Chapter 1 #2
The only thing that puzzled her some was him talking about the Promise.
How could he have found silver there? Everybody knew the Promise had played out years ago.
Why, Duncan Macpherson ought to know it better than most. It was his mine after all.
His and that 'don't get mud on my boots' Owen Prescott.
She placed a hand on the cool silver of the locket between her breasts.
Whatever it was he was rambling on about, she'd keep his secret safe.
He'd kept hers after all. She'd ask him about it tomorrow when he came back for Jack.
One thing was sure as sunrise with Duncan Macpherson.
He would never willingly leave that sorrel behind.
He loved that old horse, maybe more than his boys.
Heck, maybe more than his wife. Loralee sighed and snuggled deeper into the covers, sleep starting to overtake her. There was something sad about a man whose best friend was a horse. Yes, indeedy, it was a true tragedy.
Patrick Macpherson woke with a start. The stillness of the night surrounded him, and after a few moments, he relaxed slightly. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting long shadows across the rough log walls. Everything seemed peaceful, but something had awakened him.
With a groan, he swung out of bed, cringing when his bare feet hit the cold plank floor. Muttering an oath, he reached for his socks and pulled them on before padding across the room to the doorway. The fire in the main room had burned low, but its embers still cast a faint light across the room.
That, combined with the moonlight, made the room seem abnormally bright after the dim shadows of his bedroom.
From his position in the doorway, he could see practically the whole cabin.
The big iron stove cast a long black shadow across the floor.
The clutter of dirty dinner dishes littered the plank table in the center of the room, testament to the lack of feminine influence at Clune.
His father's cot in the corner was empty, not that that was surprising. Duncan was usually somewhere up in the mountains looking for another strike, or down in town drinking himself into a stupor. Between the two, it seemed there wasn't much time for his sons.
Things had been different when his mother was around. But as Michael always said, there wasn't much sense in crying over spilt milk. Not that that made a lick of sense. He hated milk. Now if it had been a pint of whiskey—well, there was a good reason to cry.
The door to Michael's room stood ajar. Patrick couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Unlike his father, Michael was as predictable as a dog in heat. And he always, always, slept with his door shut.
Walking cautiously now, he crossed to his brother's room.
A quick look inside confirmed what he already suspected.
Michael wasn't there. Which meant something was indeed very wrong.
A fellow could count on Michael to do pretty much exactly what he said he was going to do.
Patrick glanced out the window at the moon, trying to remember what Michael had told him.
He'd being heading for the high country to check on the herd, but he'd specifically said he'd be back by nightfall.
If Patrick hadn't spent the wee hours of the previous night playing cards in Owen's saloon, he might have known his brother hadn't come home as expected.
Instead, he'd stumbled home mid-morning, listened to his brother's endless speech on responsibility, and then collapsed in his bed.
Looks like he'd managed to sleep the day away, and a good portion of the night.
Damn.
Truth be told, he hadn't meant to waste a night in Silverthread. He really wasn't a gambler, and he sure as hell couldn't hold his liquor. But yesterday had been the anniversary of his mother's disappearance and, well, he'd just needed something to take the edge off the memory.
Michael wouldn't talk about it. He never talked about it.
Truth was, he never talked about anything.
Anyway, Patrick had let one moment of self pity turn into a night of whiskey and gaming, when he should have been here helping his brother.
Which meant he was no better than his father.
And, somehow, that made him feel worse than he already did.
A soft nickering sound filtered in through the window, snapping him out of his reverie.
Patrick slid into the shadows, automatically reaching for his Winchester.
With an audible click, he cocked the rifle and stepped over to the cabin door.
The nicker sounded again, this time followed by the thud of a hoof.
Taking a deep breath, Patrick sprang into action, throwing open the door and stepping into the night air, the gun barrel leading the way.
Cool moonlight washed the dusty ground a pale silver. Patrick froze, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for the source of the noise. A soft snort was accompanied by the whinny of a horse. A hungry horse. Patrick relaxed as the roan gelding stomped impatiently.
He'd left his warm bed for a damn horse. Laying the Winchester across the porch railing, he stepped gingerly off the wood platform onto the rocky ground, wishing belatedly that he would have had the good sense to put his boots on.
"What the hell you doing out of the barn, Roscoe?" Stupid name for a horse. Michael had read it in a book somewhere and thought it a fine name, but Patrick thought it was ridiculous. Although stupid horse names seemed to run in the family. His father's horse was named Jack.
He hobbled across the ground, the rocks biting into his feet.
Reaching the gelding, he grabbed the reins and started to pull the horse toward the stable.
"Michael better have a good reason for not keeping an eye on you.
" He looked back at the horse and stopped dead in his tracks.
Roscoe was still fully outfitted. With a curse, he reached up behind the saddle.
Michael's gear was still there, and more sobering, his rifle was still sheathed in its leather holster.
Patrick absently wiped at a wet splotch on the stirrup and was in the process of cleaning his hand on his leg when he realized what he was doing. Slowly he raised the hand. Moisture glistened black on his fingers in the starlight. The sharp metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils.
"Patrick? That you?"
Patrick looked up as a weathered old cowboy stepped out onto the porch of an equally weathered shanty.
"Whatcha got there?" Pete Reeder slapped a dilapidated Stetson on his head and strode across the yard. Like Patrick, he was clad in long johns. Unlike Patrick, he'd had the sense to put his boots on.
"It's Roscoe." Patrick met the watery blue-eyed gaze of his foreman. "Seems he came back without Michael." He held out his bloody hand and nodded toward the stirrup.
Pete examined the stained leather. Looking back at Patrick, he frowned and spit, the resulting spittle landing somewhere out in the darkness. "Ain't no way that horse would leave Michael unless…"
Patrick felt a swell of panic rise inside him.
"He's not dead, Pete. He's just had an accident.
Maybe he sent Roscoe to us. To let us know he was hurt.
" He couldn't imagine what he'd do if something happened to his brother.
Michael was the stable one. Without him, and his desire for a place they could call home, there wouldn't be a Clune.
Hell, there probably wouldn't be a Patrick.
He shivered. "Michael's probably lying out there somewhere right now, hurt and bleeding. Or worse." He grabbed the reins and started to swing up into the saddle.
"Whoa there boy, where do ya think you're going?"
"I'm going to find my brother."
Pete clamped one big hand around Patrick' s arm, effectively stopping further motion. "In your drawers?"
Patrick glanced down and flushed. "No. I'll get my pants."
"And your boots."
Patrick shot a look of exasperation at the old man. "And my boots."
Pete stroked the long handles of his mustache, his leathery forehead wrinkled in thought. "Ain't no use going out there now. The moon's a settin' and you'll be blind as a posthole."
"Maybe. But I've got to do something. I can't leave him out there." Patrick strode toward the cabin, Pete following close behind.
"I ain't telling you to leave him. I'm just suggesting we wait a couple more hours until the sun's up. Can't tell a rock from a hole out there right now. You go off into the mountains like that and I'll be searching for two injured men, 'stead of just one."
They stopped on the porch and Patrick looked up at the sky. The moon had almost disappeared, leaving the last of the stars to light the night. Pete, as always, was right. "Fine, then we'll wait. Two hours. No more."
Pete settled a hand on Patrick's shoulder, his touch comforting. "I know you're worried about your brother. Can't say it sets well with me either, but we're gonna find him. We just gotta hold on for the light."
Patrick looked out towards the mountains that ringed the valley. They were little more than menacing shadows, blending into the dark sky. He wasn't much of a praying man, but he prayed now. Prayed that his brother was safe out there. Prayed that he could hang on until morning.
Prayed that he was still alive.