Chapter 9
" H e would have liked it up here." Owen's voice was hushed, almost reverent, as he looked out across the valley.
Patrick followed his gaze. The grave was situated in a tiny meadow at the top of what Michael had always called the hump back, a high bumpy cliff hanging out over the river.
From here the ranch was visible, spreading out across the valley floor, and more important really, the mountains swooped down to the ridge, inviting a person to climb higher, deeper, into their waiting purple majesty.
His father had always been drawn to the mountains.
"He spent a good part of his life in these mountains, made and lost a fortune here. I thought it only right he be buried here." Patrick looked at the grave marker, his voice filled with sorrow and a trace of bitterness.
"He was a good man, and he wouldn't want you to waste time grieving."
Patrick shrugged. "It's hard, especially when Amos Striker seems to believe that my brother murdered my father for the plunder from some non-existent silver strike."
"Now, Patrick, you have to admit that from Amos' point of view the facts fit. He's just doing his job." Owen's words were meant to be comforting, but Patrick didn't feel a bit better.
"The only way I'll ever believe Michael murdered anyone is if he tells me so himself." Patrick held the older man's gaze, surprised when he turned away.
"I expect all the talk will come to nothing. With any luck, Michael will come riding in here with some wild story, and the whole thing will be over."
His eyes searched the valley floor, almost as if Owen's words could somehow conjure up his brother. "I hope so. But that won't change the fact that my father's dead."
"No. It won't." Owen straightened the brim of his hat, and sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't get out here sooner. I meant to, but things just got away from me. Seems there was a little excitement in town yesterday. Some whore decided life wasn't all it was cracked up to be."
"I know, I was there."
Owen frowned. "At the cribs? Jesus, Patrick, how many times have I told you about those places?"
Patrick let out a harsh laugh. "God, Owen, what do you take me for? I lose my father and brother in one fell swoop and then head off to the cribs for a little carnal merry-making? Sounds more like something Amos Striker would do."
"Why would you say that?" Owen queried, brows drawn together in confusion.
"I don't know. No solid reason, really. He just seems the type. Speaking of which, any idea where our fair-haired boy was yesterday? I tried to report the death, but he was nowhere to be found."
Owen shook his head. "I've absolutely no idea. The last time I saw him was with you."
Patrick shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. Doc handled things. I just thought he ought to be informed about the death."
"Of a whore? Patrick, who cares if some two bit floozy uses laudanum to buy herself a ticket straight to hell? I say we're better off without her."
"That's a little harsh, Owen, even for you. I know you don't think much of the profession as a whole, but surely that doesn't mean you wish them all dead?"
"No, of course not. If I sounded harsh, I didn't mean to." He tilted his head to one side, curiosity lighting his face. "You never said what you were doing out by the cribs?"
"I was…ah…just walking, trying to digest the crap Striker was throwing out," he paused, meeting Owen's gaze, "you, too, for that matter."
"I wasn't agreeing or disagreeing with him. I was just trying to listen to the facts and draw conclusions accordingly."
"Well, you're certainly free to believe what you want."
Owen reached over to place a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "I don't believe Michael killed your father, Patrick, and I didn't come out here to fight with you."
Patrick drew in a deep breath and stared at his boot tips. "I know."
"I'm here for you, son. Don't forget that."
Patrick nodded and looked up, his sense of hopelessness overwhelming.
"It's going to be all right. I swear it. You've just got to be patient."
"I know." He strove for an attained a calm he didn't feel. No sense in worrying Owen.
The older man studied him for a bit, and then smiled. "I best get back to town. You never know when Sam's going to take it in his head to provide drinks for the house."
Patrick smiled wryly. "You know as well as I do that Sam's even tighter than you. If that's possible."
Owen wrapped an arm around Patrick's shoulders. "Walk with me back to the ranch."
"No. I need to think a bit and this is as good a place as any."
"All right, but I'll come back out in a couple of days to check on you."
"You don't need to do that, Owen. I'll be fine. I'm not a kid anymore."
"I know that. I just worry about you. You're the only family I have left." He pulled Patrick into a brief hug and then let him go. "You know where to find me."
