'd killed them I couldn't exactly leave
it lying around, now could I? Thanks to your father it was readily
identifiable." Owen sounded almost disdainful.

"The rose."

"Yes." Owen sighed. "It's a pity you two had to
figure this out. I had hoped to avoid the unpleasantness." He
leveled the gun.

"So what? You hid it?" Patrick asked.

"Right here. Under your father's nose. I used the
lower level. One of the tunnels we'd abandoned. I hid it in some
old machinery."

"But Father found it. That's why you killed him."

"The drunken bastard. Always nosing around. I should
have melted the damn stuff and sold it off. "

"Why didn't you?"

"I got lazy." Owen shrugged. "Truth is, it was more
work than it was worth. I didn't need the money, and I never
thought anyone would find it. Besides, I liked knowing it was here,
right under everyone's noses."

"And when Father found it, he moved it."

"Stupid ass."

"But if you didn't need it, why go to all this
trouble?" Patrick frowned. "Why not let someone else find it and
cart it away?"

"Because sooner or later the story was going to come
out. You were already starting to ask questions, Patrick. And
Michael was a wildcard. I didn't know if he was alive or dead. I
have Striker to thank for that."

"So you killed him." Michael said, trying to make
sense where there obviously was none.

Owen shrugged. "It was kill him or kill you, and he'd
out grown his usefulness. I always tie up my loose ends."

"Like us?" The pain in Patrick's voice was almost
palpable.

Owen sighed. "As I said I was trying to avoid
this."

"But now, just like that, it's over? Your loyalty to
our family—
to me—
was all a lie?"

"I loved you in my own fashion, I suppose." Owen
waved the gun in Patrick's direction. "Michael, too, for that
matter. But in the end, you're just like your mother. You'd rather
be with your father than me. The old bastard didn't deserve what he
had."

"More than you, Owen." Patrick's words were
whispered, his voice tight with emotion. "More than you."

"Spoken just like a good son." Owen sneered. "Which
brings us full circle, I'm afraid."

Michael started to move, to lunge forward, but he
caught his brother's eye and froze. "Wait," Patrick mouthed, his
gaze darting downward significantly. Michael glanced down, sucking
in a startled breath. Patrick had a second gun concealed between
the wall and his body.

"One more move like that and my Rose is a mother
without children." Owen shot into the air to prove his point and
rocks rained down around their heads.

Patrick seized the moment and swung around, gun
blazing. Owen fired in response, but it was too late, the shot went
wild, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, his eyes
locked on Patrick, his expression one of disbelief. One minute he
was frozen there, and the next he collapsed, twitched once and was
still.

Patrick let out a long breath, somewhere between a
moan and a sigh. "He never really understood."

Michael dropped a hand to his brother's shoulder.
"Understood what?"

"That it was all about family. Always about family."
Patrick lifted his head, tears making his eyes seem bright in the
flickering darkness, the gun dangling from one hand. "We take care
of our own , Michael, and it was my turn."

Michael squeezed his shoulder, realizing his brother
was no longer a boy. Somewhere in all that had happened, Patrick
had found his way. He'd grown into a man.

"Patrick?" Loralee's frightened scream reached them
just before she ran into the circle of light. She skidded to a
halt, her eyes wide as she took in the two of them standing over
Owen's body. "I heard gun shots. I thought… I thought…"

"We're all right."

"Is he dead?" Her eyes searched Patrick's face, and
he nodded.

"Did he?"

Again Patrick nodded. "My mother—and Zach."

"Then I'm glad the bastard is dead." Loralee pulled
in a shaky breath, searching the darkness. "Where's Cara?"

"I don't know." Michael felt as if the words were
being wrenched from him.

Patrick grabbed his shoulders. "Where were she and
Owen before this started?"

Michael drew in a deep breath, forcing control. She
might still be alive. And she might still need him. And he'd
promised he'd be there. "That way." He pointed into the dark,
already moving in that direction. "In tunnel northwest-three."

Owen Prescott.
Cara leaned back
against the wall, anger washing through her. God damn him. The man
had destroyed two marriages and now he was intent on destroying her
life and Michael's.

She glanced over at her two companions, wondering if
they had found peace. She touched the silver of her locket,
Loralee's locket, and thought of the love it embodied, of Loralee,
Zach and Mary.

Her hand tightened around the ring, a symbol for
Duncan and Rose's love, and suddenly she knew that love was the
magic. It was the one thing that Owen Prescott couldn't destroy. No
matter how many lies he told or how many lives he took. The love
would live on.

Forever.

Loralee was right. The future was an unwritten page,
and the only thing standing in her way was her own fear. Fear had
kept her locked inside herself, unwilling to give life—to give
love—a chance. It had trapped her in the tunnel, almost taking her
life.

Michael's love had carried her safely out of the
dark, but now it was up to her to take it the rest of the way. The
decision was hers. It had been all along. She had to believe in
Michael, to believe in their love. In the end, if she'd let it,
love truly would conquer all.

And suddenly, in the darkness of the cavern, in the
flickering light of her candle, with two witnesses who'd long ago
joined the ranks of the angels, Cara realized that no matter what
tomorrow brought—past, present or future—her place was with
Michael.

Always and forever.

She stumbled to her feet, heart pounding, praying
that her epiphany hadn't come too late, that her fears hadn't
contributed to Owen winning the day. With trembling hands, she felt
along the rough hewn walls of the shaft, trying to find handholds,
a way to climb out.

She had to reach Michael, to stop Owen from hurting
him. She pushed up off of the floor of the mine shaft, her fingers
jammed into a crevice, her other hand groping for purchase. She
managed to climb a foot or so, before her hand met nothing but
roughly shorn rock. Nothing to hang onto. She tried to cling to the
wall, but her arms were too tired and she couldn't support
herself.

With a cry of frustration, she let go, dropping back
to the floor, the grinning skeletons a testament to her failure.
She fought for control, but her nerves were shot. Michael was up
there somewhere, alone with a madman. And there was nothing she
could do.

Nothing at all.

*****

"Cara?" A voice filtered down through the
dark, and Cara's grief-numbed brain struggled to respond. "Cara?"
It called again, its tone insistent, urgent.

Cara blinked, trying to focus, her brain finally
clicking into gear. Michael. The voice belonged to Michael.
Adrenaline surged on the wings of hope, and she scrambled to her
feet, wincing as her weight hit the injured ankle, her eyes locked
on the light shining from the top of the shaft. "I'm here. Michael,
I'm here."

"Are you hurt?" The concern in Michael's voice
carried down to her, washing through her, rejuvenating her.

"I'm fine. It's just… Is Owen there?"

"He's dead." The words drifted down to her and she
felt a rush of relief.

"Cara?" Michael's voice was gentle. "I'm going for
the rope. I'll be right back. Hang on, sweetheart."

The light disappeared and she settled back onto the
floor of the shaft, leaning back against the hard wall. Everything
was going to be all right. Owen Prescott was dead.

Michael was safe. It was finally over.

*****