Chapter 1
M ichael Macpherson reined in Roscoe, horse and rider stopping at the top of the rise. Below him, the lights of Clune twinkled in the distance, the little ranch resembling a fairyland.
Home.
He sighed, and began the descent down the mountainside.
It had been a long day. But then that's what ranching life was all about.
Long days, and in his case, even longer nights.
He blew out a breath and then discarded his train of thought.
No sense dwelling on what couldn't be. He'd chosen his path in life, and he'd do well to accept it.
Besides, there were people depending on him. Patrick, and old Pete. His father. Hell, even Owen depended on him some. No other way was he going to have prime steer to serve to the hungry miners that swarmed the Irish Rose twenty-four hours a day.
He bit back a smile. All in all, life might be a bit empty, but it was basically good.
A shot cracked through the stillness of the night, and Michael felt the familiar burning as bullet hit flesh.
Son of a bitch.
He wheeled his horse around, simultaneously reaching for his rifle.
The movement sent fiery pain knifing through him, and his vision blurred, darkness threatening to overcome him.
With a shake of his head, he cleared his brain.
Passing out would mean death. And just at the moment he wasn't inclined to die.
He moved forward, riding as fast as he could on the downward slope.
One stumble and they were as good as dead, but going too slowly would have the same result.
A conundrum. He gritted his teeth and reached for the rifle again.
Another shot whizzed past his ear. He abandoned the effort, slowing for a second, risking a look behind him.
Nothing.
Whoever was shooting was well hidden. He cursed again under his breath, his strength ebbing with his blood flow. He'd never make it to the ranch. Hell, in just a few more yards he'd be out in the open, a moving target. One that would be hard to miss.
With a quick jerk of the reins, he turned Roscoe, and together they moved back up the canyon toward a stand of trees in the distance. If he could just reach the spruce—the abandoned mine. Maybe he'd make it.
Another shot rang out. This one farther behind him.
Good, he'd managed to gain a lead. With another twist, he cut into the pines.
That ought to stop the bastard—at least for a minute or two.
In the dark, he would be nearly invisible in the trees, the rocky tumble of the mountain reaching toward him from the left, providing further safety.
He stopped, listening. Everything was quiet. Just the soft whisper of the winds in the aspens. He slid to the ground, his head going fuzzy again. He touched his shoulder, not surprised to find that his shirt was wet with blood.
With a sharp intake of breath, he slapped Roscoe on the hindquarters, sending the horse off into the night. If someone was following him, that ought to provide a nice distraction.
Scrambling further into the trees, his eyes sought out the scraggly branches of the blue spruce. Despite the odds, the little tree had made it. Now over six feet, it still lacked girth, but it had grit. And just at the moment it was acting sentry for sanctuary.
Michael locked his eyes on the tree, fighting against the waves of dizziness that threatened to swamp him.
All he had to do was make it a few more steps and he'd be safe.
He sent a silent prayer to the luckless miner who started the tunnel and then abandoned it.
The man's misfortune had created a hidden haven. First for Cara, and now for him.
The thought of her gave him a sudden surge of strength, and he barreled across the stream and up the rocky embankment to the tree. Leaning against its trunk for a moment, he fought against his pain. Just a few more steps. Rocks below him skittered down the creek bank.
Hell.
He froze in the shadow of the spruce, afraid even to breath.
Any movement now would mean certain death.
The night grew quiet. Whoever was down there was waiting, too.
Listening. He strained through the dark to try and see his assailant's face, to know who it was hunting him.
But the dark and the trees provided the killer with the same protection they afforded Michael.
In the distance a horse nickered. Roscoe. Michael smiled in the dark. Somewhere below him, the killer cursed softly, and then Michael heard the welcome sound of horseshoes against rock. The man was leaving, following Roscoe.
Michael waited, letting the tree hold him upright, and then finally took a cautious step away from the spruce.
The mine was waiting—its black opening yawning darkly against the sharp rocks.
His head was starting to spin, and he felt weak all over.