"I do." Patrick watched Owen make his way down the hump back. Everything was so mixed up, he didn't know which way to turn. Every time he thought he was getting a handle on life, it dealt him another blow. And this time he didn't have anyone to shelter him from it.
Except Owen . Patrick shook his head at the train of his thoughts. He didn't want to need anyone. It hurt too damn much. But, at the same time, he wasn't sure what the hell he was going to do on his own.
If Michael was dead—and somehow, he'd actually come to the point where he believed that—then the ranch was his. But what the hell did he want with a ranch? Maybe he'd just give the damn thing to Owen. Or better yet to Pete.
But, at the same time, he couldn't. It was Michael's legacy. Surely he owed it to his brother to make his dream a reality? There were so many questions. What he needed was answers. Patrick ran his hands through his hair, his eye catching on his father's grave.
He walked over to it, looking down at the simple wooden cross. "I don't know what to do." His jaw tightened as he tried to stave off the despair threatening to swallow him whole. "I never figured on standing here, and I sure as hell didn't figure on doing it alone."
He knelt by the grave, running a hand through the loose rocks and dirt that covered his father's body. "Tell me what to do. They're saying Michael killed you. They're saying you struck it rich. I don't know what to believe. I don't know who to believe."
The wind whispered across the silent meadow, swirling bits of dust as it passed across the grave. Patrick blew out a breath and opened his eyes, drinking in the cool colors of the mountains, inhaling the pungent scent of freshly turned earth.
There were no answers here.
Patrick felt like a buffalo in a china shop.
He sat at the table across from Loralee, and cattycorner to her friend Ginny, balancing a porcelain cup on his knee.
Who'd have thought he'd be having tea with a lady of the line and an Indian squaw, in a rundown old shack, just outside the red light district of a mining camp.
But then who'd have thought his life would have taken any of the turns it had recently.
He lifted the cup to his lips and tried not to slurp the hot liquid.
"Have some cake, Mr. Macpherson."
Jumping at the excuse to put the teacup down, he almost slammed it on the table, putting on the brakes at the last minute and managing to land it with little more than a clatter, only a small amount of tea sloshing into the saucer. His mother would be laughing out loud.
"Thank you. Miz…" He stopped, uncertain how to continue. Folks in these parts, and especially these circumstances, usually didn't have last names, but the moment seemed to call for formality.
"Ginny'll do." The Ute woman smiled at him and he was surprised at the way it lit up her face.
Why, she was almost beautiful. Time, and no doubt life, had etched fine lines around her mouth and eyes, but the details only seemed to enhance her appeal.
He imagined that she had once been a pretty woman.
He bit into the cake, allowing the buttery flavor to slide into his mouth and down his throat. Heaven, pure heaven. He swallowed and blushed under the amused gaze of his two companions. "I, uh, don't get much cake at Clune," he managed by way of explanation.
"Don't imagine you do." Loralee's smile was warm. It had sort of the same effect as the cake, filling him with warmth and goodness, making him want more. An angel in a hell hole. The words jumped out at him and he was surprised at the poetic turn of his thoughts.
"More?" Ginny held out the plate again, meeting his gaze.
From the look reflected there, he was certain that she was well aware of the direction his mind had been going.
She smiled tolerantly as he took another slice of cake.
"Loralee told me about your father and brother. I'm mighty sorry for your loss."
"Did you know my father?"
"Only in passing. But he was a good man."
Patrick nodded, his mouth full of cake.
"Is there any word on your brother?" Loralee leaned toward him, her warm brown eyes full of concern.
"Nothing." The word sounded so hopeless, so final. "I think I'd have heard from him by now—if he was still alive."
"I'm so sorry."
He wanted to reach out and touch her, to let her know how much her words brought comfort.
Ginny sighed. "Remember, Mr. Macpherson, things are rarely as they seem. One merely has to scratch the surface to see the true reflection."
Patrick frowned. The woman made damn good cake, but she made absolutely no sense. Must be the Ute in her. Seems they were always speaking in riddles. Pete believed they had a direct line to the Almighty that white men couldn't even fathom. "Call me Patrick."
The older woman nodded, managing to look wise and serene all at the same time. Patrick had a sudden longing to tell her all his fears, to unburden himself as if she could wave her hand, and somehow, make this whole nightmare go away.