He knew that time was running out. He needed shelter, and he needed it now.
With a last burst of energy, he pulled himself up the incline and into the mouth of the cave. The dark overpowered him, and he forced himself to crawl further into its waiting arms, knowing that it was a friend. A sanctuary.
Finally, deep in the tunnel, he allowed himself to slump against a wall, closing his eyes, and focusing on his memories. Memories of a night nine years ago—a magical night and a beautiful girl. Cara.
In his mind, he felt her there with him. Felt her body pressed against his. Felt her healing warmth. And with a sigh, he allowed himself to slide into his dreams.
Loralee stood in the soft glow of the candlelight and looked in the mirror.
Straight lank hair hung in two thin plaits on either side of her head, accentuating the thin angles of her tired face.
She scrubbed at the rouge on her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Every day she was more a whore and less the girl she'd once been.
Loralee wasn't her real name. Not that anyone out here knew that. She'd picked it because she'd seen it on a sign pasted on the saloon wall when she'd started working in Del Norte. She'd even made one of the gambling men read the whole poster to her.
It seemed this other Loralee was a traveling singer. She'd come from some far off place. Nacado…something. Anyway, the name sounded musical and it was a far sight better than Alice. Besides, nobody used their real names in this business. It just wasn't done. With a sigh, she turned from the mirror.
At least there didn't appear to be any more customers tonight.
And Duncan, God bless him, had paid her enough to warrant turning out the red lantern in her front window.
She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, crossed to the door and slid the heavy bar into place.
The irony of the situation didn't escape her.
She was probably safer alone in her bed than she was with someone in it.
Besides, the bolt was strong, but the door wasn't. A good swift kick would probably send the whole wall tumbling down.
She peered out the window at the eerie red glow coming from a dozen or so windows identical to hers. Lifting the globe with the edge of her shawl, she blew out the lantern. A soft whinny drew her attention.
A sorrel horse tied to a post out front tossed his head indignantly. Jack. What the heck was Jack doing here? Duncan had left hours ago. She arched her back, rubbing the hollow at her waist. At least it seemed like hours.
Most likely he was off to the saloons again. He'd been fairly well lit when he left her place, but it never ceased to amaze her how much a man could drink if he put his mind to it. And if ever a man was in a frame of mind to drink, it was Duncan Macpherson.
The shadows lengthened and she untied the thin cord that pulled back the tent canvas that passed for drapery.
Turning her back to the window, she headed for the iron bedstead in the corner.
The linen sheets were yellowed with age, the quilt patched and threadbare, but they were clean.
She prided herself on that. Her momma had taught her that much.
Cleanliness was next to Godliness and, Lord help her, she could use all the help she could get in that direction.
Smiling, she threw her wrapper on the spindly stool that served as a chair and jumped into the bed.
The tin stove in the corner didn't put out enough heat to warm water, let alone an entire room.
Most times it wasn't a problem. Men seemed to generate their own heat.
And it was her lot in life to get those fires a going.
Well, most of them. Some, like Duncan, didn't want that kind of fire lit.
They mostly came to talk. A bit of female companionship was all they were looking for.
Not that she minded. No indeedy. They paid, same as everyone else.
And all she had to do was listen, or pretend to listen.
But Duncan was different. He treated her real nice.
Not like some of the boys. There were some who liked it rough.
Real rough. But they weren't welcome here.
She might be at the bottom of the barrel socially speaking, but she had rules all the same, and she expected her boys to abide by them.
Not that she always had a choice. She shivered and settled back into the soft fluff of her pillow, tucking the quilt under her chin.
Yup. She'd take Duncan any day. He might be a bit long in the tooth, but he treated her like a lady.
Or what she imagined a lady was treated like.
And he talked to her about important things.
Why, just tonight, he told her he'd found silver.
Not that that was news exactly. Everybody around here was always boasting about finding silver, but Duncan had said it different.
There'd been a light in his eyes. She had a feeling he'd found a strike, sure enough. A big one, too.